Monday brings with it more twisting anxiety, and an oily-bellied nausea that puts the weekend to shame. She'd taken the previous two days to chew over what had happened with Robin, what it meant, what it absolutely could not mean. Had vowed to herself that it wouldn't happen again, that it couldn't, and had contented herself with the knowledge that he would understand – did understand. Had understood from the moment she'd planted her lips on his.

It was a comfort, but one that left a burning ache in her chest.

Still, it was better than the way she feels right now.

She needs to talk to Sidney, and she knows she should do it first thing. Just get it out of the way and over with, so they can both move on with their day. She'll drop her purse in her office, boot up her computer, maybe grab a cup of coffee, and then cut the cord.

She sees the flowers from six feet away, a massive bunch of them, roses again, in pinks and reds and whites. There must be two dozen in the vase that rests on her desk, and her stomach swoops low.

Her gaze sticks to them, drawn to the display as if it were flypaper (she nearly misses the edge of her desk as she sets her purse down, she's so distracted by the bouquet). There's a card – of course there is – and she plucks it out and reads the sweet words with another slither of dread: "Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman, after our beautiful evening. Cannot wait to spend more time with you. Entirely yours, Sidney."

Right. This is going to be terrible.

And she should get it over with, just rip the band-aid off, but she needs a minute. Needs some courage.

So she stops by Mal's office first, sinking into the chair beside her desk, half-crumpled card still clutched in hand, as she admits, "You were right."

Mal doesn't even look up from her screen, simply quirks one perfectly sculpted brow and says, "Yes. I was."

That she doesn't even bother to ask what she's referring to galls Regina, but she swallows her pride and mutters, "He was the worst possible rebound. It is not just a little workplace crush. And I never liked him in the first place."

"All things I tried to tell you a week ago," Mal reminds, finally shifting to give Regina her full attention. She sits back, links her fingers over her belly, elbows resting on the arms of her chair. "But you were adamant he deserved a chance."

"Well. That was a mistake." She takes a deep breath in and then out, and admits, "And now I have to end it, and I am not looking forward to that."

"Dumping the guy who practically bought out the florist for you this morning?" Mal snorts. "I'm sure it'll go over fine."

"You saw that, huh?" Regina grimaces.

"Sweetheart, everybody saw that."

Shit.

The utter mortification of those four words has Regina fast realizing what Mal (and every other sane person) no doubt already knew a week ago: dating Sidney would have meant dating Sidney, openly, for everyone to see. Coworkers, bosses, and clients alike – a prospect that sounds about as appealing to her as repeatedly jabbing a staple under her thumbnail. God, she is such an idiot, so dumb, such a stupid girl. Woman. Her mother's voice echoes in her head and Regina twists her fingers together, stares down at them for a second and breathes through another spike of anxiety.

"You're not gonna ask me to do it for you, are you?" Mal asks, doubtfully suspicious, and Regina snaps her head back up, clears her throat. "Because I have some hard limits, and dumping other people's bad decisions is definitely one of them."

Regina levels her with a look, rolls her eyes and assures, "I'm not that pathetic. I'm going over there now, I just figured I'd give you a chance to gloat. And me a minute to work up my courage."

Mal looks at her for a moment, then pulls a flask out from her desk drawer and drops it between them.

"There," she says, lips twitching into a smirk. "A little of the liquid kind to bolster the real thing."

Regina snorts. "I don't think I need whiskey to get me through this, but thanks."

"Oh honey, this is not 'whiskey,' it's single-barrel aged bourbon. But suit yourself," Mal dismisses, but she leaves the flask there to tempt Regina anyway, adding, "I suppose you managed to get through a beautiful evening with the man all on your own. You should be able to get through one shitty morning just fine."

Regina scowls, tightening her grip on the card. "You read it."

"I read a lot of things," Mal shrugs, adding, "Professional curiosity," before glancing back at her computer, and then reaching for her mouse, clicking a few things, typing a sentence or two. Like she hasn't just casually admitted to snooping through Regina's things.

"In my office, before I get in?"

"Well, if I do it when you're there, I'd have to ask permission."

"And wouldn't that be a novel idea," Regina mutters, before sighing heavily and running a nervous hand over her skirt, picking away a miniscule fleck of lint. She should really stop killing time here.

"Relax," Mal orders. "Sidney puts you on every account he can even half justify sharing the workload on, and I like to know what he's up to. Unfortunately, he keeps his office locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Everything's on his computer, or locked in his file cabinet, and with the security on them, you'd think he was harboring state secrets, not advertising buys. Luckily for me, you're more of an open book."

"I have a password on my—"

"Henry815," Mal interrupts, and Regina's mouth snaps shut. "A monkey could figure it out; you have the date circled on your calendar, for God's sake."

Well. Time to change that password.

But it still doesn't explain, "Just what exactly did you learn about Sidney's accounts from reading the card on the flowers he gave me?"

Mal flicks her gaze back over again, her lips twitching into a smirk, and then she admits, "Personal curiosity. And I like to be thorough."

Regina snorts. "I'm remembering this for the next time you say you hate office gossip."

"I hate Kathryn," she corrects. "And if you don't have this taken care of before the status meeting, I might have to start hating you, too. Bad enough I have to watch her mope, I don't want to be stuck watching Sidney make eyes at you for half an hour on top of it. My breakfast isn't sitting very well as it is."

Regina smirks, lifts a brow. "Late night?"

"Little too much courage," Mal admits, reaching for the flask with a slightly green expression before stashing it back in her desk. "But at least I had the good sense to keep it out of the office. Now quit stalling. Or go do it somewhere else, so I can get through the rest of these emails."

.::.

Mal is right, she is stalling, so after her not-so-subtle dismissal, Regina decides to forego the coffee for now, and head straight to Sidney.

She finds him on the phone, relief flooding her at the momentary reprieve.

Coward, she berates herself, giving a little wave when he glances up and sees her about to turn and leave. But then he's shaking his head, and holding up a finger as if to tell her to wait, and her stomach swoops nervously again. She wants to bolt, to make excuses and come back later, but she doesn't. She's a grown-up; she can handle a little polite workplace dumping.

He interrupts whoever he has on the other line, says, "Ms. Hubbard, I'm sorry; something just came across my desk that needs my urgent attention. Can I give you a call back in a little while?"

Regina scowls and shakes her head at him. This is technically a social call; it doesn't warrant abandoning his work mid-conversation.

But he's shaking his own head, refusing her denial, and saying, "Yes, of course. You'll hear from me before lunch. Thank you so much, Ms. Hubbard. You, too. Goodbye."

He hangs up the phone and Regina does her best to be surreptitious about the way she sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. As he waves her into his office, she thinks Here goes nothing…

She'd meant to stand. To rip it off like a Band-Aid, get it all out there quickly, and be gone, but she takes two steps into Sidney's office and then sinks down into the chair across from his desk before she can catch herself.

"I see you got your delivery," he says, smiling at her and nodding toward the card still clutched in her hand, pleased as punch, and oh, this is going to be terrible. Suddenly, she feels like a jerk. She has been a jerk. This wasn't fair to him, not from the word "go;" she shouldn't have done this.

But she did, and now she has to get out of it. Has to end this in a way that doesn't hamper their working relationship, or crush his poor, lovesick heart.

So she starts with, "I did; thank you. They're beautiful."

Sidney sits a little straighter in his seat, says, "I know you like roses. And I couldn't decide just which color to get you today, so I thought: why not get several? The more, the merrier, right?"

Not always, she thinks.

But she forces a smile, and says, "I suppose so. But… Sidney…" She has to fight not to fidget, has to fight the urge to let her hand press to her belly as furious butterflies kick up and riot around in there. "I'd prefer to keep my private life… private," she finishes. "What I do outside the office, I want to stay there – my dating life especially. So. I would really appreciate it if you didn't leave any more giant bouquets at my desk. People will talk."

He falters a little, his smile falling, and then he recovers, and nods. For a second she thinks it'll be that easy, but then he opens his mouth, and out comes, "I'm sorry, but I have to ask – is there something wrong with that? People talking?"

Oh, so very very much. And if she was less kind, if she was more like Mal, she'd say so. But she has to work with him; she can't really afford to be needlessly cruel.

So, instead, she says, "Well, we work together. You've brought me onto quite a few very lucrative projects over the years, and I'm very grateful, but I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm getting special treatment because there's… something going on between us. In fact, I think…" She swallows heavily, licks her lips, and continues, "I think maybe it would be better if we didn't let this go any further. The dates were nice – lovely, even, food poisoning aside – but we work well together, and I'd hate for anything to get in the way of that."

That bemused smile he'd been managing to maintain drops away entirely, and he shakes his head. Regina can tell she's hurt his pride when he asks, "What makes you think us seeing each other outside of work would get in the way of things? You spend time with Kathryn socially, don't you?"

"Yes," Regina answers slowly, and then, "But we usually skip the making out."

He chuckles at that (if a bit nervously), and says, "Fair enough. But, Regina… I think there's something here, something that could be… amazing." He smiles as he says the last part, and her stomach twists again.

No, no there is nothing here that could be amazing. Just something that could turn into a raging dumpster fire of bad workplace issues.

"I don't date coworkers, as a rule," she tries again.

"But you did," he says, and yes, she did. And what she was thinking that morning, and all the days since, she doesn't really want to consider. The level of lying to herself she engaged in to walk herself into this mess would make her laugh if it didn't make her want to cry.

So she's swallowing pride along with nerves as she admits, "Yes. I did. But I shouldn't have; that was unfair to you. I told you this summer has been… difficult for me, personally. And I haven't really been my usual self. You're a nice guy, Sidney, but I shouldn't have said yes when you asked me to dinner. I don't date at work. Personal policy. And I should have stuck to that, instead of putting us in this position."

He's not smiling anymore as he tells her, "But… we had such a nice time. Don't you think maybe personal policies are made to be broken, on occasion?"

If they are, she thinks she's already done that once this summer by dating a criminal without bothering to find out the details of his crime. Or dating a criminal, period.

But she can't say that, so she doesn't say that, she just repeats, "It's my personal policy," and then adds, "But it's not just my policy, it's the company policy. There's a no-fraternization clause in our contracts, Sidney. And I can't risk my job, not even for something… nice."

"Leo won't care," he says, dismissive and sure, relaxing a little bit and following it up with, "Leo doesn't care. And not just because we're friends. I mean, it's never really been enforced, Regina, you know that. Phil and Aurora got married last summer."

"I know," she sighs. This really isn't going well. "Fairytale romance and all that. But they're in different departments. They don't work together, they just both work here. It's different."

"Regina—"

"Sidney. I'm sorry, I really am, but… I don't want this in the office. If it goes poorly, it will make things weird for everyone, and I'll lose a friend." It's maybe an overstatement, calling him a friend, but she does it anyway, reaches forward and grabs his hand and adds, "And I wouldn't want that. So… let's just keep it professional, okay?"

For a minute – a long, tense stretch of seconds that she is fairly certain nears a full honest-to-God minute – he doesn't say anything. He just looks at their hands, hers still gripping his, and it occurs to her that she should really let go. This is getting more awkward by the moment, and so she finally does, gives him another light squeeze and then pulls back.

He sucks in a breath, then, and sits a little straighter in his chair, forcing a tight, miniscule smile, and telling her, "If that's really what you want."

She can't help the soft apology that spills from her lips – she really does genuinely feel bad for dangling the possibility of more with her in front him, finally after all these years, and then snatching it away again.

But what's done is done, and before things can get any more awkward, she rises from her chair and beats a hasty retreat.

He's unusually quiet during their status meeting, keeps to himself for most of the day, and Regina finds herself feeling remarkably guilty about the whole thing. Her gaze lingers more than once on the bouquet at the edge of her desk, her stomach twisting every time. So when the end of the day comes, she takes the blooms with her, hoping that their absence will strip the last of the bad air from the office and leave things some semblance of the way they were.

.::.

Pre-schoolers make great distractions, what with their constant demand for attention, their busy-ness, their infectious energy. As a result, Robin doesn't have much time to think overly hard about what happened between himself and Regina – about her soft lips, or her soft tits, her wet kisses, and other very wet parts – over the weekend. And Marian had called Sunday with last-minute dinner plans, had asked if he'd keep Roland until Monday morning and drop him at daycare, and so his mental reprieve had lasted all the way until now.

Until Monday afternoon – ought to have been Monday morning, but it's possible Robin may have skived off morning daycare and taken Roland to the science museum for an hour instead. It's show and tell day, after all, and now he's freshly armed with a brand-new stuffed fish to show and an exciting adventure to tell. If he's lucky, Marian won't skin him alive for deviating from their son's usual schedule without checking in (but damnit, he's Robin's son too, and it was educational, and it's not as though he's going to be harmed in any way by missing half a day of someone else's babysitting).

Now, though, he is alone with his thoughts. Taking them for an afternoon jog around the neighborhood to the tunes of Matt Nathanson, and feeling a fair few of the lyrics to be a bit too on-point. He hears We really shouldn't be left alone, the way we get into each other's bones… and thinks of Regina. Wonders how her day has been, wonders if she's had to deal with that tosser who'd kissed her yet, wonders if he has any right to even wonder (he doesn't).

Wonders if she's angry with him.

She hadn't seemed to be when she left, but she's had a few days to think on it now, and he should have known better than to let things get so carried away when she'd come to him upset. He feels a bit like he's let her down. A bit like a cad. A bit like he hadn't so much been that friend she'd been seeking out for comfort as a man who had taken advantage of her when she'd been low.

The guilt eats at him, has him pausing mid-run and flicking from his music to his messages, pulling up her name and letting his thumb hover for a moment before he gives in and texts: Are you sure I don't owe you an apology?

He waits a few seconds for her reply, and when it doesn't come, he tells himself she's busy at work and settles back into a jog. He makes it another block before his phone vibrates in his hand, and he squints down to see her reply.

Positive. We're good. Henry at your place tonight?

Relief floods him, and he sends her a quick thumbs up emoji, and then a slightly misspelled Hope ur hvign a good day that he ought to have stopped to correct.

His phone buzzes again almost immediately: You too.

He doesn't respond, doesn't want to push, and he's not surprised when he doesn't hear from her again. But he runs a little easier, breathes a little better, feels a bit less like an ass. So that's something, at least.

.::.

"Henry!" Regina calls toward the upstairs as she snaps a lid onto the Tupperware she's been filling, "Hurry up – you're due at Robin's in two minutes!"

She hears his footfalls on the stair not long after, trudging heavily, and then he's walking into the kitchen and scowling at her.

"Why are my lessons still at his place?" he questions, and she thinks, Here we go again. "I thought you guys were friends again. We spent all night there on Friday."

"We did, and… we are," Regina answers, even though right now she has no idea what they are. Friends, they're supposed to be. But she doesn't jerk off any of her other friends, so… She shakes herself out of that incredibly inappropriate thought to be having with her son in the room and makes excuses, "But it's nice for a mom to have some quiet time, and get some things done around the house without having to worry about interrupting anyone's lessons or anyone's sleep. So you're having lessons at Robin's from now on."

He opens his mouth to protest, and she cuts him off, holding out the Tupperware for him and saying, "Bring this to him, please. He always liked the pasta salad."

Henry's scowl deepens, but he stomps forward and takes the container anyway, asking, "Cookies?" and oh no, they will not be doing that again.

"Not grounded?" she counters, and he must know she's not in the mood for more complaints, because he sighs heavily and mutters, Fine and See you in an hour.

And then he goes, and she's left to fill the next hour of her evening.

.::.

She's not sent dinner home with him in ages, so when Henry shows up with a plastic container of that pasta salad he'd been left dreaming of for weeks, Robin is pleasantly surprised. And, to be honest, relieved.

He sees the gesture for what it is – a peace offering, a reassurance of sorts after his text this afternoon. A What happened happened, but I'm not upset enough about it to deny you your coveted leftovers.

So he smiles as he takes it, smiles even as Henry mutters, "You guys are dumb," and trudges back toward the studio.

Henry has no idea how true that statement is, Robin thinks, but dumb as they are, complicated as they are, at least they're still okay.

.::.

On Tuesday, Robin takes August up on an offer to give him a hand with the bar's weekly deliveries. August's leg has been bothering him more than usual this week, and an extra set of hands will make the work go twice as fast.

So Robin shows up to The Rabbit Hole at eleven instead of three, and helps cart in cases and kegs. It's heavy work, and he wonders how August manages on his own most weeks – not that he's not perfectly capable. That limp rarely slows him down. It's not like he's hobbled, it's not like he's not strong, it's just… he limps.

Robin feels bad enough about the thought that he doesn't voice it, but he does take a moment while they're sitting at the bar afterwards, each knocking back half a pint of Shocktop to slake their thirst, and suggests, "You know, if you need a hand with deliveries, you can always call. I'm just down the road, and I've nothing to do with my Tuesdays."

August shrugs off the offer, says, "Usually I manage just fine." He taps his knee and adds, "Old injuries aside. But today the help was definitely appreciated. Thanks."

August swigs his beer and leans back a little on his stool, squinting at the wall of bottles. Robin worries again that he's somehow offended him even while he was trying not to.

"I only meant—" he clears his throat a little, absently shifts his pint to and fro "—I could use the extra hours, is all. And I don't mind some heavy lifting. So if you wanted it to go faster, or if you ever wanted to take the day off, I could come in. That's all."

August glances at him, asks, "You need money?"

"Who doesn't?" Robin snorts, and August chuckles, nodding.

"So true." He sips his beer again and offers, "I'd swap a weekend shift with you, but I know you won't take it."

Not a chance, not ever.

Robin shakes his head, says, "My son—" and August waves him off.

"I know. She's still only giving you weekends?"

Robin blows out a breath and nods, sighs, "She is. I've told her I have days free, but she says he has daycare, he has his routine and his little friends. And I have deep respect for naptime and all that, but I don't see how a day or two a week with his dad would throw his whole life into shambles."

"You want my advice?" August asks, as Robin lifts his beer and takes a deep swig.

"Mm."

"Tell her again."

Robin snorts a little, and August lets the suggestion land there between them for a moment. He probably should. She'd taken his impromptu field trip yesterday morning rather well – it helped that he'd called the daycare and told them Roland would be with him for the morning. He may not have cleared the whole thing with Marian, but at least he'd been responsible about it. So maybe August is right. Maybe it's about time for another tense phone call with his son's mother, another reminder that it's been months of him playing on her terms, and he's more than proven himself worthy of some more reasonable visitation.

August interrupts his thoughts, changing the topic with, "But if you're just looking to pick up another hour or two, I'll take you up on the help with the deliveries. It goes a hell of a lot faster with two, that's for sure."

"Thanks, man."

"Yeah, of course," August dismisses, taking the last swallow of his beer and shifting off the stool with a grunt. "And you should talk to Ruby. Her friend Tink is supposed to be playing here next week, but she got in a car accident over the weekend. Mostly okay, but she has a broken hand, so she's looking for a guitarist on short notice. You're good – maybe she'll throw you a bone."

He should be focusing on the offer – not only work, but work doing what he loves – but he's stuck for a moment, thinking maybe he's misheard.

"Tink?" he questions, brows knitting.

"It's a nickname. Her last name is… Tinkerson? Tinkman?" His forehead wrinkles for a moment as he tries to recall, but then he gives up and shrugs. "Something. I've got it on the performance schedule in the back; Ruby only ever calls her Tink. I'm not sure if she's paying, but I know she has other gigs, so it'd get you out there, at least."

Robin nods, tells him thanks for letting him know, and makes a mental note to talk to Ruby about it tomorrow night.

.::.

He calls Marian the next morning. Or rather, asks her to call him when she has a break. It seems maybe a bit rude, springing this on her during her work day, but then he thinks of the time she showed up in the middle of his work, at his new job no less, and asked him to start paying child support, so he thinks maybe she's owed the inconveniences of shared custody this time.

She calls just around noon, probably on her lunch, and catches him in the middle of some much-needed laundry. He holds the phone in one hand, loads dirty clothes into the washer with the other, and pleads his case: It's been half a year since The Incident, Roland has adjusted well to split custody, and he thinks he should be able to have him in the daytime more often. Marian is not immediately agreeable to the whole thing, not that he'd expected she would be.

"I don't see why it can't be a more regular thing," Robin reasons to Marian as he scoops a handful of socks from his hamper and drops them in. "He had a good time with me last week, didn't he? And Monday, at the science center?"

"Well, yes, but—" she starts, and he knows that tone, knows it means she's going to argue some more, so he presses ahead.

"I think I've more than proven that I'm fit to parent him, Marian. And weekends are great, but it's not enough. And I know with my job we can't do any sort of week here, week there kind of arrangement, but I'm free most days until the afternoon. Why can't I have him? You'd save on daycare, and I'd get to see him more often. At least consider letting me keep him through Mondays; I'm off Mondays—"

"Can I get a word in, please?" she interjects, exasperated, and Robin dumps in the last of his shorts and lets the lid fall on the washer with a bit of clang.

"Sorry," he says, with a deep breath in, and then out. "Go ahead."

"You have lessons on Mondays," she points out, and Robin is glad he's already closed the washer or he might have let it slam good and proper at that ridiculous excuse for a reason.

"One," he says firmly. "At seven PM."

"I can't guarantee I'll always be able to pick him up by then—"

"I can handle it," Robin insists, punching the button for warm wash and turning the knob on the front to start. He thinks of the last time he'd had Roland during a lesson, and says without thinking, "Regina can watch him."

"Does she know that?" Marian questions, and he can almost see the doubtful face she's making, the one he used to think was rather cute. It's less cute in his recollection, now.

"I can ask her if she'll watch him," he amends, realizing belatedly he never added soap to the wash. He curses internally, grabs the Tide from the shelf and yanks the washer open again.

"I don't want to impose on—"

"You're not," he cuts her off. "I am. Marian, please. I shouldn't have to beg for time with my child. I did a stupid thing, I know that, and believe me, I have felt the consequences of it. But I want to be with my son. Give me one more day, for now, just one. Think about the others."

She sighs heavily, and then there's silence on the other end of the line as he measures soap and dumps it in, lets the lid fall back down and punches the start button to get the cycle flowing again.

And then Marian says, "Check with the neighbor, and we'll see how Mondays go for a while," and his heart leaps.

It's only Monday, only a few more hours than he's getting now. It's not enough, not truly, but it's a start. So he tells her, "Thank you," and "I'll let you know by the weekend."

And for once, when he hangs up with his ex, he feels like he's won.

.::.

Chocolate.

There is chocolate, everywhere.

Every day, chocolate.

On Tuesday it had been a Maya Gold bar, left on her desk midday while she was grabbing lunch with Kathryn to discuss what was happening with David (not much, or nothing good, anyway – talk of counseling, talk of separation; Regina had felt a lick of guilt at how glad she was to have someone else's problems to focus on for an hour instead of her own). She'd frowned, and slipped it into her purse, left it there for the rest of the day.

It's still on her desk in the den, at home.

On Wednesday a handful of Reese's cups arranged into a little pyramid next to her keyboard had greeted her first thing. It's not all that unusual, Sidney thinking of her, Sidney bringing her something. A treat. He's done that before – spent how long refilling the break room candy bowl with these very same sweets not a month ago? And she did say she wanted things to go back to normal between them, but he used to space this stuff out a little bit better. Every now and then, a sweet treat. Every now and then, an extra cup of coffee.

Still, she has a weakness, a terrible weakness, for these particular candies. She drops two in Mal's office, two in Kathryn's, and eats the other four herself, one by one as she works on her latest pitch.

Thursday, Sidney had been out of the office all day, in meetings with Leo and another potential client. Regina had been too relieved by his absence to even manage a good brood about the fact that they haven't even closed the deal yet, and Sidney seems to have the account locked up.

Mal, on the other hand, had had plenty to say about it, perching herself on the edge of Regina's desk and growling about favoritism, and "the sexist boys' club that is the management in this place," and how fucking unfair it is that the golden boy gets first crack at every lucrative client when the two of them have been working their asses off for years.

Regina had somehow managed not to notice the tube of chocolate covered espresso beans until Mal swiped them from beside her monitor, gave them a rattle and asked, "Do you mind?"

Regina had shaken her head, and resigned herself to another uncomfortable conversation with Sidney in the very near future.

And now it's Friday, and there's a Godiva chocolate raspberry bar sitting on her keyboard. Bad enough, he's left her another gift. Even worse, that he's decided to attempt to woo her back by indulging her sweet tooth – something she certainly doesn't need to be doing, considering her mother had called last night and summoned her to another coffee date this weekend (oh sure, it had been phrased like an invitation, but "I was thinking we could have coffee together this weekend; it's been so long since we've seen each other" can't be turned down without a considerable fallout of passive aggressive guilt).

But the worst of all, she thinks as she lifts the candy off her desk, runs her thumb over the gold foil of the logo on the wrapper, is that she had almost bought this very same chocolate bar the night before. She'd been at the bookstore, picking up something new for herself, a few items off the recommended summer reading list for Henry's school, and there they'd been at the checkout. It's another weakness, another indulgence – she's partial to dark chocolate, likes the sweet tartness of the raspberry filling in contrast, and she'd been tempted. So very tempted.

But she'd had more than her fair share of sweets this week, between the ones Sidney was leaving for her and the box of Junior Mints she'd scarfed down at the movies with Henry on Wednesday night. So no sooner than she'd grabbed the candy bar, she'd found herself putting it back. She'd still had the Maya Gold at home, anyway.

Didn't need it.

And now, here it is. Of all the things he could have chosen for her today, it was the one thing she'd denied herself the day before.

Her stomach twists and somersaults, a little coil of cold dread winding up her spine, and she can't figure out if it's because of Sidney, or the recurrent temptation of dark chocolate and sweet raspberry.

She taps the candy bar against her fingers anxiously, frowns hard at it, and tells herself she won't leave here tonight until she's shut down the chocolate factory. She's not going to do it now, not first thing. She'll wait this time, catch him at the end of the day. That way if there are any hard feelings, they won't be lingering at the office.

Regina slips the candy into her purse; she won't eat it today. She's keyed up and anxious, and she knows, just knows, that if Mother forgets the terms of their reconciliation (which she probably will) and makes some comment about how something fits, or how she looks a little puffy, or how she should really cut back on the sweets (which she probably will), she'll spend the whole of her Saturday cursing herself for her lack of self-restraint. She'll eat it tomorrow night, maybe, if things go well.

Friday flies by, and before Regina knows it, it's nearly 3pm, and Sidney had mentioned something about taking a summer Friday and leaving early, so she bites the bullet and searches him out.

He's still in his office, but just barely – packing up his briefcase as she walks over and gives a little knock on the glass before popping her head into his office.

"Hi," she greets, and he looks up at her and grins.

"Hello, Regina."

"I wanted to talk to you."

He asks her what about, and she tries to keep things light. Casual. Friendly. Tries to match his amiable tone (aside from the daily chocolate delivery, things have gotten back to normal surprisingly well – he'd been sullen on Monday, but the rest of the week he's been his usual cordial self; She's been thanking heaven for small favors).

"Nothing major," she dismisses, before telling him, "I've just about hit my sugar quota for the month, that's all. So if you could ease up on the chocolate...?"

For a moment he looks a little sheepish, and then he explains, "You said you didn't want everyone to know. I figured this was more discrete than flowers."

His phrasing gives her pause, makes her wonder if she'd still be getting daily blooms if she hadn't insisted on calling off the dating side of things.

She smiles a little, but it's forced, she can feel the tension in it as she says, "You're right, but it's still... not very coworker-ly." He tilts his head a little, like a confused puppy, and she adds, "Nobody else is leaving me chocolate every day. I said I wanted to keep things professional, remember?"

"Of course," he agrees, smiling blithely again, and saying, "I'm sorry. No more daily candygrams."

Well, that was easy. She lets out a breath and nods, her smile shifting into something more genuine.

"Thank you. From me, and my waistline."

She realizes too late that it was the entirely wrong thing to say to Sidney as he rushes to assure her, "Your waistline has nothing to worry about," sweeps his gaze up and down her frame quickly, before settling on her face again and saying quietly, "You're so beautiful."

Regina fights the urge to squirm.

"Professional," she reminds, and he seems to catch himself, shaking his head a little and closing his briefcase, grasping the handle.

"Right, of course," he says, repeating, "Of course. I'll keep the compliments to myself during business hours."

She wants to tell him to keep them to himself during all hours, but she doesn't want to make this even more uncomfortable than it already is.

So she just smiles, and nods, drums her fingers against the doorjamb and says, "Have a good weekend."

"You, too," Sidney tells her, closing the gap between them.

She steps back out of the doorway, expects him to head toward reception, but he doesn't. He turns toward her instead, heading for Leo's office no doubt – but he cuts the turn close, his fingertips brushing the back of her hand as he walks by. She twitches at the surprise moment of contact, but it's fleeting, over before it begins, and then he's saying, "Enjoy your weekend," over his shoulder as he leaves her behind.

.::.

Robin brings Regina flowers. Well, a flower. It doesn't seem right, bringing her an actual bouquet, seems too forward after what happened between them a week ago (especially with not so much as a word or wave between them aside from his text on Monday; he's been trying to honor her request for space, he truly has, although he supposes his mission tonight makes that a moot point). So he brings her a single flower, one measly purple tulip – he'd thought about a rose, but that seemed too romantic. One of those big colorful daisies, but it didn't seem quite elegant enough for her. So, a tulip. Simple, but pretty.

He shows up on her doorstep with it on Friday evening, before he heads out to pick up Roland. Has been watching her house from his own front porch for an embarrassing amount of time, waiting for the lights to flick on. Has called Marian and pushed back his pick-up of Roland by twenty minutes, and justified it by telling himself that if Regina says yes, then he can just tell Marian tonight when he gets there, and maybe they can pack Roland some extra things and he can stay the long weekend straight off.

So he needs to be quick about things, needs to not linger, and needs to not be so bloody pathetic that he waits two days to ask her just so he can do it in person.

He should've called.

But he didn't, and now he's here, knocking on her door, and waiting. It's not long before she pulls it open, standing there like a breath of fresh air in a snug black pencil skirt and white blouse that leaves her arms bare. She's gotten some sun, he thinks – he hadn't really noticed last week, and she'd been so pale when she was sick. But she looks good, healthy, beautiful.

She smiles when she see him, but it's a little tight, a little awkward, a little bewildered.

"Robin, hi…" she greets, tilting her head, and he finds he has to try very hard not to focus on those rose-painted lips of hers, and thoughts of the last time they'd been face to face. Her gaze drops to the tulip he'd forgotten he was holding, and goes a little bit guarded. "What's this?"

"Oh, uh—" he lifts it, offers it up to her "—it's a rather sad little tulip is what it is."

She smirks, then presses her lips together to hide it, but her eyes are still smiling.

And then he cocks it all up by saying, "I was hoping we could talk," and she shuts back down, drops her gaze, shakes her head, gives a dry little laugh.

"Do we have to?" she asks softly, and he realizes just what exactly she thinks he's here to talk about.

"Not about us," he assures. "I think it was pretty clear before any of that… started, where it was going. I knew what it was, and that's fine."

Her shoulders relax, a breath of relief blowing out of her, and she finally reaches out, takes the tulip from his grasp and twirls it a little in her own. "Good. Thank you. Then I can take your sad little tulip."

Robin chuckles, slips his hands into his pockets, and when she asks what it is he wanted to talk about, he has to shake himself back to the task at hand. He can moon over her later; right now, he's running late.

"Oh, just, um… Y'know, Roland couldn't stop talking about spending time with you last week," he says, overly fond, laying it on a bit thick. "He said you were the best babysitter in the whole world."

She laughs (he loves when she laughs), and lifts a brow, telling him, "You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying!" he insists. "He wants me to buy him that cookie book."

"Fine," she gives him with a little roll of her eyes. "Maybe you're not lying, but you want something." She holds up the flower, and says, "You brought me a sad little tulip."

"Okay. Yes. I do," he admits, ducking his head a little, and lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. He looks up at her, gives her what he hopes is a charming smile, and tells her, "I need a favor."

Regina leans against the door jamb, lifts the tulip to give it a little sniff as she asks, "What's up?" and he realizes they've had this whole conversation with him on the porch while she stands in the open door, letting the air con bleed out. She hasn't made a move to invite him in, and while that makes sense, he doesn't think it necessarily bodes well for what he's about to ask.

He probably shouldn't ask, shouldn't put her out; Marian is right. But he's here now, and the answer is always no if you don't ask, so he bites the bullet and makes the request:

"Could you watch him? On Monday nights?"

Her brow ticks up. "Every Monday night?"

Right. This was a bad plan. He winces as he says, "Yes. Maybe not always – and not for the full hour necessarily, just until Marian can get here from work. I'm trying to wear her down on letting me have Mondays and she's worried she won't be able to pick him up in time before Henry's lessons."

"Oh," she says simply, kindly. And then she shrugs and says, "Sure, I can do that."

Robin feels a cautious rush of relieved surprise, his mouth curving. "You're sure? I don't want to put you out."

"It's fine," she assures him. "You have my kid for an hour once a week. No reason I can't have yours."

"I can pay you," Robin assures, because it's babysitting, and he ought to.

But she brushes him off, waves the hand that isn't still clutching her tulip and says, "Don't be silly. It's Roland."

"You're sure?"

"You already asked me that," she smiles. "Really, if it'll help you out, it's no problem. I've dumped Henry on you plenty of times."

"I like Henry; it's no bother," Robin insists, and Regina points her tulip at him and says, Exactly. He nods, says, "Right," and then, "I've got to go pick him up for the weekend – it's only supposed to be through Sunday this time, but if I can talk her into the extra day…?"

"I'm free Monday night," she assures. "Just let me know."

"I will," he tells her, reaching out and grabbing her arm gently, giving it a little squeeze as he says sincerely, "Thank you."

She gives him the obligatory, "You're welcome," and then they say their goodnights, and Robin finds himself bounding down her steps with a particular spring in his step.

One more day might not be much, but to him, it's a hell of a lot.

.::.

She should not be so charmed by a single tulip.

Should not be fishing out a little bud vase for it and trimming the stem down carefully, filling the vase with water and a little bit of the flower food from the packet she hadn't bothered to open when she brought Sidney's bouquet home on Monday.

But she is, and she does, and she reminds herself that this is exactly why she's trying to put some distance between herself and Robin. Because he brought her a single, sad little tulip (it's not that sad, really – it's purple, and soft, and pretty, and will look lovely in this tiny vase), and she's gotten all fluttery about it.

And because he'd looked so good in that white t-shirt on her porch, all puppy dog eyes, worrying she'd say no to watching Roland so he could get an extra day with him. Ridiculous, not even a question.

Also not great for actually maintaining that space she was just thinking about, but, well… they can swap kids and call it a day, they don't have to actually spend all that much time together. It'll be good. It'll be fine.

She drops the flower into the bud vase, and brings it to the living room, sets it on the coffee table there right next to the massive bouquet of roses that's starting to wilt. The roses are overpowering, dwarfing the little tulip, and she thinks for a second about tossing them, but there's a bit of life left in them, still.

So she settles for moving the tulip, bringing it over to the round table between the armchairs instead. It fits better there anyway, seems less sad, less small. Just right.

Regina runs her thumb along the petals, and then pushes Robin from her mind as she heads for the kitchen.