I stare down at the key in my hand, my skin reddening in the cold winter air. The door it opens stands shut in front of me, as it has for fifteen minutes.

Frances had pressed it into my hand across the table.

"She needs you," she said, and looked away. Her coffee must have been stone cold, but she took a drink anyway, grimacing at the taste.

"Not you?" I asked. "Not," and the word choked me, "her girlfriend?" The coffee mug hit the table with a bang.

"Emma, I think we both know I'm just a stand-in. You two share a son, and a life, and now some fucking fairytale birthplace." She sighed, deeply, and her shoulders sagged a little as though she was deflating right there in front of my eyes. "If I were going to pick a woman to compete against and come out on top, it wouldn't be you."

I looked at her then, as kindly as I could.

"I thought the same, you know, about you."

She folded the key more firmly into my hand, curling her fingers around my closed fist.

"Look," Frances said, "she made me watch that Pride and Prejudice DVD over and over again. And here's the thing. I'm Wickham, and you're Darcy." She smiled, and cocked her head. "Without the whole sex with her sister bit. But my point is, I'm just a diversion, and Regina needs the real plot to restart."

The key slides home easily, even in the dark. It feels right, to let myself in like this, like I've suddenly had a flash-forward of what my life could be. The door swings open to the dark entrance hall. No Regina or Henry come running to greet me, to check who it is. I check the time on my phone – long past Henry's bedtime. I'm sure Regina hasn't let that slip, even with everything else going on. I pick my way across the hall, following a sliver of light that is leaking from under a door.

Regina is in the kitchen, frenetically scrubbing at a spot on the counter top. She doesn't look round as I enter, and nor does she stop her cleaning. I lay my hand on hers, squeezing to get her attention. Her face comes up to meet mine, eyes red rimmed and swollen. Her hands, too, are puckered and cold, held too long against wet rags.

"Regina, I think it's time for bed."

"It's only ten o'clock," she says, but her protest falls on deaf ears. I usher her upstairs, hand on the small of her back. She checks in on Henry, tucks the duvet tighter around his shoulders and presses a kiss into the ruffle of his hair.

She looks up at me, hand still on Henry's shoulder.

"It was worth it," she says, "all of it. No matter how many lovers I lose, it was all worth it, for him."

In the main bedroom, Regina changes slowly into her nightclothes, as I awkwardly avert my gaze. I send it flying about the room, taking in the changes a year and a girlfriend have wrought. The most obvious change is the bag of Frances' things that still sits open on the chair in the bedroom, her nightclothes folded neatly on the top.

"Where is she?" Regina asks, weakly, as she climbs under the covers. I sit down beside her, twisting to look down at her, hair darkly haloed around her face.

"She'll be back in the morning," I say, smoothing the hair back from her brow.

"Not for long though." There's defeat in her voice, and even I can read between the lines. Regina just can't leave the past behind her – no matter what she does, or how hard she tries. "She's right to run a mile from the Evil Queen."

"Former Evil Queen," I protest, but she shakes her head sadly.

"I've told you, Sheriff, people don't change," she says. "They just fool themselves into thinking they can." The phrase is familiar, and tugs at the back of my mind, but first and foremost I remember what I told Henry, all that time ago, that Regina's past was set in motion by the loss of a love, and it gives me pause.

"You're not gonna go all Evil Queen on us again?" She frowns at me.

"No," she says with a firmer shake of her head. "Frances is… Frances is lovely, but she's not…"

"Not your true love," I finish for her, mouth twisting into a wry smile. I've heard the story from Snow, and the thought of him is like a knife in my gut. Her hand comes up to trace my face, fingers gently moving across the lines of my lips, my cheeks, trailing over my eyebrows. She smoothes away the quirk of my lips, then sits up and presses her face to the flat of my shirt, high against my collarbone.

"You're an idiot, Emma Swan," Regina says against my chest, hands gripping the fabric of my shirt. I curl my hand through her hair, stroking at the back of her neck.

"I know," I say. "Trust me, babe, I know."

Regina leans back, hands sliding up to rest on my shoulders. She stares at me, eyes hopeful and searching. Our faces are a hand's span apart, and her breath buffets against my mouth, warm and sweet. She smiles, gently, and I feel my own face break out into the mirror image. Slowly, so slowly she's barely moving, Regina closes the gap between us.

Despite the slowness of her advance, the press of her lips is firm, demanding. My mouth opens beneath hers, and her lips slide between mine, tongues touching, my body's response to the call of her kiss undeniable.

Regina breaks the kiss, pulls away until she can look into my eyes.

"She's not you," she says.

She lays down on the bed, pulling me with her so that I'm curled along her back, knees fit snug against the bend of her own, arm wrapped tight across her stomach. My phone buzzes consistently in my pocket, and I know its Snow, worrying about why I haven't come home. I ignore her, throwing the phone across the room, sending it skidding under the chair.

As the morning light streams through the window, filling the room with brightness, Regina turns in my arms.

"Morning, Sheriff," she says. "I sincerely hope this is becoming a habit." I laugh, and open my eyes to see her smiling at me across the pillows.

"So do I." I lean across the cotton space between us, and capture her lips in a kiss.

Regina rolls off the bed, and points at me.

"Stay right there," she says, and backs slowly out of the room.

Once she's gone, I roll over onto my back, and throw an arm across my still adjusting eyes. The leather creak of my jacket reminds me I've slept in my clothes, and I shrug out of the jacket, dropping it carelessly to the floor. In days to come, I'm sure Regina will force me into tidiness, but today of all days, I reckon, I'm pretty safe.

The door opens, and I lift my head to see Regina come through the door and lean against it.

"Henry's still asleep," she says, and turns to lock the door behind her.

As she crosses the room I'm put in mind of a cat, stalking its prey. I lie there, waiting, and watch with anticipation as she crawls across the bed covers, knees on either side of my legs, and lowers her head to mine.

Her kiss is tender, exploring, and I reach my arms up to wrap around her neck, pulling her weight down to rest along the length of my frame. Her nose pushes my head to the side, biting and sucking at my exposed neck. I can't help it when my hands flies up to tangle in her hair, my head lolling to the side to give her better access. I mean, God, I feel fourteen again, thinking hickeys are the sexiest thing in the world, but with every movement of her mouth on my skin I can feel myself growing wetter. Then she hits the spot right at the join of neck and shoulder, and her teeth bite into the muscle. I groan, loudly, and she lets go.

I roll us over, and as I hold myself above her, I realize how long I have wanted to know the sights and sounds of her, the smells of her. The way the skin of her thighs is smooth under my hands, and her hair tickles at my cheek. The smell of her breast as it meets her chest, or the glistening sheen of sweat that builds between our bodies. The frantic clutching of her hands, and the scratching of her nails against my back. The twitches and breathy moans as they're ripped from her throat, the rhythmically clamping warmth of her around my hand.

Footsteps from the corridor send us rolling apart and frantically pull on my outer clothes as I cross to the door, bra and underpants kicked quickly under the bed, pulling my hair over my shoulder to hide the purpling bruise I know is gonna be there. As I open the door, Regina settles herself under the covers, smiling to see Henry stood on the other side.

"Frances is downstairs," he says, frown creasing his face into deep furrows. Regina's face falls, and she swallows shallowly.

"Tell her I'll be right down," she says. As Henry retreats, and I close the door behind him, Regina looks at me, eyes regretful. Her gaze slips from my face to Frances' open bag.

"I can climb out of the window," I offer awkwardly, but she shakes her head, extending her hand to me. I move to take it in my own, seating myself on the edge of the bed. The motion pulls the cover off her shoulders, slipping down to reveal a toned expanse of skin. I expect her to pull the sheet up, overcome with modesty, but she lets it stay, her hand instead brushing the hair from my face.

"No," she says, "she gave you her key. She knows you're here." I turn my head, press a kiss to her hand.

When we get downstairs, Frances is waiting in the hallway, pacing the floor, one step on each carefully polished tile. As Regina said, she was clearly expecting my presence, but her face hardens anyway as I come down the stairs behind Regina, jaw setting in a grim line.

She gathers her things in almost total silence, and I make sure to stay out of her way.

"Stay in touch," Regina says, placing her hand on Frances' shoulder, and squeezing.

"Maybe not," she says, and carries her bag out through the door.

I watch her walk down the path towards the road, the lines of her back set as if against a cold wind. I've been on the receiving end of too many dumpings and betrayals not to understand that posture. Even when you know it's for the best, even when it's supposedly your idea, it never goes down easy.

My hand in my jeans pocket closes on something hard and cold – the key. There seems to be no conscious command between my brain and my muscles, but somehow I'm running, bare feet tripping along the paving slabs. The stone is freezing, and as I reach her Frances looks down at my feet, her expression tight.

"Look, I gotta ask - why did you give me the key?" It's in my hand, the hard ridged edges cutting against my palm. "The first day I met you, you totally warned me off." Frances smiles, self-consciously, and twitches under the weight of my gaze.

"She told me everything," she says, "all about being the Evil Queen. We started at the beginning and went right through. The more I heard, the easier all that fairytale stuff was to understand." I can feel my eyebrows drawing together, confusedly. "Then we got to the bit when Henry runs off and finds you. And I knew, from the way she told it, that she'd loved you since the day you turned up on her doorstep."

Her eyebrows quirk with some emotion I can't identify, and she turns to walk away, feet set firmly in the direction of her car.

"Wait!" I call, her words sinking in, "since the day I turned up?"

"She said that you brought Henry back, and then, when she offered you a drink, you said 'Got anything stronger?'" Frances' impression of me is unnervingly accurate, and I hate to think the amount of practice it would take to get my voice just so. "She'd got this smile on her face, you know, that she didn't even know she was doing. And I realized she'd only ever smiled at Henry like that, and never at me."

"But," I sputter, "Regina doesn't remember the first time we met. The accident…she's got amnesia." It sounds weak, even to my own ears. Regina clearly does remember. Then Frances laughs, properly laughs.

"You are completely out of your league." She rubs her hand across her eyes, and sighs. "She's a very good politician, Emma. Does it surprise you she's also a very good actor?"