I found this in my notes. I have no idea how old it is. I do remember it was a dream I had because Regina plays a trick on Emma by magically cutting her hair. I don't think Regina would ever intentionally cut Emma's hair, to be clear. I think our queen loves Emma's long locks just as much as we do. I just dreamt it and wrote it down. Also, sorry for all the chaos last night of posting all these. I'm OCD so I needed it to be fixed.

Alright, dear.

I glare at the phone. Your words are too - we are in a fucking fight for Christ's sake.

Or at least I'm mad at you. Fucking pissed at you actually.

And I've just told you I'm coming over to basically yell at you in person because I can't properly convey my anger through text.

And you send back that.

I shake my head and clutch my phone tightly in my hands as I snatch my keys off the table and stomp out the door of my apartment.

Where apparently it has been raining sheets and buckets and I can't even see my bug that is not five feet away in the driveway.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

I step back in and slam the door behind me, locking it in place before stomping to the couch and falling into it gracelessly.

I'm too angry to take off my boots.

I unlock my screen and open up our text conversation, typing out a response.

It's raining like fucking crazy outside. Call me.

I tap my finger against my phone, hating that you don't have an iPhone and I can't ever tell when you've read my messages or when you're typing.

It's fucking maddening.

Especially when we're fighting.

Well - especially when I'm pissed at you and you're so fucking cavalier about it.

I prop my boot-clad feet up on the table, crossing them at the ankle and run my hand through my now shoulder length hair petulantly.

There's a vibration in my hands and my eyes shoot to my phone.

No. But a picture would be nice.

My jaw clenches, my fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard.

I'm not sending you a fucking picture, Regina.

Usually I try not to show my immaturity through cuss words. I try not to resort to them when I'm angry. You always tell me how childish it is. How you 'absolutely abhor' it.

I smile wryly as I hit send. Maybe you'll finally show some fucking emotion this time.

Your response is almost instant.

I imagine where you're at in the house. What you're wearing. If you're wearing those glasses that only Henry and I know you own.

Oh, come now Emma, just one little picture?

My stomach flutters at the teasing tone I can feel oozing through the phone. I can so clearly see the bat of dark eyelashes and that little tilt of your head. There's maybe even a slight jut of a plump bottom lip wiped bare of dark lip stick.

My nostrils flare and I gnash my teeth together. You're cheating.

You've already seen my hair, you know what it looks like. You're the one who fucking did it.

Again, your response is instant.

I think it looks incredibly sexy.

Oh, you little -

No. I'm mad at you. That's not going to work.

It doesn't even matter that my stomach had tightened at the words. Doesn't matter one fucking bit.

Are you sure, dear?

And god I can practically see the smirk, can practically hear that little hum of yours you do at the beginning of sentences like that - when you're flirtatious and cocky and amused all at the same time. I uncross my legs, my feet clomping loudly against the hard wood floor of the living room when I slide them off the table.

I inhale deeply and close my eyes. Wanting to strangle you through the phone. You're so god damn...Regina sometimes.

My hair is something I'm almost embarrassedly attached to. There's a reason I haven't cut it in so long.

And I thought it had been abundantly clear that you loved my hair at that length. The amount of tugging and pulling you do at it during -

I clear my throat as images I certainly do not want nor need right now flow unbidden through my mind.

Damn you and your kink for hair pulling.

I look down when there's another vibration and I blink when I realize I had typed out a response and you had already responded back.

I was under the impression you liked my hair at the length it was - at least your hands did, anyway.

I scrunch my face up.

Jesus, did I really text that?

I bring my free hand up to forehead, shaking my head lightly.

God, I thought I was better at witty comebacks. This is something we do on a daily basis. One would think I'd be actually decent at it.

I look down to read your response and groan, sinking lower into the couch.

Mis manos encanta tu pelo en todas las longitudes. No va a cambiar lo mucho que te toco, Emma.

You had once told me that you would only ever speak to me in Spanish if you were trying to seduce me.

Yes, you had said seduce.

And yes, the words that had followed that sentence that night had been uttered in Spanish - in a low rasp, breathed hotly into my ear - and yes, I had been so ridiculously turned on by that I had melted into you, my body trembling with need.

I haven't even the slightest damn clue what that text means but it was in Spanish and I can just imagine the way your tongue curls and rolls to form all the different letters of it. I use the front of my right boot to push against the heel of my left boot and then use my newly freed toes to take off the other one, hearing them both fall to the floor in dull thuds.

I tuck my feet under myself and exhale in a huff.

Sometimes I really hate you.

Like right now. Because I'm no longer even mad at you.

That's cheating.

Your response is again almost instant and now I really want to know what you're wearing. Where you are. If you're biting your lip like you're so prone to do when you're like this.

My stomach flutters almost violently and there's a growing steady pulse at the base of my legs.

I put my phone in my lap and slide off my leather jacket, suddenly too hot for it, jumping and gasping when there's another vibration indicating another text from you.

I narrow my eyes at my lap. There's no way you could have known I had sat my phone there.

Right?

I throw my jacket off to the side, hearing it land somewhere to my left and behind me and grab my phone to read your responses.

It is not.

It's winning.

There's a knock at my door and I whip my head up, tilting my head and furrowing my eyebrows in confusion before I sigh and shake my head, standing up and padding over to the door.

I type out a response as I reach for the lock on the door and turn it, not caring to look out the window because honestly who the hell else would be knocking on my door when it's raining like this other than my neighbor who insists on coming over and making me tea every time it storms? She's a sweetheart but right now I'm not in the mood for company.

Company that isn't you, anyway.

Winning what?

And I twist the door handle, pulling the door open and it most definitely is not Miss Rosie on the other side.

It's you. Standing there completely soaked from head to toe, your dark hair matted and sticking to your face, your crimson blouse clinging to your body like a second skin and there's an incredibly all too satisfied smirk on your lips.

And you surge forward, grabbing fistfuls of my cotton t-shirt, and pull me into you roughly, the feeling of pelts of cool rain against the top of my head and shoulders and the warm wetness from your blouse seeping through my own shirt opening my mouth in a surprised gasp.

You swipe your tongue across the length of my own as I do and my hands - which had shot to your hips to keep my balance - dig harshly into the skin there at the overload of sensations.

You kiss me fiercely and then suck at my bottom lip before pulling back a bare few inches and mumbling against my kiss-swollen lips.

"This argument."