The rhythmic beeping of the monitors filled the hospital room, each sound sharp and unrelenting against Regina's frayed nerves. She sat stiffly beside Emma's bed, one hand resting lightly over Emma's, the other clenched in her lap. The chair was uncomfortable—its thin cushion doing little to soften the hard metal underneath—but she barely noticed. Her focus was on Emma, her pale face so still it felt like a betrayal of the vibrant, infuriating, stubborn woman Regina knew.
It had been three days. Three days of waiting. Three days of guilt gnawing at her insides, her thoughts spinning in endless circles. The doctors had assured her that Emma's blood sugar levels were stabilizing, that her condition was improving. But still, she hadn't woken up. And the longer Regina sat there, the more helpless she felt.
She brushed her thumb gently over the back of Emma's hand, her voice barely more than a whisper. "You always have to make things difficult, don't you?"
The sound of the door creaking open broke her from her thoughts. Snow stepped inside, her expression soft but wary, like she was afraid to disturb a fragile balance. David followed a step behind her, carrying the quiet weight of someone desperate to hold onto hope.
"You're still here," Snow said gently, though her voice carried a subtle edge of concern.
Regina barely glanced up. "Where else would I be?"
Snow's lips pressed together, and she exchanged a glance with David before stepping closer. "Regina, I know you want to be here, but you've been sitting in that chair for hours. Have you eaten anything today?"
"I'm fine," Regina replied curtly, the sharpness in her tone betraying the lie.
"You've said that before," Snow countered softly, her gaze steady. "But you're not fine. Emma wouldn't want you to do this to yourself."
Regina's jaw tightened. The mention of Emma's name sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over her, and for a moment, she couldn't speak. She looked down at their joined hands, the warmth of Emma's skin beneath her fingers grounding her in the moment.
"She's not waking up," Regina said finally, her voice raw. "The doctors said she's improving, but what if she doesn't wake up? What then?"
Snow's expression softened, and she reached out, resting a hand lightly on Regina's shoulder. "She will wake up," she said with quiet conviction. "Emma's strong. She has you, Regina. And Henry. And all of us. She has every reason to fight her way back."
Regina closed her eyes, her throat tightening painfully. She wanted to believe Snow, but the weight of her own guilt made it hard to breathe. "If I'd noticed sooner… if I'd done more…"
"This isn't your fault," Snow said firmly, cutting through the spiral of self-recrimination. "Emma's been carrying this for a long time. None of us saw it. But that doesn't mean we failed her—it just means we have to be here for her now."
Regina exhaled shakily, the knot in her chest loosening just enough to let her nod. She straightened, pulling herself together with practiced precision. "I'll grab something to eat," she said finally, though the words felt heavy on her tongue. "But only for a few minutes."
Snow nodded, her relief evident. "Take your time. David and I will stay with her."
Regina hesitated, her gaze lingering on Emma's face. Her thumb brushed lightly over Emma's knuckles one last time before she stood, smoothing her hands over her skirt as though she could erase the tension in her body.
"I'll be back soon," she murmured, more to Emma than to anyone else, before turning toward the door.
The cafeteria was nearly empty, its rows of fluorescent-lit tables stretching out in cold, sterile uniformity. Regina sat at a corner table, a half-eaten sandwich and a small cup of soup in front of her. She had forced herself to eat slowly, methodically, even though every bite felt like an effort. The soup was lukewarm, the sandwich dry, but she barely tasted either. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
She pressed her hands flat against the table, her fingers splaying over the cool surface as she tried to steady herself. The silence of the cafeteria left her alone with the thoughts she had been trying to avoid.
She cared about Emma. That much had always been true, even when their relationship had been defined by barbed words and mutual distrust. But this? This was different. This was something deeper, something she didn't know how to name—something that scared her.
Regina's jaw tightened as she stared down at the sandwich, her appetite vanishing completely. She had no right to feel this way, not now. Not when Emma was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for her life. It felt selfish, indulgent, to let these feelings take root when Emma needed her strength, her focus—not her conflicted emotions.
But the truth wouldn't be ignored. She remembered the way Emma had looked at her on the porch just days ago, the fleeting vulnerability in her eyes as she spoke about her pain. Regina had felt something sharp and unfamiliar then—an ache, a longing to do more than just reassure. She wanted to be Emma's steady ground, to give her more than empty words. But what haunted her now was the fear that she hadn't done enough, that all her efforts had fallen short when Emma needed her the most.
Now, Emma's pale stillness mocked Regina's resolve. She wasn't used to this—the helplessness, the waiting. She had always believed in action, in taking control of the chaos around her. But here, in this sterile, unforgiving hospital room, there was nothing she could do but wait. And the waiting gave too much room for the truth she didn't want to face.
It wasn't just guilt eating at her. It was something deeper, something she didn't want to name. The way Emma's smile—rare but radiant—lingered in her thoughts. The way her absence now felt like a gaping wound, something Regina couldn't ignore no matter how hard she tried.
Regina closed her eyes, her hand curling into a fist against the table. She couldn't do this. Not here. Not now. She forced herself to take a deep breath, her fingers relaxing slightly as she straightened in her seat. Emma needed her to be strong, and that was all that mattered.
Regina had barely stepped back into the hallway when she saw Henry approaching, his shoulders hunched, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. His steps were slow, almost hesitant, and the faint smudge of chocolate near the corner of his mouth betrayed the forced attempt at normalcy. He'd clearly been coaxed into eating something by Snow and David, but the tension in his small frame was unmistakable.
"Henry," Regina said softly, straightening her posture as she spoke. Her voice lost some of its usual sharpness, softened by the weight of worry etched onto his young face.
Henry stopped in front of her, barely lifting his head to meet her gaze. "Hey," he murmured, his voice uneven.
Regina studied him for a moment, noting the way his fingers curled tightly inside his hoodie pockets, as if bracing himself against the enormity of the situation. Her heart ached in a way that was startlingly familiar—it was the same pang she felt every time she looked at Emma, so still and pale in that hospital bed.
"Did you manage to eat something?" she asked gently, the ghost of a smile pulling at her lips as she glanced at the faint smudge of chocolate near his mouth.
Henry shifted his weight awkwardly, finally pulling one hand free to scrub at his face. "Yeah," he mumbled, glancing toward the ICU doors as if they might swing open on their own. "Grandpa made me eat, like, half a pie."
Regina's lips twitched faintly, though the smile didn't reach her eyes. "That sounds like him," she replied, her voice carrying a flicker of warmth.
Henry hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. He kicked lightly at an imaginary spot on the tile, the action small but telling. "Can I… can I go see her?" he asked finally, his voice small but threaded with something fragile—hope, fear, maybe both.
Regina's throat tightened, and for a brief moment, her composure wavered. She wanted so badly to shield him from this, to protect him from the helplessness and heartbreak she'd been drowning in for days. But she knew she couldn't.
"Of course," she said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the door. Her tone was calm, even, but inside she was unravelling. "Go ahead."
She followed him back into the room, her footsteps slow and deliberate. The beeping of the monitors greeted them, that rhythmic reminder of life suspended in fragile balance. Emma lay unmoving in the bed, her face still pale, the feeding tube taped beneath her nose a stark and uncomfortable contrast to the strength Henry was used to seeing in her.
Snow and David stood as Regina entered, their movements careful and quiet. Snow placed a gentle hand on Henry's shoulder as he passed her, her touch light but reassuring. "She'll be happy to hear your voice," Snow said softly, giving him an encouraging smile before she and David stepped toward the door.
Regina moved to the side, intending to stay back and give Henry space. But as Snow brushed past her, she paused, her expression softening with something unreadable. "He needs this," Snow murmured quietly, her voice just for Regina.
Regina nodded faintly, her jaw tightening. "I know," she said, her voice clipped but not unkind.
Snow hesitated, as if debating whether to say more, but then she gave a small nod and slipped out with David, leaving the room quiet again.
Henry stood at the foot of the bed, his shoulders tense as he stared at his mom. For a moment, he didn't move, his breath uneven as his eyes darted to the monitors, the IV, the lines that connected Emma to the machines. His small hands curled into fists at his sides, and he blinked rapidly, as though willing himself to hold it together.
Regina hovered near the edge of the room, uncertain whether to give him privacy or step closer. Her instinct was to comfort him, but she knew Henry, like Emma, hated being pushed.
"Take your time," she said softly, the words filling the silence like a lifeline.
Henry nodded slightly but didn't look at her. His lips pressed together tightly, and he took a deep breath, his small chest rising and falling like he was summoning every ounce of courage he had. Finally, he took a small, shaky step toward Emma's bedside.
"Hey, Mom," he said, his voice trembling. His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, his knuckles white as he stood close but didn't yet sit. "It's me. Henry."
He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on her face. She didn't move, didn't react, but he kept going, his words coming out in uneven bursts. "I… I don't really know what to say. But I just… I wanted you to know I'm here."
His voice cracked on the last word, and he quickly ducked his head, his shoulders hunching forward as if the weight of the moment was too much.
Regina took a step closer, her heels clicking softly against the tile, but she stopped herself before she got too close. She could see the way he was struggling—the way he was fighting to stay brave, to be the son Emma had always believed in.
"I need you to wake up," Henry said after a long pause, his voice breaking on the plea. "Please, Mom. We need you."
His words hung in the air, raw and aching, and for a moment, Regina forgot how to breathe. The strength in his vulnerability—the quiet desperation in his voice—cut through her like a blade.
Henry's head dipped, his shoulders trembling as he clenched the blanket tighter. Regina's heart broke at the sight, and she finally closed the distance between them, kneeling beside him.
"Henry," she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her.
He didn't look at her, his eyes glued to the floor as tears slipped silently down his cheeks. Regina hesitated, then reached out, resting a gentle hand on his back. The touch was light but grounding, a silent reminder that he wasn't alone.
"She'll hear you," Regina said quietly, her tone certain. "Emma always hears you, Henry. Even when it feels like she's not there. She knows you're here."
Henry sniffled, wiping furiously at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. "What if she doesn't wake up?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
Regina's chest tightened, her throat constricting painfully around the question she had been too afraid to ask herself. But she couldn't let him see that fear—not now, not when he needed her to be strong.
"She will," Regina said firmly, her hand moving in slow, soothing circles on his back. "Your mom is the strongest person I've ever known. She's going to come back to us, Henry. She just needs a little more time."
Henry finally looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. "You really think so?"
Regina nodded, her expression softening. "I do," she said, the words quiet but resolute.
He stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe her. Then, slowly, he nodded too, his small hands loosening their grip on the blanket.
Regina stood, placing a light kiss on the top of his head before stepping back. "Why don't you sit with her for a little while?" she suggested gently. "Talk to her. Tell her about school, or the crazy geese at the park. She'd love that."
Henry hesitated, then climbed onto the chair beside Emma's bed, his feet swinging slightly as he settled in. Regina stepped away, her hands clasping tightly in front of her as she gave him space.
"Hey, Mom," Henry started again, his voice quieter now but steadier. "So, you know how Grandpa made me eat half a pie? Well, you'd be proud—I actually liked it."
Regina's lips curved faintly as she leaned against the wall, her gaze flickering to Emma's face. She didn't move, but something about the sound of Henry's voice—hopeful, persistent—made the room feel just a little less heavy.
The hours slipped by unnoticed, the bustling energy of the hospital dimming into the muted quiet of the night. The fluorescent lights above the bed cast a soft, sterile glow over Emma's pale features, illuminating the stark contrast of the feeding tube taped beneath her nose.
Regina sat by Emma's bedside, her posture less rigid now that Snow, David, and Henry had left for the evening. They hadn't gone far—Snow and David had set up camp in a nearby waiting room, and Henry had finally agreed to rest, though not without visible reluctance.
But Regina hadn't moved. Not for hours.
The stillness of the room pressed heavily on her chest, the rhythmic beeping of the monitors the only sound breaking the oppressive quiet. She sat forward in the chair, her elbows resting on her knees, her hands clasped loosely in front of her as she stared at Emma's face.
"I told you I wouldn't leave," she murmured softly, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "And I meant it."
Emma, of course, didn't respond. She lay there, pale and unmoving, her chest rising and falling in time with the steady hiss of the oxygen. Regina's gaze flicked to her hand, limp and vulnerable against the blanket, and the urge to reach out—to take it, to hold it—almost overwhelmed her.
Almost.
Regina exhaled slowly, her breath trembling as it left her. She leaned back slightly, running a hand through her hair in an attempt to ground herself. "You'd probably hate this," she said, a faint, humorless smile tugging at her lips. "Me sitting here like this, fussing over you. You'd tell me to go home, to get some sleep, to stop being such a control freak."
Her smile faded, her chest tightening as the words hung in the air. "But I can't leave, Emma. I can't."
The admission slipped out unbidden, raw and unpolished, and it startled her with its honesty. She wasn't used to this—being so exposed, so vulnerable. But here, in the stillness of the night, with only Emma as her witness, she couldn't seem to stop.
"I don't even know why I'm still here," she continued, her voice quieter now. "Snow and David think it's guilt. And maybe they're right. Maybe I should've seen this coming. Maybe I should've done more."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her pants, her knuckles white as she forced herself to keep speaking. "But it's not just guilt, is it?" she whispered, the words trembling as they left her. "It's something else. Something I don't know how to name."
Her gaze dropped to Emma's hand again, and this time, she didn't stop herself. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against Emma's. Her breath hitched at the contact, her skin prickling with the warmth of Emma's hand beneath hers.
"You'd probably have some sarcastic comment for this," Regina murmured, her voice thick with emotion. Her thumb ghosted over the back of Emma's hand, the motion gentle, almost reverent. "Something to make me roll my eyes. Something to remind me that you don't need anyone fussing over you."
Her lips twitched faintly, a ghost of a smile, though it faded almost as quickly as it appeared. "But the truth is, you do need someone right now, Emma," she said softly, her thumb brushing lightly over Emma's knuckles. "And that terrifies me. Because I don't know if I'm enough."
Her voice wavered slightly, and she swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on Emma's face. "You've always been the strong one, the stubborn one. The one who leaps headfirst into danger without a second thought. But this…" She exhaled shakily, her chest tightening. "This isn't something you can fight on your own. And I don't know how to help you."
The admission left her feeling raw, exposed, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment, willing herself to stay composed. "I wish I could fix this," she whispered, the words barely audible. "I'd do anything to take this pain from you, to make you open your eyes again. But all I can do is sit here and hope that you hear me—that you know I'm here."
Her hand tightened slightly around Emma's, her thumb brushing over the faint ridges of her knuckles in a slow, soothing rhythm. "And I am here, Emma," she said, her voice steadier now. "I'll be here as long as it takes. Even if you're too stubborn to wake up and argue with me."
The faintest hint of humor slipped into her tone, but it was fleeting, her gaze softening as she looked at Emma's face. She reached up slowly, hesitantly, and cupped Emma's cheek, her fingers brushing lightly against her skin. The contact grounded her, though it also made her chest ache with a longing she couldn't quite name.
"I don't know when it happened," she murmured, her voice quieter now. "This… thing between us. This thing that makes it feel like the world is tilting whenever you look at me. I don't know when it started, but I know it's there."
Her thumb traced a gentle arc over Emma's cheekbone, her breath catching slightly as the words spilled out unbidden. "And I know I can't lose you," she said, her voice breaking. "Not now. Not ever."
Regina sat in the stillness of the hospital room, the faint hum of the machines filling the air. The rhythm of Emma's heartbeat on the monitor had become an odd comfort, a tether in a storm of uncertainty.
Her gaze lingered on Emma's face, pale and still, her blonde hair a tangle against the pillow. "You're still in there," Regina murmured, her voice low and raw. "I know you are."
She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over the back of Emma's hand. It was a gentle touch, almost hesitant, as though Emma might shatter if Regina applied too much pressure.
And then it happened—a faint twitch. So small it could have been her imagination.
Regina froze, her heart stuttering. She leaned closer, eyes locked on Emma's hand, waiting with bated breath. Nothing. Just the steady beep of the machines and the soft whir of the ventilator. Her stomach twisted in disappointment, but just as she was about to pull back, there it was again—subtle, but unmistakable. A tiny movement of Emma's fingers beneath her own.
"Emma?" she whispered, her voice trembling with fragile hope.
There was no response, no further movement, but the air in the room felt different now—charged with possibility. Regina tightened her grip on Emma's hand, her voice breaking as she murmured, "Please… keep fighting. Don't give up on me. On us."