Robin's confession reverberates in her ribcage with the same intensity as the wind just outside.
"Oh my God," Regina returns. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have asked if…"
"It's alright," he interrupts with a wave of his hand. "I'm used to it. Trust me."
Blotched patterns of silver and shadow highlight the contours of his face, and she recognizes the tight lines of pain all too well.
"Whenever I'm out with Roland, someone inevitably asks about his mother," he offers, his tone dropping several pitches. "It used to tear me to shreds, and then for a while it just made me angry."
"And now?" she asks, staring at him intently as another blast of thunder rocks the floor.
"Sometimes it stings. But sometimes there's nothing," he whispers, shaking his head in a form of self-chastisement. "And I feel so guilty when there isn't, like I'm failing her memory or something."
She scoots in closer.
"How long ago did she—"
She cuts herself off, licking her lips.
"Did she die?" he finishes for her with a sigh. "Almost two years ago."
Air passes between them, thick and heavy even as a chill speeds up her arms.
"You know, sometimes it seems like an eternity, and others…"
"Like she was just here," she cuts in, drawing his gaze as she clears her throat. He eyes her curiously, asking her something immensely private without uttering a word.
"I was engaged once. A very long time ago."
He nods, still not speaking. She nearly falters.
"We were kids, really, but we thought we knew everything."
"Isn't that true of all kids?" he questions.
"I suppose. But I had appointed myself queen of my realm and everyone in it."
His deep chuckle reassures her somehow.
"Why don't I find this difficult to picture?"
She punches his arm, making him laugh and wince simultaneously.
"Ow," he grins. "You know how to throw a punch, I'd wager."
"I never miss," she boasts, enjoying his crack of laughter under the weight of so much.
"So no one questions you as mayor, I take it," he teases, biting his lower lip.
"I do like being in charge," she admits, smiling at his good-natured eye roll.
"So I've noticed," he states. "But that's not necessarily a bad thing."
"No, it isn't," she agrees. "But it isn't always an easy path to follow, either."
"No. It's not."
Silence hovers over them again, the pelting of hard rain hammering an uneven tattoo all around their makeshift haven.
"What happened?" he asks gently. "To your fiancé?"
She inhales through flared nostrils, amazed at how tender the wound has remained.
"He died in an accident," she answers, working to steady her hands. "He was rounding a curve too fast and met a truck head-on."
She stops, swallowing back the bile that always accompanies memories of Daniel.
"He was on his way to see me," she acknowledges, swimming away from the vortex with everything she has. "We were going to elope that night."
"Christ," he breathes, rubbing his hands over his scalp. "God, Regina. That's terrible."
"No more terrible than what happened to your wife," she observes, reigning in as much control as she can muster as she feels the air shift between them.
"No," he agrees. "I suppose not. It's not an easy road we've had to travel, it would seem."
She shakes her head in agreement, unable to work out just why she is telling him so much. His scent envelops her in the darkness, fortifying her with some electric current even as the storm rages on around them.
"Marion," he offers, swallowing hard. "My wife's name was Marion."
Her heart tightens into a fist.
"Daniel," she breathes, forcing her chin not to quiver.
"May they rest in peace."
His hand encompasses hers, vital warmth encased in a rough texture that both soothes and stimulates every nerve in her body. Her skin seems sensitized to his slightest movement, puckering at the sensation of his breathing, rippling at the soft trails traced by his thumb across her knuckles.
Then an inhuman wail pierces through the raging storm, making them both stand as he draws her to his chest. She cringes at the high pitched screeching, the agonizing moans, as if giants and banshees were dueling just outside their window.
"What in God's name was that?" she manages into his chest, staring at the wall as if it holds the answers.
"I don't know," he answers, moving away from her. "Wait here."
She watches him step out cautiously, and she peeks around the door frame, shining the flashlight into the dark cavern of their room. Nothing looks out of order, yet the sound was so close, as if death itself had been humming down their necks.
Then a metallic scrape, like an overly-large metal gate swinging off its hinge makes her start, and the both look around the room, needing to know, afraid to find out.
Wait-is their door dented?
He must notice the same thing, and he moves towards it steadily, rubbing its surface from top to bottom.
"The door is still secure, but something must be pushed up against it," he calls out to her, jiggling the lock with determination. "The doorknob is jammed."
He then moves stealthily to the window, pulling back the curtain and peering outside.
"Christ," he mutters, holding his arm out towards her as she scurries in his direction, her pulse already in her neck. She moves into his side, squinting her eyes into the all-encompassing darkness.
"Is that a truck?" she questions incredulously.
"Yes, unfortunately," he responds, shaking his head as they stare at the large vehicle laying on its side against the only entrance to their room. "It's a wonder it didn't crash into us."
Her heart thuds painfully against her ribs as she imagines what could have been their fate. She leans into him, relishing the feel of warm hands gripping her waist, the mixed smells of sweat and relief, the awareness of blood pumping life into arms that hold her close.
"Do you have any food?" he asks, drawing her attention as she turns into him directly.
"How can you think of food at a time like this?" she questions, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Because we're locked in until someone can tow that thing away," he observes, watching her eyes widen in response. "And God only knows how long that will take."