Regina is tired as she steps out of the shower and reaches for her towel, patting herself dry and knotting her hair up into the towel. She reaches for her robe and pulls it tight around herself, before turning off the bathroom light and opening the door. She steps quietly and carefully through her bedroom, not wanting to wake Henry just yet.

She smiles gently in the direction of the bed, unable to see him, but knowing that he's there. He wasn't able to sleep the night before, so he'd crawled into bed with her and let her hold him as he fell back into a fitful sleep. She'd cuddled him close, stroking his hair and trying desperately to soothe him away from the nightmares she couldn't stop. It occurred to her that perhaps sessions with Archie Hopper might help—after all, they'd helped her—but he was so resistant to social workers and psychologists that she never brought it up, afraid that it would do more harm than good.

More than anything, she wishes she could crawl back into bed and cuddle him close to her, letting her eyes drift closed as she fell back asleep until at least her normal wake-up time. But as she laid in bed the night before, listening to Henry's whimpering breaths as he tossed and turned against her, she couldn't stop thinking about that moment in her office the day before and the fear in his eyes when he'd asked her if she was going to send him back and the way he'd hung his head when he'd explained that it had happened to him before—and as angry as she was a this foster parents for letting him believe that had been his fault, that they made him feel unworthy and unlovable, she was angrier with herself for having believed giving him up had been the right choice—and she was angry at herself for making him feel those things.

There hadn't been a day that went by that she didn't think about him. She'd find herself wondering what he was doing and what he'd look like at certain stages of his life. She wondered if he liked certain things and disliked others, and when she walked past the room that was supposed to be his, she'd felt a hallow feeling inside of herself as if a piece of herself was missing.

Deep down, she knew that giving him up was a mistake—she knew it then as much as she did now—but she'd been so blinded by her secrets and the curse and all of her inadequacies that she'd convinced herself that it wasn't. But she wasn't going to let the past repeat itself, she wasn't going to make the same mistake and she wasn't going to allow her god-forsaken curse to dictate her life—and certainly wasn't going to allow it to dictate Henry's.

She was determined to find away to break the curse and she suspected the answer—or at least something that could lead her to it—was with her personal things brought over with the curse, things she kept stored away in vault. There, she had books of spells and lore, supernatural relics powerful enough to evoke magical forces even in a land where magic didn't exist, potions and poisons, and, of course, her collection of hearts. Swallowing hard, she took a breath, not wanting to think of the time in her life where ripping out hearts became her preferred way to cope; it seemed so long ago—and truly, it was—and she felt so disconnected from the person she once was. She's not quite sure when Regina Mills stopped being the Evil Queen—and she could only hope that when the curse broke, Henry would be able to see that and he'd be able to understand.

Her plan was to do some of her work at home—checking emails and sending out memos, approving a couple of pending projects and other menial tasks that would have otherwise taken up her morning. Then, she could spend the morning in her vault—and Henry would never have to know any of it. Stifling a yawn, she pulled the closet open and blindly reached for a dress…

"M-mom?" Henry asks, as she turns toward the bed, hearing him sniffle a bit as he sits up. "I…I don't feel very good."

A grin tugs at one corner of her mouth as she reaches for the light switch. "Well, maybe that's because you ate so much of your can…"

Her voice halts as the light flicks on. He's sitting up her bed wearing an expression she's never seen before. His skin looks paler than it did the day before and his eyes are sunken in. Quickly, she crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed, her stomach dropping as she feels a pang of guilt for suggesting that somehow, he'd caused himself to feel this way or that he wasn't really sick. She presses her hand to his forehead, finding that it's clammy and warm, despite the fact that he shivers and tries to sink lower into the blanket.

Her heart aches as it begins to beat faster—and as he looks at him looking up at her with wide hazel eyes as if asking her to fix him—she realizes she doesn't know what to do.

"I think I have a temperature."

"I think you do, too," she says, leaning in and pressing a kiss to the top of his head as her hands gently push his shoulders back. "Just…close your eyes, okay? I'm going to get the thermometer."

She gets up and goes back into the bathroom, staring blankly into the medicine cabinet in search of a thermometer. She pushes around half used bottles of lotion and forgotten spools of floss as she tries to find it and when she does, she finds herself growing frantic—because she still doesn't know what to do.

She'll take his temperature, of course—but what's supposed to come after that, she doesn't know. She's rarely sick and when she is, she just wraps herself in a couple of blankets and sleeps it off. When she wakes the next morning, she's usually better and can go about her day as usual. She's never paid much attention to commercials about cough medicines and heating pads and she's not sure she's ever ventured into that section of the pharmacy. And even if she did know how to properly care for herself when she's sick, it's supposed to be different with kids—who require special serums and dosages, whose little bodies aren't fully developed, who require constant care…

She sighs and shuts the cabinet; her hands are practically shaking as she steps back into the bedroom with the thermometer. Taking a breath she goes back to the bed, gently pushing her fingers through the hair that stuck to his forehead. Henry's eyes flutter open and he opens his mouth as she uncaps the thermometer. His lips close around it and she takes a breath, eyeing the clock on her nightstand and waiting to withdraw it. She know what it is going to say—its going confirm that he has a fever and it'll show her a number and she still won't really know what to do.

Slowly, she withdraws the thermometer and again, he looks up expectantly, watching as she looks down at it and watching as she breathes a sigh of relief.

"It's not very high," she tells him, "Just high enough to make you miserable."

"It's doing a good job."

She smiles meekly. "So, I guess it's no school today."

"Yeah," he agrees in a barely audible voice. "I guess not."

She takes a breath and continues to stroke her fingers though his hair, wishing more than anything she could trade places with him and hating that he looks and feels so miserable. "So, tell me, what else is going on? Does your stomach hurt?"

"N-not exactly." She tips her head and he sighs. "Like, it doesn't feel like I ate something bad or like I'm going to throw up, but it doesn't feel…good." He sniffles again. "It kinda feels like I got punched."

"Oh," she murmurs as he wiggles his nose. "Well, I know you're sniffly…"

"Everything hurts," he says as tears fill his eyes. "My legs and my arms hurt, and my teeth hurt, even my hair hurts." He sniffles again and she reaches to the night stand where a box of Kleenex sits. She pulls out a few and hands him one, tucking the others under his pillow as his face crumbles. "And I can't breathe."

"Oh, sweetheart…" She murmurs, feeling so helpless and wishing more than anything she could magic it all away. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'm thirsty…"

"Okay," she murmurs, leaning in a pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "I can get you some water. I'll be…"

"Can I have juice?" He interjects, as a hint of a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.

She nods and laughs a little, leaning in once more to kiss his forehead. "I'll be right back."

Henry nods and closes his eyes, and she exhales a short breath as she heads downstairs. She pulls the towel off of her head, tossing it down on the counter. Standing in front of the refrigerator, she blinks, running her hands through her hair, hating that the only thing she knows about taking care of sick children are things she saw in movies and on TV. Rolling her eyes, she reaches for the orange juice and and pours it into a plastic cup—grinning as she realizes it's one that a lemonade slush came in at Coney Island when they went on his birthday. She presses on the top and sticks in the straw, practically jogging as she goes back up the stairs.

"I hope orange juice is okay with you because…" She stops as she turns into the room and her chest constricts a little, and she can't help but smile.

Henry's head is tipped to the side, resting on both her pillow and his shoulder. His eyes are closed and he's breathing heavily, almost but not quite snoring. She looks briefly at the cup of juice and sets it down on the nightstand. She sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls the blanket up around him and again, looks at the clock on her nightstand. It's nearly five and in a couple of hours, the doctor's office will be open. She takes a breath and reaches for her phone, flipping it open and dialing at attendance office at Storybrooke Elementary to leave a message to inform them that he'll be out sick, and then once she's done, she crawls into the bed beside him. Stretching an arm around him and he instinctively nuzzles back against her in his sleep and holds him close her, remembering an article she read when he was a colicky baby who didn't sleep that said human contact was sometimes the most soothing thing for children. Resting her head atop his she strokes her fingers up and down his arm, hoping that when he wakes up, he'll feel better.

When Henry wakes up, she's still there with him, watching as his little eyes flutter open and he grimaces. He blinks a few times and tries to take a breath, but it comes out as a whimper.

"Not feeling any better?" She asks gently.

He shakes his head and tries to pull himself up, but can't seem to manage. She sighs and shakes her head, hating seeing him sick, but feeling a bit more assured than she was earlier in the morning. While he was sleeping, she managed to get in touch with the doctor, who gave her some suggestions for getting down his fever and how to keep him comfortable. And though she hadn't been thrilled with the just watch it and see how he does throughout the day advice he'd given her, she does feel more at ease.

She gets off the bed circles around it, sitting at the edge as she reaches for the Children's Tylenol, pouring the thick red cherry-flavored liquid into the little cup that it came with—something in her possession thanks to an early morning call to her secretary.

"Can you sit up a little?" She asks him, guiding her hand behind him to help him sit up. "There we go." She hands him the little cup and he drinks it without question, scrunching up his nose as he downs the medicine. "That bad?"

"Not good," he says with a little sniffle. "But not that bad."

"Well, you won't have to drink more for another four to six hours." He grins a little and she feels her own smile pulling at her lips. "Do you want to get up? Go downstairs or maybe to your room?"

Rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes, he yawns and again grimaces as he tries to swallow. "You're here?"

"I am…"

"You're supposed to be at work though?"

"I'm supposed to be right here with you."

"But, it's Tuesday. You work on Tuesdays."

"Henry, you're sick," she says gently. "I wasn't going to leave you alone."

He blinks a couple of times. "So, you're going to be here? All day?" She nods, cocking her head to the side, surprised that he seems genuinely shocked that she's staying home with him. "No one's ever done that before."

"No one's ever stayed with you when you were sick?" He nods and she feels her chest tighten as her eyes widen—and once more she's overwhelmed with a sense of hate for the people who were meant to care for him, but she pushes it away, choosing to focus her thoughts and attention on him. "Well, I promise you. I am not going anywhere." He smiles a little and nods and lies back against the pillow. "I've got a pot of chicken soup on the stove and I made popsicles…"

"You made them?"

"Well, we didn't have any and I forgot to tell my secretary…"

"Can we make them sometime?" He cuts in, his voice cracking with both excitement and a cough. "When I'm better can you show me how?"

"Yeah," she says with a nod. "Do you want to try one?"

He nods and again swallows hard, grimacing a little as he does, "Can I watch cartoons on the couch?"

"Of course you can."

"Will you watch with me?"

"Try and stop me," she says, as a small grin creeps onto her lips.

A few minutes later, they're both settled together on the couch watching The Great Mouse Detective. He's lying against her with his legs stretched out on the couch, sucking on a cran-raspberry popsicle as she combs her fingers absently through his hair. He feels less clammy and his hair isn't sweat-soaked as it was earlier in the day and when he giggles when Basil and Dawson climb aboard Toby and ride off to save Olivia—and a sense of relief washes over her when she realizes the medicine is helping.

She sits with him through the whole movie—watching as Basil tracks Fidget's scent, Basil and Dawson dress as sailors and sneak into The Rat Trap, as the evil Ratigan nearly feeds the Queen to his cat and finally, as Olivia and her father are reunited. Throughout the movie, she supplies him Kleenex as he continues to sniffle and bat his hand over the back of his nose, and she finds her thoughts drifting to what his life must have been link in New York. She can't help but wonder how many times in his short life he felt this way and had no one there to comfort him—how many times she wasn't there to comfort him; and she wondered what he did, how he took care of himself and whether or not he'd been scared…

She cuddles him closer drops a kiss atop his head and tries to ignore the guilt she feels for her part in his unhappiness. As the movie ends, she realizes that he's fallen asleep again. "I'm so sorry, Henry," she whispers as she strokes her fingers through his hair as she listens to his ragged breathing.

They get through the rest of the day with more Children's Tylenol, chicken soup and popsicles. By the time he gets into bed, his fever is still there, but much lower and he's much more comfortable than he was throughout the day. He grins and asks her to read to him, and she's all too happy to oblige, reading him four chapters of Prince Caspian before he finally nods off, an hour before his normal bedtime.

And it's only then that she feels how tired she actually is. She takes a quick shower and changes into the clean pajamas and checks on Henry once more before going to her office and doing some of the work she'd intended to do that morning; and then, after a few, long hours, she goes to bed.

As soon as her head hits the pillow, she's practically asleep and then next thing she's aware of is her eyes fluttering open hours later. She sits up and looks at the clock—it's nearly two in the morning—and then a moment later, she hears Henry crying down the hall. She's suddenly awake and pushing herself out of bed, her heart racing as she pads down the hall to his bedroom. She flicks on the light and her heart begins beating faster as she Henry tosses and turns in his bed. His pajamas are soaked and his hair is matted to his forehead and his clutching the blanket so tightly that his knuckles are white. He's practically shaking, shivering as she sits down at the edge of his bed, pressing her hand to his clammy forehead—he's burning up.

"Henry…Henry, are you awake?"

"Uh-huh…" he whimpers, not opening his eyes.

Her stomach drops as she reaches for the thermometer on the nightstand, shaking it a few times before sticking it under his tongue. His jaw continues to tremble as she holds it shut with two of her fingers—and the minute it takes to register his temperature seems to last an eternity.

Finally, she pulls it from his lips and his eyes flutter open, watching as she holds it up to the light to read. She can feel him watching her and it takes everything in her to keep a straight face when she see his temperature is just over a hundred and three degrees. She lets out a shallow breath as she looks back at him, wishing more than anything there was a doctor in Storybrooke who hadn't gotten their medical degree from a damned curse.

"I'm going to call the doctor, okay?" She says anyway, mustering a small smile.

"Yeah…"

Leaning in, she kisses his forehead and reaches for a blanket that's folded on the chair by his bed. She fans it out and tucks it around him as he looks up at her with teary eyes and she promises him that everything will be okay. He nods and closes his eyes as she leaves, practically running to her bedroom to the phone. She dials the number, but instead of a person, she gets an automated system that asks her to leave a message and informs her that a doctor will return her call shortly.

She does and then flips her phone shut, as a sense of helplessness washes over her—and then, without thinking, she flips the phone back open and dials. And as soon as she hears his voice, her eyes sink closed and embarrassment flushes her cheeks.

"He-llo?" Robin asks again, his voice groggy—clearly before she'd called he'd been asleep. "Hello?"

"Oh, god, I'm sorry," she replies, grimacing as she realizes her mistake. "Hang up and…"

"Regina?" He asks, sounding confused but not upset. "Regina, what's wrong?" And once more, Robin's voice piques with an emotion that is clearly not anger. "What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you. It's late and you were obviously sleeping, and…"

"And I'm up now," he interjects in an easy voice. "So, why don't you tell me why you called me at fourteen minutes after two in the morning."

She feels her chest constrict and she takes a breath, not really knowing what to say or what compelled her to call him. She'd done it on impulse, not really thinking it through and not even really thinking about him, only wanting to talk to someone who might understand and might be able to help

"I…I don't know what to do," she squeaks out. "Henry's still sick and he has a fever and it just keeps going up and I called the doctor, but he has to call me back because it's after two in the morning and like any normal person, he's probably asleep."

"They always get worse at night," Robin tells her with a sigh.

"It's so much worse," she sighs. "When I called you earlier to cancel dinner, things seemed to be getting better. I know it was just the Tylenol working, but he was up and talking and…"

"How high is his fever?" He cuts in. "How much has it gone up?"

"It's about a hundred and three…"

"Okay," he breathes out. "That's really high, but it's not dangerous. He's going to be okay."

"He's shaking and sweaty and…he's…" She knows that she's babbling and she knows that she shouldn't be bothering him with this, but there's something so soothing about his soft voice—and she's tried and scared, and so afraid of doing something wrong. "It's so hard seeing him like this and…"

"Regina, he's going to be fine. This is just temporary, remember that, okay?"

"I just feel so…"

"Helpless," he says, filling in the word when her voice trails off and words fail her. "I know. I get it." He laughs a little and she can hear him rustling around. "You are talking to a man who once took his child to the emergency room when he broke up in a rash after dinner."

"That doesn't seem irrational to me…"

"It was jelly, Regina."

"Oh…"

"You're new to this and it's tough at first, but it does get easier." His voice is so calm and so soothing and her eyes close for just a moment as she takes a deep breath and nods, trying to believe him. "This is the first time he's been sick, right?"

"Yeah…"

"Okay, so I assume you called looking for advice…"

"I…I suppose so," she murmurs, as her eyes open—that does make more sense than the 'I just don't know why' reason she'd been working with. "So, as a seasoned veteran, what do you think might work to bring his fever down?"

Robin chuckles softly and then shares some of the things that have worked on Roland. He suggests more of the Tylenol—gently teasing her when she questions the four-to-six hour time frame—and reminding her that it's just acetaminophen and can't hurt him. Then, he suggests warm compresses—so, she keeps him on the phone and goes into the bathroom, grabbing a few washcloths and running them under warm water. She rings them out—still keeping him on the phone—and goes back to Henry's room, finding that's already dozed off again. She hates to wake him, but she does, sitting at the edge of his bed as she reaches for the Tylenol on his night stand. Cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, she pours him a little and he takes it in his limp hand. Henry looks up at her with hooded eyes as she eases him back, laying one of the cloths across his forehead and the nestling the other behind his neck. He tries to smile and then shivers a little, telling her it feels good as his eyes sink closed.

She listens as Robin instructs her to take the last wash cloth and sponge it over Henry's chest—his voice and assuredness soothing her worries and making her feel like she actually is in control of this, like there's something she can other than watch her son suffer through it. Opening his pajama top, she slides it over his chest, feeling his heart beat and his lungs inflate and deflate with each labored breath he takes.

"Alright, now this next bit is very important," Robin says.

"Okay…"

"I need you to go downstairs and unlock your front door." She sits up a little straighter and looks in the direction of the stairs, her brow furrowing slightly. "I'm standing on your porch and it's a bit chilly out."

"I…" She blinks a couple of times, not quite believing him as she looks back at Henry. "I can't believe you came over," she murmurs as she gets up and heads toward the stairs. "You really didn't need to do that. It was bad enough that I called you in the middle of the night and…" She reaches the bottom of the stairs and steps into the foyer, opening the door. "…and woke you up."

"I wanted to," he says easily, flipping his phone shut and smiling warmly. "Besides, I have something for you—something I couldn't just explain over the phone." She can't help but smile as she steps aside, letting him in. She chuckles softly as she shuts the door, looking at the way Roland is slung over his shoulder, still clad in his pajamas and seemingly undisturbed from his sleep. "But first, where can I put this?" He asks, patting the back of Roland's legs. "He'll sleep through anything and on anything, but my shoulder's getting a bit tired."

"Oh," she murmurs, chuckling softly as she motions to the living room. "You can set him on the couch. There's…blankets and a pillow and…"

"That's perfect," Robin says, smiling at her as he steps into the room and settles Roland on the couch, brushing the messy curls from the little boys forehead before smiling warmly and coming back to her, holding out a brown paper bag that she hadn't noticed before. "I think this will help."

Curiously, she opens the bag and pulls out a jar, screwing off the top as the smell of peppermint wafts through the air. "This smells amazing…"

"It's my own special blend—coconut oil, mixed with some peppermint and elder flower tea." He taps the lid and offers her a wink that makes her smile yet again. "It helps with fevers and flu symptoms—it's Roland-test and approved."

"This is…so thoughtful," she says in earnest, looking up at him and letting her eyes hold his gaze. "I…I really appreciate it."

"Don't mention it."

She scoffs and shakes her head, "Don't mention it? Robin, I woke you up in the middle of the night, acting like a complete basket-case, and you…show up and you…"

"Regina," he interjects. "Parenting can be really scary—and single parenting can be even scarier." Gently, he reaches out and gives her hand a little squeeze, holding her fingers and rubbing his over her knuckles. "Besides, it's a Tuesday—or it was—and I missed seeing you—and I'll take any excuse I can get."

She looks down at their hands and then slowly back up at him, remembering how they'd held hands the night before as they boys trick-or-treated, not saying anything and just letting it happen. She swallows had as he reluctantly pulls away, offering her a lopsided grin as he hands her the bag. "Why don't you go slather that all over Henry and I'll go in the kitchen and make us some tea." She finds herself nodding as his smile tugs tighter. "And, um, there's something from Roland in the bag."

She nods and watches as he walks toward the kitchen. Peeking into the bag, she sees a folded piece of paper and when she withdraws it, she can see Henry's name—written in Roland's handwriting—on the front. Slowly, she opens it and her breath catches in her chest. Roland drew him a picture—what looks like a family picture—of Robin and her and Henry and himself in front of a table that she recognizes as her own. She feels a rush of emotion and tears well in her eyes as her runs her hand over the picture. There's a note at the bottom—written first in Robin's handwriting, then traced in crayon by Roland—that says 'Get Well Soon. We miss you.'

Taking a breath, she folds it back up and turns toward the stairs, going up to Henry's room. She smiles, relieved that he's still asleep, as she pushes herself into the room and sets Roland's card on his night stand. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she opens the jar, inhaling deeply and taking in the crisp peppermint scent as she dips her fingers into it and rubs it over Henry's chest.

His eyes flutter open and he looks down at her hand, then back up at her, offering just a hint of a smile. "What's that?"

"Something Robin brought over to help with your fever."

"It smells good."

"It does," she says with a nod. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again. "Do you want me to warm the wash cloths up?"

"No," he murmurs. "It feels good, even if it is cold."

"Okay," she says in a soft voice, as she twists the cap back onto the jar. "If it gets too cold just drop them onto the floor. I'll put them in the hamper in the morning."

"Okay…" he says, again inhaling deeply as a little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Leaning in, she presses a kiss to his forehead, then pulls the blanket up around him, then pulls away as she murmurs that she loves him. He barely nods and again inhales a deep breath as she gets up and turns out of the light heading back downstairs to the kitchen.

Robin is there, steeping two cups of tea—and she feels something she can't quite place stirring at her core. "I think the Tylenol is kicking back in," she says, taking a breath and pushing away the feeling. "He seemed more comfortable."

"I'm glad."

"He liked the peppermint, too," she says as a grin tugs at her lips. "Really, it was so kind of you to bring it over." Robin just nods as he reaches for a jar of honey, mixing in just a little bit before sliding her one of the mugs. "Thank you," she murmurs, looking up at him with wide, sincere eyes. "And not just for the tea."

"I meant what I said—parenting is tough." He takes a breath and his eyes fall away from hers, and then slowly move back. "Besides, there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, or for Henry."

"Robin…"

"Relax. You said you just wanted to be friends and I respect that," he says as his demeanor changes. "I just mean and you and I Henry have come to mean a lot to me and if there's something I can do to help—whether it's talking you off of the ledge at two in the morning or walking half way across town to give you a fever reducer—I'll do it. And you don't have to thank me or feel like you owe me, it's just…what friends do for each other." He shrugs his shoulders. "It's what family does for each other."

"You…think of Henry and me as family?"

"Well, yeah—friends, family…it's a gray area."

"I wouldn't know," she murmurs, suddenly feeling very awkward. "I've never really had either."

Slipping her fingers through the handle of the mug, she lifts it and takes a long sip, thinking back to the years she spent in this house, and how quiet it always was and how alone she felt. She thinks of how odd it had felt that first time Robin and Roland had come over for dinner, and she thinks of how few people have ever sat in this kitchen and talked to her. Even in the Enchanted Forest, even before her descent into darkness, she'd never had a friend who she could count on and rely on, who showed even when she didn't ask, who cared enough to go out of their way—a friend who perhaps loved her. And even now, she can't help but think that none of this is real.

Hot tears well in her eyes as she thinks of everything she has to lose—before Henry she'd never even considered breaking the curse, not even her bitter loneliness had compelled her, and at that point, she hadn't had anything to lose. Looking up, she feels warm tears brimming in her eyes and tires in vain to bat them away before he notices them—but he does and his eyes fill with compassion and concern that she doesn't deserve. She blinks back the tears as his hand slips around her back—and all she can think about is how much she has to lose. She doesn't have options—if she wants to keep Henry, she has to break the curse—and in doing so, she might lose him and everything else she's come to love about her life anyway.

"Hey…it's okay," Robin murmurs in a tender voice. "I didn't mean…"

"It's not you," she says—meaning it in more ways than one. "It's just…I…"

"Henry's going to be okay."

"I know," she says, trying unsuccessfully to keep her tears at bay. "Logically, I know that. But…" Her voice trails off because she can't say what she's actually thinking, she can't admit what she actually feels. "I'm just…being irrational."

"How much sleep have you gotten?"

"Oh, between last night and tonight, I'd say…a solid three hours."

"So, you're tired, not irrational," he says, his hand rubbing circles between her shoulder blades. "And, on top of that, you've had a long, emotional day." She nods as his hands slide up her shoulders, squeezing lightly. "Can I…help?" He laughs a little and as his hands slide back and forth over her shoulders. "I've been told that I give quite the amazing back rub—and that I've been known to lull even the most restless of souls to sleep." She watches a grin pulls at his lips and he leans in a little, "Don't tell anyone," he says, "But last summer, when John pulled out his back, I may or may not have worked some magic on him and gotten out the knot."

"Your secret's safe with me," she murmurs as her own grin forms, and without thinking about it too much, she feels herself sliding down from the bar stool at the counter. Robin follows her into the living room and she sits on the opposite end of the couch form where Roland sleeps. She sits with her back to the couch's arm and Robin drags the ottoman around so he can sit behind her. His hands slide against her silky pajamas, working their way over her shoulders and pressing at the base of her neck. She leans back into his touch, enjoying his hands working over her—enjoying his closeness and his touch—and her eyes close as she loses herself in it and for just a few minutes allows herself to pretend…