The first rays of dawn streamed through the kitchen window, gilding the edges of the countertop where Regina stood slicing fruit with the precision of someone who found peace in ritual. The soft scrape of the knife against the cutting board was the only sound in the room, a quiet rhythm that filled the space with a sense of calm. Emma lingered in the doorway, watching without meaning to, her arms crossed over her chest.
It had been nearly a week of mornings like this. She told herself she hated it—hated the domesticity, the quiet expectation of breakfast—but her feet still carried her to the kitchen every dawn, drawn by the smell of coffee and the promise of something she couldn't quite name. Maybe it was habit. Or maybe it was the way Regina always seemed to glance up at her with a soft, knowing smile, like she'd been waiting for Emma to show up.
"You're hovering," Regina said without turning, her voice carrying the faintest lilt of amusement.
Emma blinked, caught off guard. "I'm not—" she started, then stopped, realizing how pointless the denial was. "Just making sure you don't burn anything," she muttered instead, stepping into the room.
"Charming," Regina replied dryly, though her lips curved into a faint smile as she placed a neat row of peach slices onto a plate. "I suppose you're here to rescue the toast, then?"
Emma snorted softly, sinking into her usual chair at the table. "Please. I'd hate to step on your culinary genius."
Regina's gaze flicked to her, a glint of humor in her dark eyes. "If you'd like to cook tomorrow, be my guest."
Emma waved the idea off with a smirk, reaching for the plate Regina had set in front of her. "I'll leave it to the expert."
They fell into their usual rhythm—Regina seated across from Emma, coffee in hand, while Emma picked at the food on her plate with more focus than she cared to admit. The toast was still warm, the peaches sweet and just ripe enough, and for once, Emma didn't feel the need to rush through the meal like it was some kind of chore. She chewed slowly, letting the quiet settle between them.
"Sleep well?" Regina asked after a moment, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.
Emma nodded, brushing a crumb off her plate. "Better," she admitted reluctantly. "That whole 'early-to-bed' thing you keep pushing? Might actually be working."
Regina smiled, and the warmth in it made Emma's chest feel tighter than she was ready for. "I'm glad," Regina said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Emma shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the softness in Regina's voice, with the way it seemed to settle over her like a blanket. "You don't have to keep checking in on me, you know," she said, her tone defensive but lacking its usual bite. "I'm not a project."
Regina's expression didn't falter, though her gaze softened. "You're not a project, Emma," she replied quietly. "But you are important."
The words landed with a weight Emma hadn't been prepared for, and she found herself looking away, her throat tightening. "It's just toast," she muttered, brushing off the praise with a shrug. But the warmth in Regina's tone lingered, threading through the cracks in her defenses.
They finished the meal in companionable silence, the kind that felt earned. When Emma finally rose to put her plate in the sink, she caught Regina's gaze lingering on her, a quiet intensity in her eyes that made Emma's pulse stumble. She didn't comment on it, didn't trust herself to, and instead busied herself rinsing the plate before retreating to the porch.
Her phone buzzed, jolting her from her thoughts, and her heart skipped when she saw Mom light up on the screen. She hesitated, thumb hovering over the green button. They hadn't talked much since she'd left Storybrooke; her mother's well-meaning but relentless optimism was something Emma just didn't have the patience for lately. But she knew that not answering would only lead to more calls, more worry.
She took a deep breath and picked up.
"Hey, Snow," Emma said, keeping her voice clipped. She walked toward the counter, resting her weight against it.
"Emma! Hi, sweetie." Snow's voice was warm, bubbly—far too chipper for the knot in Emma's chest. "How are things? Are you… feeling better?"
Emma's jaw clenched, her fingers curling tightly around the phone. "I'm… working on it," she said slowly, carefully. The words felt hollow, even to her.
"That's good, honey!" Snow chirped, not noticing the tension in Emma's voice. "You know, sometimes you just have to… decide to be better. To choose happiness, you know? One day, and then the next—it can start that simply."
Emma stared out the window, her free hand pressing against the countertop. She could feel the familiar heat rising in her chest, a mix of frustration and hurt curling through her. "It's not that simple, Snow," she said tightly. "It's never been that simple."
"I know, Emma," Snow said quickly, her tone softening. "I just mean—you're so strong, honey. I know you can do this. You just have to focus on the good and—"
Emma's knuckles turned white as she gripped the phone. "Focus on the good?" she cut in, her voice rising. "You think I haven't tried that? You think I haven't been focusing on the good? Like it's just some switch I haven't bothered to flip?"
Snow faltered. "Emma, I—"
"No, seriously." Emma's chest heaved as the words tumbled out, sharper than she intended but impossible to stop. "You think I want to feel this way? Like I'm not trying hard enough? God, Snow, do you even hear yourself?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, the kind of pause that made Emma's stomach twist. "I didn't mean it like that," Snow said softly. "I just… I just want you to know you're not alone in this."
Emma barked out a laugh, the sound bitter in her ears. "I don't feel like you understand. I don't feel like anyone does."
"Emma," Snow began, her voice small, but Emma cut her off.
"I have to go, Snow," she said abruptly, her voice shaking. She didn't wait for a reply before hanging up and tossing the phone onto the counter.
For a long moment, she stood there, her breathing shallow and her heart still racing. Snow's words echoed in her mind, clashing with the overwhelming frustration building inside her. The weight of her mother's expectations pressed against her ribs, making it harder to breathe, harder to think.
Finally, she grabbed her jacket, the movement sharp and purposeful, and headed for the door. She needed to get out. Needed to run.
The trail was rough underfoot, rocks and roots half-hidden by fallen leaves, but Emma didn't slow down. Her breaths came in shallow, ragged bursts, each one sharper than the last. The cold air cut into her lungs like shards of glass, her pulse thrumming loudly in her ears. She pushed harder, faster, her legs burning with each step.
Snow's voice echoed in her head, louder than the pounding of her heartbeat. You just have to choose happiness.
The words stabbed at her, relentless, and she clenched her jaw against the lump rising in her throat. She couldn't stop. Stopping meant facing it—the weight of it all, the ache in her chest, the tight coil of frustration and hopelessness that never seemed to leave her.
Her vision blurred at the edges, the trail tilting beneath her feet. The ache in her legs turned to fire, her breaths tearing out of her throat as she stumbled up the incline. She could feel her strength slipping, her body screaming at her to stop, but she ignored it. She had to keep going.
But then the ground shifted, her foot catching on a loose rock. She staggered forward, her knees hitting the cold, damp earth with a jolt that knocked the breath from her lungs. She gasped, clutching at the dirt as her body folded in on itself, her arms trembling under her weight.
The woods spun around her, dark and disorienting. She pressed her forehead to the ground, her breath hitching in sharp, uneven gasps. She didn't even hear the footsteps at first—didn't register the sound of someone running toward her until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Emma!" Regina's voice was sharp, cutting through the fog in her mind.
Emma blinked, her vision swimming as she looked up. Regina was kneeling beside her, one hand steadying her shoulder, the other brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. Her eyes were wide, dark with concern.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Regina's voice was low, tight with a mix of frustration and worry.
Emma tried to shrug, but the movement was weak, her body trembling under the weight of exhaustion. "Just needed to… get out," she muttered, her voice barely audible. "Didn't know you'd follow me."
Regina's gaze softened, though the tightness in her jaw remained. "Of course I followed you," she said quietly. "What did you expect me to do? Let you collapse in the middle of the woods?"
Emma's throat tightened at the raw worry in Regina's voice. "I'm fine," she mumbled, but the words rang hollow, even to her.
Regina huffed, exasperation flashing in her eyes. "You are not fine, Emma." She reached out, her hand brushing against Emma's cheek, the touch firm but gentle. "And you don't have to pretend to be."
Emma's breath hitched, her gaze dropping to the ground. She didn't have the energy to argue—not when Regina's hand was still steady on her shoulder, grounding her in a way she hadn't expected.
"Come on," Regina said softly, sliding her arm around Emma's waist. "We're going back to the cabin."
Emma didn't resist as Regina helped her to her feet, her legs buckling slightly under her weight. Regina tightened her grip, her movements sure and steady as she half-carried Emma back down the trail. The woods felt quieter now, the cold air biting against Emma's skin as they moved slowly through the trees.
When they finally reached the cabin, Regina guided Emma inside, easing her down onto the couch. The warmth from the fire wrapped around her like a blanket, but it didn't stop the shivering that racked her frame. Regina knelt in front of her, her hands hovering over Emma's shoulders like she wasn't sure where to start.
"You can't keep doing this to yourself," Regina said quietly, her voice thick with an emotion Emma couldn't name.
Emma's throat tightened, but she didn't reply. She couldn't.
Regina sighed, reaching for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and tucking it carefully around Emma's shoulders. Her movements were deliberate, almost tender, as if she were trying to piece Emma back together with her bare hands.
"Why are you doing this?" Emma's voice was raw, barely above a whisper.
Regina stilled, her gaze locking onto Emma's. "Because I care about you," she said simply. "And whether you like it or not, I'm not going to let you go through this alone."
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, filling the cabin with a flickering warmth that seemed to smooth the edges of the day. Emma sat curled up on the couch, her knees tucked under the blanket Regina had wrapped around her earlier. A mug of tea rested in her hands, the faint aroma of chamomile rising with the steam. She stared into the fire, her eyes half-lidded, the exhaustion of the day weighing heavy in her bones.
Regina was across the room, seated in the armchair, her legs crossed elegantly. A book lay open on her lap, but Emma wasn't sure if she'd turned a page in the past ten minutes. Every so often, Emma felt Regina's gaze flicker over to her, steady and watchful, as if making sure she didn't dissolve into the shadows of the cabin.
The silence between them was thick, but not uncomfortable. It stretched like a thread, fragile but unbroken, and Emma found herself leaning into it. The weight of earlier—the call with Snow, the run through the woods, the way Regina had half-carried her back—still lingered, but it wasn't sharp anymore. It was dulled by the warmth of the fire and the steady presence of the woman across from her.
"You've been quiet," Regina said finally, her voice low and careful, as though testing the waters.
Emma glanced at her over the rim of her mug, her lips quirking into a faint smile. "You sound surprised."
"I'm not," Regina replied, her eyes softening. "But I am curious what's on your mind."
Emma exhaled, her gaze dropping back to the tea swirling in her mug. "Just… today," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "It's been a lot."
Regina nodded, setting her book aside. "It has," she agreed, her tone carrying no judgment, only understanding.
Emma fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, her fingers tugging at the frayed corner. "You didn't have to come after me, you know," she said quietly, not meeting Regina's gaze. "Out in the woods."
Regina's brow furrowed slightly, but her voice remained calm. "Of course I did."
"Why?" Emma's throat tightened as the question slipped out, raw and unsteady. "Why do you care so much? Why do you… stay?"
The words hung between them, fragile and exposed, and Emma immediately regretted voicing them. She could feel her pulse quickening, her chest tightening as she braced herself for the answer—whatever it might be.
Regina's expression softened, her gaze unwavering as she leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. "Because you matter to me, Emma," she said simply. Her voice was quiet, but the conviction in it was unshakable. "And I'm not going to let you face this alone."
Emma swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the mug. She wanted to argue, to push back against the weight of those words, but she couldn't. They settled over her like a blanket, warm and grounding, and for once, she didn't have the strength—or the will—to fight it.
"I don't deserve it," Emma said finally, her voice cracking. She looked down, her vision blurring as the firelight danced against the edges of her mug. "I don't deserve you."
Regina's lips parted slightly, her expression shifting to something softer, something almost tender. She stood and crossed the short distance to the couch, sitting down beside Emma with a carefulness that made Emma's chest ache.
"Emma," Regina said softly, her voice steady but filled with quiet insistence. "You deserve kindness. You deserve care. And you deserve to heal—on your terms, in your time."
Emma shook her head, her breath hitching as tears spilled over her lashes. She hated crying—hated the vulnerability of it—but she couldn't seem to stop. "I don't even know where to start," she whispered, her voice breaking.
Regina reached out, her hand hovering for a moment before settling lightly on Emma's. Her touch was warm, grounding, and Emma didn't pull away. Instead, she tightened her grip around the mug, the ceramic cool against her palms as she let the steady weight of Regina's hand anchor her.
"You don't have to figure it all out tonight," Regina murmured. Her voice was like a balm, soothing without demanding. "Just breathe. Just… be here."
Emma nodded faintly, her chest heaving as she drew in a shaky breath. She felt the tightness in her ribs ease slightly, the heaviness pressing against her shoulders lifting, just a little. She glanced at Regina, her vision still blurred, but the warmth in the other woman's gaze was unmistakable. It wrapped around her like the firelight, soft and steady, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Emma let herself lean into it.
"Thanks," she said hoarsely, the word carrying more weight than it ever had before.
Regina's lips curved into the faintest of smiles, her thumb brushing lightly over Emma's knuckles. "Anytime."
They stayed like that for a while, the fire crackling softly beside them, the silence filled with the unspoken promise of something steady and unbreakable. Emma let her head dip forward, her forehead resting briefly against Regina's shoulder as her tears slowed. She could feel Regina's hand on hers, her presence as unwavering as the glow of the fire.
And for once, Emma let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—she wasn't as alone as she thought.