Not just one, but four years later! Here we are, back at it :) I started writing this in 2015! Life has obviously evolved since then, and I am in a much better place now. This fic has always been hanging over me like a reminder of my past that has been crying out for an ending. The good news is that I have finished writing the whole fic, so now you'll get to enjoy weekly updates for... I think it has landed on a total of 25 chapters. At one point I will probably go back to edit the first 9 chapters to be more in line with my current writing style. We'll see. Enjoy this!
PS! It has been a while, so sorry for any inconsistencies..
The first light of dawn crept into the kitchen, glinting off the neatly arranged plates on the table. Toast, sliced fruit—everything looked too careful, too composed. Emma lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, the knot of suspicion in her chest tightening. The whole thing felt... orchestrated.
Her stomach growled anyway, betraying her. Regina glanced up, her faint smile soft but unreadable.
"Good morning," she said, gesturing toward the table. "I thought we could start the day together. Something simple."
Emma hesitated, the doorway suddenly feeling like a barricade she didn't want to cross. "I don't need you to... manage me," she muttered, stepping forward anyway.
"I'm not managing you," Regina said evenly, her eyes steady. "I'm here."
Emma scoffed, still avoiding her eyes. "So what, you're just going to sit here every morning, watching me eat until you feel better?"
Regina's reply was quiet, and when Emma finally glanced up, the softness in her eyes caught her off-guard. "No, Emma, I'm not going to watch you. I'm just… here if you need me."
Emma's throat tightened, her gaze dropping back to her plate as a frustrated warmth pressed into her chest. She wanted to fight it, to brush off the kindness in Regina's voice, but her hand trembled slightly as she picked up a few pieces of peach and began to eat. The quiet filled the space between them, almost tangible, and she couldn't shake the sensation of Regina's eyes on her, not with pity, but with a patience that felt too intimate, too close.
Finally, she muttered, "Happy now?" but her sarcasm wavered, and her voice sounded softer than she meant.
Regina didn't miss a beat, her reply almost a whisper. "It's a start."
Emma blinked, a mixture of anger and relief battling in her chest as she looked away quickly. The calm in Regina's tone felt like an invitation she didn't know how to accept, but her defences had softened, if only for a second. She muttered a stiff "Thanks," shoved her chair back, and headed for the door before anything else could slip.
"Emma," Regina's voice stopped her just as she reached the door. "Just take it easy, all right? Stick close to the cabin."
Emma paused, feeling the tension between them press closer. She wanted to brush it off, to throw up a wall and ignore the hint of care in Regina's tone, but her throat was tight, and the words wouldn't come. Instead, she nodded tersely, stepping outside and letting the cold air ground her.
The yard stretched out before her, quiet and crisp, the morning frost still clinging to the grass. Emma's gaze snagged on the narrow trail winding into the woods past the cabin's edge. The air was sharp enough to sting her lungs, but she welcomed it, the pull to leave—to escape—gripping her like a vice. She'd felt suffocated back there, pinned beneath the weight of Regina's quiet patience, the way she just sat there, waiting for Emma to try.
Without looking back, Emma veered toward the trail, her pace quickening with each step. The crunch of frozen leaves underfoot soon gave way to the rhythmic pounding of her feet on the rocky path as she broke into a jog. The burn in her legs was instant, a fire licking at her calves, but she pressed on. Faster. Harder. She had to drown out the voice in her head—Snow's relentless cheeriness, Regina's soft-spoken encouragement, the gnawing guilt that came with disappointing them both.
Her breaths turned shallow, sharp, but she welcomed the pain in her lungs, letting it ground her. The cold air bit at her cheeks, her vision blurring slightly at the edges. Her pace faltered, but she didn't stop—she couldn't stop. Not until the ache in her chest outweighed the chaos in her head.
Her foot caught on an exposed root, sending her stumbling forward. She slammed her palm against a tree to steady herself, the bark rough against her skin as she bent over, gasping for breath. Her legs shook, her pulse thundered in her ears, and black spots danced at the edges of her vision.
The sharp snap of a twig broke through the pounding in her head. Emma whipped around, her heart leaping to her throat, and found Regina standing at the edge of the trail, her dark coat stark against the winter-bright woods.
Emma blinked, her irritation flaring before it crumbled under the weight of her exhaustion. "What are you doing here?" she muttered, her voice low but defensive.
Regina didn't flinch. Her gaze was steady, her expression calm—too calm, like she'd been bracing herself for this exact reaction. "I wasn't following you," she said evenly. "But when you stormed off, I thought it might be a good idea to check on you. And," she added, tilting her head slightly, "it seems I was right."
Emma scowled, pushing herself upright against the tree. Her legs wobbled beneath her, but she ignored it, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "I didn't ask you to," she muttered, her voice sharp but unconvincing.
"No," Regina replied, her tone soft but firm. "You didn't." She let the words hang for a beat before stepping closer, her eyes scanning Emma's face. "But you're not exactly in the habit of asking for help, are you?"
Emma's jaw tightened, her gaze dropping. The truth of Regina's words stung, twisting into something uncomfortably close to shame. "I'm fine," she mumbled, though even she didn't believe it.
Regina arched an eyebrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Fine?" she repeated, her voice low but edged with concern. "Emma, you're barely standing. Whatever it is you're trying to outrun—yourself, perhaps—it's not working."
Emma swallowed hard, the words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. "I don't need a lecture," she muttered, her voice brittle.
"Good," Regina shot back, her tone sharpening. "Because this isn't a lecture. It's me telling you that you don't have to keep doing this to yourself."
Her voice softened, but the weight of her words didn't lessen. "It's okay to let someone walk beside you, Emma. You don't have to keep running alone."
Emma's throat tightened, her defences wavering under the quiet strength in Regina's voice. She looked away, blinking hard as the tension in her chest threatened to crack her open.
"I don't know how to do that," she whispered finally, the confession slipping out before she could stop it.
Regina's expression softened, her hand hovering just inches from Emma's arm before she let it fall back to her side. "Then let's start small," she said gently. "One step at a time."
That evening, darkness settled outside, and the cabin glowed with the warm, flickering light of the fire. Emma curled into the couch, a blanket loosely draped over her shoulders, her fingers wrapped tightly around a steaming mug of tea. She let the heat seep into her palms, grounding herself in the sensation. The cabin's stillness wrapped around her, softening the sharp edges of the day, but it couldn't quiet the restlessness coiled in her chest.
Across from her, Regina sat in the armchair, a book resting in her lap. But Emma noticed she hadn't turned a page in a while. Instead, Regina seemed content to sit in the quiet, her gaze flickering between the flames and Emma, as though waiting for her to speak first.
The silence was… nice. Which was strange. Emma had always hated the silence—it left too much room for thoughts she didn't want to face. But this was different. It wasn't empty, and it didn't demand anything from her. It was just there, like the warmth of the fire or the weight of the blanket against her shoulders.
Regina glanced up, her voice breaking the stillness. "I was thinking," she began, her tone soft, measured, "that maybe we could make this a routine. Evenings by the fire. Something small… to mark the end of the day."
Emma raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a half-hearted smirk. "What, like a bedtime routine?" The words came out lightly, her usual sarcasm laced in, but even as she spoke, she felt the pull of something deeper—a desire for the kind of stability she'd never known. Something to rely on.
Regina's lips twitched, her expression amused but not unkind. "Of sorts," she said, tilting her head. "Call it whatever you like, as long as you're here."
Emma blinked at that, her smirk faltering. The honesty in Regina's tone felt too close, too intimate, and she quickly looked away, pretending to be focused on the fire. "Doesn't sound too bad," she murmured after a moment, the words quieter than she meant them to be.
Regina didn't push, her gaze softening as she settled back into the chair. "Small steps," she said simply, echoing the words she'd offered earlier that day.
Emma tightened her grip on the mug, her chest constricting with a mix of emotions she didn't quite know how to name. The simplicity of Regina's suggestion, the way she offered it without pressure or expectation—it unsettled Emma as much as it calmed her. She wasn't used to this kind of kindness, this kind of patience. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall would hurt but not being able to turn away.
As they sat in the quiet, the firelight flickered across the room, casting soft shadows over Regina's face. Emma caught herself watching her—watching the way the firelight made her look softer, more open, more real. It wasn't the image of the sharp, polished mayor she'd always known. This was someone else. Someone Emma wasn't sure she could resist getting to know.
Their hands brushed briefly when Emma shifted to set her mug on the coffee table, and the touch sent a jolt through her chest. For a moment, neither of them moved, and Emma swore she felt Regina's breath hitch. But the moment passed, and Regina leaned back, her expression unreadable.
"There's nothing weak about needing quiet," Regina said softly, her gaze fixed on the fire. "Sometimes, it's the strongest thing you can give yourself."
Emma hesitated, the words settling over her like a warm weight. "Is that what you tell yourself?" she asked, her voice rough.
Regina's laugh was quiet, almost self-deprecating. "It's what I've learned to believe," she admitted. "I wish I'd learned it sooner."
Emma looked away, her fingers tracing the edge of the blanket absently. The honesty in Regina's voice, the way it felt so unguarded, so real—it was too much. She shook her head, letting out a slow breath. "Maybe I'm not as strong as you."
Regina's eyes softened, and she leaned forward slightly. "Strength comes in different forms, Emma," she said gently. "Sometimes it's holding on. Sometimes it's letting go. And sometimes, it's letting someone else share the weight."
Emma's chest tightened, her throat closing as the words hit something raw inside her. She didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. She kept her gaze on the fire, letting the silence stretch between them again. But this time, it didn't feel like something to escape. It felt like something she could rest in, just for a little while.
The fire had burned low, leaving only a faint glow of embers casting faint shadows along the living room floor. Much of the warmth had faded, but as Emma followed Regina down the hallway toward the stairs, she could still feel a lingering warmth, an echo of the comfort she hadn't expected to find tonight.
They stopped near the stairway, the cabin falling into a restful silence around them. Emma glanced up the darker stairwell leading to the second floor, where her room waited, distant and quiet. She felt the reluctance to let go of this rare feeling of peace, the ease she'd felt sitting beside Regina in that quiet, firelit space.
Regina paused outside the doorway to the master bedroom, catching Emma's gaze. "Emma?"
Emma blinked, pulling herself back from her thoughts. "Yeah?"
Regina's voice was low, almost tentative, as if feeling her way through the words. "I was thinking… maybe we could make a habit of breakfast together in the mornings. Something simple," she added quickly, noting the flicker of resistance in Emma's expression. "Only if you're up for it."
Emma held back her instinct to brush off the offer. Instead, she felt herself nodding, a muted, casual agreement slipping out. "Fine. Just… don't make a big deal out of it."
Regina's smile was small, an understanding gleam in her eyes. "No big deal. Just something small."
The quiet hallway felt somehow fuller, and for a moment, Emma's gaze lingered on Regina, an unspoken question forming in her mind. But the words never quite came, lost in the weight of the day and the warmth that still lingered between them. Regina shifted, her gaze softening.
"Emma," she said, her voice steady, a quiet conviction lining her words. "I know you're not ready to let anyone in fully—and you don't have to be. I'm not here to change you. Just… to support you. In whatever way you're comfortable with."
The simplicity of Regina's words stilled Emma's mind. They weren't layered with expectation or demand, only an invitation she hadn't felt from anyone else. It wasn't insistence, but simply Regina's steady presence—there if Emma wanted it, without asking anything in return.
After a moment, she muttered, almost too quietly, "No one's… ever said that to me."
Regina's gaze didn't waver. "Maybe it's about time someone did."
A tightness rose in Emma's chest, a tangle of gratitude mixed with something uncomfortably close to trust. She nodded, looking away. "Good night, Regina."
"Good night, Emma." Regina's voice held a warm calm, a quiet resolve like a hand held out in the dark. Emma turned, heading up the stairs, though her steps felt slower, weighted by the unsteady feeling she couldn't quite shake.
In the stillness of her room, Emma leaned back against the closed door, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She felt the cool wood pressing against her spine, anchoring her to the here and now. The quiet pressed in around her, thick and unrelenting, but it wasn't as suffocating as it used to be. Tonight, it felt different—warmer, softer, like the edges of something she couldn't quite name.
Regina's words looped through her mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore. "I'm not here to change you. Just… to support you."
Emma let out a shaky breath, her hands moving to grip her arms, as if she could hold herself together by sheer force. No one had ever said anything like that to her before—not without an ulterior motive. Not without expecting something in return. Regina hadn't asked her for anything. She'd just been there, steady and patient, like she wasn't waiting for Emma to crumble or snap. Like she wasn't afraid of the mess that came with her.
The thought made Emma's chest ache, her throat tightening as she swallowed hard. She didn't know what to do with that kind of care. It was easier when people left her to her own devices, easier to be alone than to risk letting someone see how broken she really was. But Regina… she wasn't looking at her like she was broken. She wasn't looking at her like she needed to be fixed.
And that was almost worse.
Emma shook her head, trying to shove the thought away, but it clung to her like the heat of the fire she'd just left. Warm, comforting, but unnervingly close. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing herself to stop thinking, stop feeling, stop wanting whatever it was Regina had offered her tonight. But the words kept circling, soft and persistent: "Just… to support you."
She pushed off the door and moved to the bed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress as if her legs could no longer hold her up. The room was dim, the only light coming from the faint strip under the door where the hallway lamp bled through. It cast soft, uneven shadows over the walls, but Emma didn't mind. She liked the way the dark settled around her, wrapping her in its quiet, demanding nothing from her.
But even in the quiet, her mind refused to let go. She lay back, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day settling over her like a blanket she wasn't sure she wanted. Regina's presence still lingered in her chest—a steady warmth that both comforted and unsettled her. Emma had always prided herself on being self-reliant, on carrying the weight of the world without leaning on anyone. But tonight, for the first time in longer than she could remember, she'd felt what it might be like to let someone else share the load.
It scared her. It scared her more than she wanted to admit.
Because what if she let herself lean on Regina, and it wasn't enough? What if it was too much for Regina, too messy, too heavy? What if Emma let herself believe, even for a moment, that she wasn't completely alone, only to lose it all again? She wasn't sure she could survive that kind of fall.
She exhaled slowly, dragging her hands over her face. "You're thinking too much, Swan," she muttered to herself, her voice rasping in the quiet. But the ache in her chest wouldn't let up. The memory of Regina's hand brushing hers, the soft encouragement in her voice—it stayed with her, wrapping around the cracks in her defences like vines growing over old wounds.
She shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders as if it could shield her from her own thoughts. "Maybe," she murmured after a long moment, her voice barely a whisper in the dark. "Maybe I don't have to keep running."
The words hung in the air, fragile and uncertain. She wasn't sure she believed them yet. But as she closed her eyes, the silence didn't feel quite so lonely. It felt… bearable. For now, that was enough.