Regina keeps her arms locked firmly against her torso until Robin has shut the door behind him. Then she unbelts the robe and reaches for the pajamas folded on the edge of the sink. She feels a little unsteady, weak-kneed, and she's not sure if it's from the gnawing hunger that her body has suddenly made her so aware of or from that near kiss a moment ago.

She shakes her head, mutters quietly to herself, "Stupid," as she tugs the bottoms up to her hips. He hasn't brought her underwear - a curious omission.

She berates herself mildly as she slips the robe off her shoulders and shrugs the top on, working the buttons closed.

She was such an idiot. Why had she done that? Why had she almost let that happen?

He's grieving, he's not himself (except he is, so much, it's almost possible to believe that none of this is out of the ordinary even though the whole afternoon has been weighted with grief). She should have pulled away sooner, right away, as soon as she'd sensed him moving forward, zeroing in on her lips. She should've stepped back then, because kissing him? That would definitely betray the memory of his wife, and as much as she misses him, as much as she wants him, she doesn't want to do anything he might regret later. It takes two to tango, she knows that, but somehow when things go wrong, it's always Regina who gets the blame, and she's sure if she let him kiss her now, she's the one who'd be in the wrong. Even clouded with illness, hers is the more level head at the moment.

It's good that he's not here right now, good that he's out of her reach for a minute. It gives her time to collect herself, to remind herself that for all the cuddling and canoodling, all the caressing and the comfort, he is not here to date her. He's here to make sure she's alright (which he did hours ago and yet he's still here, a traitorous part of her mind tells her).

He's checking on her. That's all.

He's worried for her health.

The only person I've really wanted to be near is you.

There's that traitorous brain again, calling up his words that stand in the face of all her attempts to convince herself this is just a social call.

He's not himself. This isn't... This is a mess, she decides with a small sigh. A sticky situation she shouldn't have let herself wander so deep into. She probably should have let him leave the moment he walked in the door. (She doesn't mean that; this afternoon has been a balm to her aching heart. She wouldn't trade it for anything, not even common sense.)

Regina wipes her palm over the mirror to clear away a swath of fog, and studies her reflection (the shower has done her well, she looks less sickly, and her lungs feel freer). Then she looks herself in the eye, and vows that after dinner she'll send him home to his son. His son who needs him, who just lost his mother.

Regina doesn't need him right now. She's being selfish.

As nice as it may be to have him here, to pretend this is something it isn't, something it hasn't been since Marian's return, she doesn't need his presence to heal. He should be with his son, with his Merry Men, with... with whomever he deems worthy of his presence that isn't her. He needs to know she's okay, that she can take care of herself, so that he can go. So that's what she'll do - she'll go downstairs, and she'll be as healthy as she can possibly pretend to be, and then she'll send him on his way.

With a resolute nod, she pulls her robe back over her shoulders, belts it tightly, (the more layers between them, the better), and reaches for the door.

She stops in her bedroom for slippers, and decides to grab underwear, too, so by the time she meets him downstairs, he's had long enough to fix her a sandwich and a tall glass of orange juice, and set them on the island. He has a can of soup in his hand and is rifling through her drawers, no doubt leaving them in disarray. Her lips purse in irritation at the idea before she can stop them.

"Can I help you?"

He seems to startle slightly, turning to face her, and asking, "Do you have some way to open this tin?"

She points to the electric can opener on the countertop and says, "There," and then, "Let me show you."

He lets her - until the exact second the lid separates from the body of the can, and then he is urging her to sit, telling her to eat, that he can handle it from here. Regina takes her place at the island and reaches for the sandwich. It's ham and butter (she'd have preferred mustard, but how would he know that?). She chews quietly and watches as he fiddles with the burner, pours the soup (vegetable, she notices) into a small saucepan. Then he's back in her fridge, re-emerging with a jar of pickles and a bunch of grapes that are just starting to wilt, but still edible. A section of grapes is torn off and deposited on her plate, along with several small pickles.

He returns to the stove, stirs the pot. The burner is on high, she notices - ideal for speed, but not necessarily for quality. She hopes he doesn't scald the soup, but doesn't say anything. She finds she doesn't mind the silence, doesn't mind watching him move around her kitchen like he belongs here. (She should mind, she thinks. He's been unmarried for less than a week. He doesn't belong here, he belongs with Roland. She forces herself to look away, to look down at her plate as she takes another bite.)

Its not long before a bowl of hot soup is set next to her plate. "For you, milady," he tells her with a smile, and then, "I'd prefer you to eat it all." She nods, her mouth full from a fresh bite. Wolfing down soup, sandwich, and sides won't be troublesome with her sudden appetite.

And then he just watches her.

Stands there, one hand resting on the island countertop and watches her eat, and Regina grows mildly self-conscious. As if she doesn't feel naked enough under his gaze most of the time, now he's watching her chew, and chew, and chew, and swallow like it's some matter of great importance.

She looks up and meets his gaze, asks him, "Are you going to eat something, or just stand there?"

It comes out ruder than she'd meant (made even more surly by her hoarse voice) - she hadn't intended to be unpleasant, but he's been here all afternoon. He's probably hungry, too. Robin frowns slightly, and says, "I suppose so," before heading for the fridge to retrieve the food he's already put away.

She's nearly finished with her sandwich by the time he slides onto the stool next to her with one of his own. She moves on to her soup - swirling her spoon through the broth as steam rises from the surface. She takes a small, experimental spoonful and finds it still so hot she nearly scalds her tongue. Pickles it is, then.

She lifts one baby dill to her mouth, and bites down, makes the mistake of glancing in his direction as she chews. He's looking at her again, watching her, watching her mouth, she notices, and when her tongue slips out to wet her lips anxiously, his does the same. A subconscious mirror of her actions, but she can read it, the way he's in tune with her mouth, and it's not good. They're in a dangerous place here, now.

Regina sighs softly and looks away, popping the rest of her pickle in her mouth and tilting her head slightly as she chews. He's just barely in her peripheral vision now.

Robin reaches over, then, and tugs gently at the midnight blue flannel peeking out from under the sleeve of her robe. "Did I choose alright?" he asks of her pajamas.

She nods, tells him, "Fine." He hadn't exactly been spoiled for choice - she only has so many pairs of warm pajamas, and with the weather the way it has been, she's fairly certain this was her last clean set. She'll have to do laundry at some point today or tomorrow, she thinks, exhausted at just the idea of hauling a load or two up and down from the basement. She's feeling worn out again, despite her long nap, and for a few minutes she forgets her plan to convince him she's fit as a fiddle - or fit enough he needn't worry, anyway - and lets herself slump a little, frowning. At least her battered lungs are giving her a brief respite.

Next to her, Robin says her name softly, and then, "Have I upset you somehow?"

Damnit. She really wishes he couldn't read her so well. She's not one to shrink away from confrontation, though, so she sighs again, and tells him the truth. "No..." Her spoon is in her hand again, stirring the soup. "No, I've upset me. I'm sorry about earlier - almost kissing you. I shouldn't have done that."

She meets his eyes then, and they're too blue, and too understanding. His head shakes back and forth, and he slides his fingers along the countertop, closer to her, but stops short of touching. "You weren't alone."

She knows that, but, "Still. You're grieving."

Her voice breaks slightly over the words, and she coughs gently to clear it. Robin looks at her pointedly.

"And you're ill," he counters, but it is not the same. Not the same at all.

"No excuse."

She swallows against a hitch in her throat, then takes a deep swallow of her juice to soothe it. The citrus burns just a little going down, but it's a livable discomfort.

"Regina..." Robin draws in a breath, lets it out heavily, and then turns on his stool to face her, covering the hand clutching her spoon with his own to still it. When he's certain he has her full attention, he tells her, "I fully intend to pursue you again, once some time has passed." Regina's mouth snaps shut - her lips had barely been parted in the first place, but now they press together. She had hoped, particularly after the things they'd said and done today, but hearing him put it so plainly is entirely different. She's not sure what to say to that - not sure if she should even believe it, considering the circumstances. "I need to grieve her, again, and give our marriage the respect it's due, but after that..." His fingers lift to her chin, skim along her jaw, and she shivers violently, involuntarily at the delicate touch. Her reaction makes him smile as he continues, "You'll be well wooed, milady, when the time comes for that. So suffice it to say you're not the only one who's tempted here, and it's not your responsibility to ensure everything between us is proper until such time as it seems right to be otherwise."

"Then whose responsibility is it?"

"Both of us, I suppose."

She nods. "You'll let me know when the time is right."

"Oh, you'll know," he tells her, with a hint of that swagger that has at turns maddened and delighted her in the year and change they've known each other. She smiles at him - it's good to see it back, even if only for a few moments. He grows serious again when he tells her, "I really have missed you these past weeks. And I'm sorry to be the cause of yet more pain for you. You've had plenty in your life, more even than you've shared with me, I'm sure. Quite a bit more than your fair share."

Regina bobs her head - it's true, no doubt (but then, she's caused more than her fair share of torment and misery in return), but she doesn't want to get into it now. She takes another mouthful of soup before changing the subject, asking him, "When is the burial?"

If the sudden change of topic throws Robin, he doesn't let on. He just fiddles with the remains of his sandwich, and informs, "Tomorrow afternoon." Then he cups her cheek, looks her dead in the eye. "You are not to come. You are not to leave this house while you're still so ill."

His voice is firm, but concerned - close enough to the way he talks to Roland sometimes that Regina thinks she should be offended, but mostly she's soothed by his urge to protect her. It's not something many others have offered her in her lifetime, after all.

"I wasn't planning on attending," she tells him with a small smile. "It hardly seems appropriate."

He seems to agree with that, at least, but then he suggests, "I could come check in on you after," and Regina is shaking her head, no, at him.

"Robin..." It pains her to say it, but she knows she should. "I think you need to focus on you for a little while. Lest we end up kissing in the bathroom again." Her tone shifts to a tease for that last part, her lips curving up. Maybe if she can make fun of it, she won't feel that low burn of guilt over her momentary lapse in judgement.

He reads her tone and huffs a small chuckle, then lifts a hand to cup her skull and urge her in closer. His lips fall on her brow, a soft kiss, and then they just rest there.

It's nice, comforting, comfortable. But it's not what she should be doing.

"You should go home, to Roland. Spend some time with your son," she tells him, and Robin nods. Kisses her brow again, murmurs, Finish your soup, his stubble tickling against her skin before he eases back.

"Finish your soup, and then I'll go," he repeats, and if Regina takes a little longer than necessary to empty the bowl, well, she's never claimed to be a saint.

When he leaves, it's with a promise that he'll see her again, soon, and orders to rest and remember to eat, and to call if she needs anything. She misses him over the next few days, presses her nose into the place where his smell lingers on her pillow, but she doesn't call. Instead, she dials Emma, has Henry come stay with her again now that she's no longer contagious and no longer tempted to break the dishes and set fire to the trees, and she tells herself that she will give Robin two whole weeks before she reaches out again.

But only five days after he departs, he's back at her doorstep with takeout containers from Granny's, Roland in tow with a fistful of drugstore flowers wilting from the frigid air, and those irresistible dimples.

When Robin grins hopefully at her, too, she steps back and lets them inside.