I used to think about her all the time. So it isn't anything new.

I'm not sure it's even fair to say I stopped. She's always lingered in my mind, ever since I was a little girl and she was the picture of everything I thought a hero should be. Even after that when she hated me, and that hate threatened to eclipse everything else in my life.

But lately, I've noticed it more. My mind's been quick to turn to Regina - wondering what she's doing, how she's feeling, what's occupying her mind…

Wondering if I take up as much space in hers as she does in mine.

I don't.

I know I don't.

But it's okay, better that way.

There was a time when her thoughts were full of me - wondering where I was, what I was doing, who I was with and how she could find us…

Wondering if it would ever be possible for me to hurt as badly as she did.

I'm not sure either of us have figured out an answer to that. But she did put a mighty effort into finding out.

It all feels so long ago, like another life. I have to remind myself at times that it was. At other times I have to remind myself that it wasn't.

Both of us have changed though, become different people.

We exist in ways that should be impossible, and yet…

Regina is standing across from where I'm sitting at her kitchen island. She's stirring a pot and telling me a story about something Henry's done at school. There's a smile on her face as she talks.

My chest grows so full and warm and aching at the sight, I swallow and look away.

She doesn't notice, too busy getting dinner ready.

It's a big meal. Family dinner. She hasn't said so explicitly, but I'm sure it was Henry's idea. I can't picture her doing this without his prompting.

After all, she's done so much more for his sake. Remarkable, heroic, terrifyingly brave things.

And I wonder, looking back up at her, if that's why she's been so on my mind.

Because when I look at her now I don't see the Evil Queen. I see Regina. And it's because of Henry, only because of Henry, that she's come out of the darkness.

Something twinges in my belly at that, rising up with a bitter taste to the back of my throat. But it's gone as quickly as it came.

"How's it coming?" I ask, leaning against the marble counter.

No one else is here yet. Even Henry is with Emma and David at the sheriff's station. It's just the two of us.

Regina lifts her head and our eyes meet. There's no echo of hate on her face.

"Here, see for yourself."

Before I can say anything else, she's holding the wooden spoon she was using to stir across the counter. It's coated in a red sauce that I can tell without tasting is delicious. It smells good. Her entire kitchen smells good.

Briefly, I wonder if the smells will cling to her, if her hands will carry the scent of garlic, notes of thyme and basil in her hair.

But her hand doesn't waver as she holds the spoon out, and wondering won't do me any good.

So I tilt forward to taste, but a tremor of unsteadiness washes over me - maybe because the moment feels suddenly intimate - and I pause to grip the edge of the counter.

As I do some of the sauce drips off landing with an audible plop on the marble island.

Regina clicks her tongue and sighs.

"I don't have time to cook and clean up after you, Snow."

My jaw tightens. I don't like feeling admonished, especially by Regina. She's not my mother. Even when she was that couldn't have been further from how I saw her, what I felt for her.

And stubborn as I am, then and now, I quick lean in and lick the spoon before she can pull it away.

I look at her as I do, and see her brow raise.

My face suddenly feels warm, and I lean back, embarrassed. I'm being childish. Neither of us have changed quite as much as we sometimes pretend.

But then Regina laughs, just a small quick huff, and I settle where I sit. Though my heart fluttered softly when I heard it.

I wish then that Emma and David would get held up at the station, that Emma would ask Killian to watch Henry instead of sending him here.

It's a selfish thought, and I resent it as soon as it enters my mind. But just for a moment I allow it. I allow myself a little selfishness, a moment to stop and wonder what it would be like if this was our life. Regina and I together in her kitchen, talking and laughing, flirting…

If we weren't only together in her kitchen…but just together.

I watch her as she continues cooking, stunning even in a stained apron. She must feel me looking at her though because she glances up and our eyes meet again. And though she could have been irritated, as she often is with me, there was a smile on her face that made my throat go tight and dry.

And because I've allowed it, just for the moment, I imagine standing and walking around the counter and kissing her until both of us are breathless.

Until I'm as much in her head, in her heart, as she is in mine.

But my self loathing flares - burning the image out of my mind and leaving only an impression in ash - and the moment passes. Because I've always been selfish when it comes to Regina. From the moment I told my father how I wished she could live with us, to every refusal to sever her from my life since.

But though years have passed, wars waged, lives made and remade - though darkness and light have mixed and left us both a little grey - I still have to fight the desire to be as close to her as possible.

Even now. Even after everything. Maybe even because of it.

"So was it good?" Regina asks, now layering sauce, cheese, meat, and noodles into a glass casserole dish.

I blink, not sure at first what she means. Because a strand of dark hair has fallen across her face, and when she spoke her voice sounded lower than it usually does. It sends my mind in a hundred directions at once.

"The sauce?" she clarifies, tucking her hair back behind her ear.

I shake my head, because obviously that's what she meant.

"It was delicious, of course." I'm sincere when I say it, but there's humor in my voice too. Because Regina knew it was good without having to ask

She hums and nods at my answer.

"Well let's hope everyone else thinks so too. Your daughter has the palate of a fourteen year old boy."

I laugh, and we smile at each other before she turns to put the lasagna in the oven.

It feels so easy, so good, to be able to talk with her like this. And my heart swells, skin stretching, trying to hold in all the happiness I feel in this moment.

But it won't last.

It can't.

Everyone else will here soon.

I want it to last though.

I want to sit and talk for hours, to laugh and smile and cry together. I want to take walks and watch tv and find out what shampoo she uses and what time she wakes up. I want her to reach for me when she's upset and seek me out when she's happy. I want to make her happier just by being there.

I want us to touch without feeling that mutual spark of sadness as we both remember all that we've done to each other. I want her to look at me like she looked at Robin. I want to live in her life and let her into mine, not just because we've learned to cope with our scars, but because we chose each other. I want…

I take a deep breath.

I want us to coexist without hurting each other, to be allowed in her life in whatever role, however small, she permits.

That's all I want. That's all I'll get anyway. Anything else is too tentative, too unsure. And I'll break my own heart hoping for it.

Besides, that's not our story. Our story has already been written. I know. I've read it in Henry's book. And it didn't show any of the things I've imagined in secret.

I already have my happy ending anyway.

But fairytale endings aren't real endings. Life goes on. There's mess and pain and hard work - and it turns out that heroes and villains don't always stay that way.

And sometimes I wonder if things could have been different.

Like now, as I sit and watch her chop vegetables and toss a salad.

In moment like these, I wonder if there was ever a chance for our story to play out in another way. If there was ever a possibility for us to write a different ending.

And sometimes I wonder if the ending is still being written.

So maybe one day…

The doorbell rings, and the moment is broken. Without a word Regina wipes her hands on a towel and leaves to go answer it.

And alone in her kitchen I think -

Maybe one day, when the moment is right, I'll tell her I love her.

But not today.