Looks like there will be one more update (maybe two, depends what I can fit into Robin's POV)

When it rains it pours. That's what they say, and apparently for good reason, because right now Regina can't think of a worse way to spend her evening.

Things had been going lovely if she's completely honest. She'd been able to avoid Robin for the majority of the day, had been able to hold her tongue for the most part, and sitting around the fire she found herself actually capable of enjoying the man's company. A feat she finds far easier when he doesn't talk to her, when he sits there smiling, laughing, those dimples popping and blue eyes crinkling.

She shakes away the recollection, scratches any figment of affection for that man from her psyche because right now she'd rather not lay eyes on him. 'Place your stakes further apart' he'd said, and the echoing of his arrogance thrums through her brain as a deluge of water drenches her already soaked hair, her satin pajamas clinging to her like a second skin.

He was right. Of course he would have to be right, and her mind spins with just how offensive she finds his accuracy now that her tent lies in shambles, a heap of sodden fabric and fallen poles. It had collapsed right on her, left her to crawl her way to freedom leaving her bag behind somewhere in the midst of a forest of puddles.

She stand there for a long moment, scratches her head, and she's cold, freezing really as the heavy rain continues to pelt at her flesh. She'd tried to reassemble the damn thing, tried to lift and stretch it back into a semblance of a shelter, but in reality there is no way she'll accomplish such a task, not tonight, and not alone.

The next shiver that runs through her body has her sighing heavily, blinking moisture from her lashes before dropping her head in defeat. She will never take Henry camping, not without at least a half dozen others far more well-suited to such an endeavor.

She doesn't hear a zipper, doesn't even notice the figure to her right until Robin is right beside her. "Come on!" His palm comes up to cup her elbow, and he's nearly drenched himself now, but still exuding warmth, a hint of heat simmering from the contact, so she follows, or rather, leads the way to his tent.

She settles herself into the furthest corner, hugging knees to her chest, and when he zips the flaps shut behind himself she tries not to notice the way his white shirt coats his skin, defined muscles prominent beneath the sodden fabric, but then he's lifting it up, up, and over and why does this man have to be so damn attractive? Why can't she help but imagine the way his stomach would ripple beneath her hands, the way his arms would flex around her body?

When her eyes finally travel upward, dark brown meeting cool blue, it's obvious he knows exactly what she's thinking, and the blush that warms her cheeks would be completely irritating if it didn't also warm her chilled flesh.

She clears her throat, prepares herself to make some snide cut, throw a lash from her tongue to bring him down a notch or two, but before she has the chance he's reaching beside her, tugging his green duffel to where his knees meet the tent floor and pulling out two white cotton t-shirts; one of which ends up tossed at her feet.

She scoffs, looks up at him with a mixture of contempt and shock, because he can't really think she's going to strip down naked in front of him.

"A simple thank you would suffice." Is his only response to her expression, a muttered statement as he pulls on his own dry shirt and grabs for a pair of clean blue boxer shorts, and Regina tries to hide the slight annoyance she feels at the fabric now covering his torso.

"I didn't ask for your help." She sounds stubborn even to her own ears, but he doesn't seem phased, not one bit, and she diverts her eyes with a sharp intake of breath when he stands, hunched over in the short tent and tugs his damp sweatpants down what look like very toned thighs.

"That doesn't mean you didn't need it." She gulps, can see a flash of blue in her periphery, moving up and up, and she doesn't turn back to him until he's back on his knees across from her.

"I could have gone to one of the other tents." She states with a glare, making every attempt to tamp down her body's incessant need to shiver at this moment.

"Yes," he admits, sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes before pushing it back through quickly drying hair (if only hers would do the same). "You could have gone to another tent, and had very little, if any space to sleep." He's right again of course. It had been the very reason she was still standing in the onslaught of droplets rather than running immediately for shelter. All of their tents are small, hardly enough space for two let alone three, but part of her thinks she would have rather slept curled beneath a lawn chair than come to grovel at his tent.

He gestures toward the dry shirt at her feet, the promise of warm cotton flowing freely across her skin, rather than drenched silk sticking to her cold flesh. "You'll catch your death of cold if you don't get out of those wet clothes, Regina." She's about to shift her chin a little higher, about to tell him if he thinks she's stripping down anywhere in his vicinity he must be crazy, but then he says, "I refuse to bring you back to Henry ill when I could have prevented it."

That does it. The mention of her boy thrusts logic through her mind, smothering out what's left of her pride. "Turn around." It's not a request, not even a polite statement, but an order, a dictate that firmly leaves her lips, and he does what she asks seemingly on impulse.

It feels amazing; to finally peel the cold wet fabric from her body, let it fall with a plop into a sodden heap. His shirt smells of him, and of course it would, of course the fabric would lay against her flesh only making her imagine what it would feel like replaced by the man himself.

"May I?" He asks not a moment after she's decent, or what will have to pass for decent anyway. She crosses her arms across her chest, hugging her still frigid torso and covering the blatant evidence of such from his eyes before murmuring that yes, he may.

He turns with a bottle in one hand and a small towel in the other. With an outstretched arm he hands her the material in his grasp, "For your hair." He smiles kindly, and she welcomes it with one of her own, lets the moment linger between them because there are so few instances when one of them isn't saying something rude or uncivil, most often her if she's completely honest.

Something about the warmth in his eyes, the compassion crinkling in those pools of blue have her saying, "Thank you." The words fluttering past her lips, and when he bites his tongue, doesn't follow her pleasantry with a biting comment of how she does know how to say those words, she smiles wider and adds his name, "Robin."

His reply of 'you're welcome' is earnest and sincere, has her tense form softening into the fabric of his sleeping bag beneath her knees, and she'll accept this now, soak in the comfort of this calm moment between them. She'll even try to make it last, try to be civil for both of their sakes. A night in a tent with Robin can't be that bad.

When he bites his lower lip, a full smirk carving dimples deeper into his cheeks, she think a night in his tent might not be bad at all.

His other hand lifts, dark amber liquid sloshing against the inside of the bottle, "Care for a drink?"