The first light of day crept into Emma's room, filtering through the curtains and brushing over her face. She stirred under the blankets, the weight of sleep lifting slowly, reluctantly. For a brief, fleeting moment, she felt… steady. Not happy, not whole, but grounded in a way that was unfamiliar and unnervingly fragile.
Her mind wandered back to the previous night—Regina's hand on hers, the quiet strength in her voice, the way her shoulder had felt warm and solid when Emma let herself lean into it. The memory made her chest ache, a confusing swirl of emotions she didn't know how to name. How could someone be so steady, so present, without demanding anything in return? The thought lingered as Emma rubbed a hand over her face, trying to shake it off. She didn't have the energy to unpack whatever it was that Regina stirred in her.
The cabin was still quiet, the air carrying that early-morning stillness she hadn't yet learned to resent. Padding downstairs in her socks, she braced herself for the sight of Regina bustling in the kitchen—because of course Regina would already be awake. She always was.
Sure enough, the faint smell of coffee greeted her as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and there was Regina at the counter, humming softly to herself as she poured a fresh pot. The sound was so uncharacteristic of her—so lighthearted—that Emma paused mid-step, caught off guard.
"Good morning," Regina said without turning, her voice warm and composed. It was as though she had some sixth sense for Emma's presence. She glanced over her shoulder, her lips curving into a faint smile. There was no teasing in her tone, only softness. And for some reason, it made Emma's chest tighten.
"Morning," Emma muttered, shuffling to her usual seat at the kitchen table. She felt exposed under Regina's gaze, even though it wasn't sharp or probing. "What's with the humming? Feeling domestic today?"
Regina arched a brow, turning back to the counter to reach for two mugs. "Hardly. But I suppose some mornings call for optimism."
Emma snorted softly, though the sound lacked its usual bite. She reached for the mug Regina placed in front of her, letting the warmth seep into her hands. "Got anything planned for today?" she asked, more to fill the silence than out of genuine curiosity.
"I thought we might spend some time outside," Regina replied, settling into the chair across from her. "The yard could use a bit of tending. And the fresh air might do you some good."
Emma frowned, her instinctive resistance flaring. "I don't need a nature retreat," she muttered, taking a sip of her coffee.
"Perhaps not," Regina said smoothly, her tone unbothered. "But it wouldn't hurt. Besides, I'd appreciate the company."
Emma hesitated, her grip tightening around the mug. The way Regina phrased it—as if it were about her, not about fixing Emma—made it harder to push back. "Fine," she said finally, setting the mug down. "But don't expect me to start planting flowers or anything."
Regina chuckled softly, a sound that felt like sunlight slipping through the cracks. "I wouldn't dare."
The mid-morning sun cast dappled shadows across the yard as Emma worked near the firewood pile, sorting through the heavy logs. Her arms burned with the effort, but the ache felt good, grounding her in something physical, something solid. For once, her thoughts weren't entirely consuming her.
She glanced over at Regina, who was kneeling near a cluster of overgrown shrubs. Her hands moved deftly, tugging at the stubborn roots with an efficiency that seemed almost regal. Emma huffed a small laugh at the irony—leave it to Regina to make yard work look dignified.
Still, there was something else that caught her off guard. The way the sunlight hit Regina's hair, catching the warm undertones of brown. The faint line of concentration on her forehead as she worked. The curve of her fingers gripping the roots with surprising strength. Emma didn't know why she was noticing these things—or why it made her chest feel so tight.
The sound of birdsong filled the air, accompanied by the occasional crunch of leaves underfoot. It was almost peaceful, if Emma let herself admit it. The crisp smell of the forest mixed with the faint scent of pine from the woodpile. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slowed down enough to notice something as simple as the wind brushing through the trees.
She shook her head, grabbing another log from the pile. This was just another chore, she reminded herself. Another way to keep her hands busy and her thoughts at bay. But even as she worked, she couldn't shake the steady pull of Regina's presence in the corner of her mind, grounding her in a way she hadn't realized she needed.
Her fingers slipped on the rough bark, the sudden sting of pain slicing through her palm like a warning.
"Emma!" Regina's voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet. Within seconds, she was at Emma's side, her eyes narrowing as they darted to the blood pooling in Emma's hand. "Let me see."
"It's nothing," Emma muttered, cradling her hand against her chest. Heat crept up her neck, a prickling wave of embarrassment she hated herself for feeling.
"Don't be stubborn," Regina said firmly, her voice brooking no argument. She hovered just close enough to make it clear she was ready to physically wrest Emma's hand away if needed. "Let me look."
Emma relented with a sigh, holding out her hand. The cut wasn't deep, but it was long enough to make her stomach twist at the sight of the blood. Regina's fingers brushed against hers, warm and steady, as she tilted Emma's hand to inspect the wound.
"We need to clean this," Regina said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Come inside."
The fire crackled softly, filling the cabin with a flickering warmth as Regina tended to Emma's hand. The first-aid kit lay open on the coffee table, its contents scattered as Regina worked with practiced precision. Her touch was gentle but firm, and Emma couldn't decide if it was comforting or unsettling to feel so… cared for.
"You didn't have to go all Florence Nightingale on me," Emma muttered, though her voice lacked its usual edge.
Regina glanced up briefly, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "And let you wander around with an infected wound? I think not."
Emma rolled her eyes, her gaze drifting to the fire. "You're too much sometimes."
"Too much?" Regina arched a brow, tying off the bandage with careful ease. "I'd argue that you're not used to enough."
The words hit harder than Emma expected. She stiffened slightly, her throat tightening as she looked down at her bandaged hand. "I'm fine on my own," she said, the words hollow even to her own ears.
Regina's hands lingered on hers for a moment, her fingers pressing lightly against Emma's palm, careful not to hurt her. "Maybe," she said softly, her voice like a quiet thread pulling at Emma's defenses. "But you don't have to be."
Something about the warmth of Regina's hands, the way she handled her with such care, made Emma's chest feel tight. Her eyes dropped to the bandage, her thoughts spinning faster than she could stop them.
The memory hit her suddenly, uninvited. She was twelve again, sitting on the cold tile of the foster home bathroom, clutching her skinned knee. The blood had run in thin, messy trails down her leg, pooling at the edge of her sock. She'd waited for someone to come—waited for the foster mom who was supposed to look out for her, to ask if she was okay. But no one had.
When she finally worked up the courage to limp downstairs, the foster mom had taken one look and sighed heavily. "I told you not to run in the house," she'd muttered, pulling a bandaid from the drawer. There'd been no gentleness in her hands, no warmth in her tone. Just impatience.
Emma had learned two things that day: Don't ask for help, and don't expect it to feel good when you get it.
"Emma?" Regina's voice cut through the memory like a lifeline. Emma blinked, realizing she'd gone stiff, her hand still resting in Regina's grasp. Regina's brow furrowed slightly, her gaze searching Emma's face. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah," Emma croaked, though her voice betrayed her. She pulled her hand back quickly, cradling it against her chest as though she could protect it—and everything else Regina's touch had unearthed. "Just… spaced out."
Regina didn't push, didn't press. Instead, she leaned back slightly, giving Emma the space she didn't know how to ask for.
"You don't always have to be fine, you know," Regina said quietly. Her words were steady, patient, like they had all the time in the world to sink in. "Sometimes it's okay to let someone else take the weight for a while."
Emma's throat tightened as she stared into the fire. The flickering light danced over Regina's face, softening her features in a way that felt almost too intimate to look at. "I don't know how to do that," she admitted, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
"Then start small," Regina said, her voice impossibly gentle. "Let me help with this."
Her fingers gestured toward Emma's bandaged hand, but Emma knew she wasn't just talking about the cut.
The evening settled around them like a thick, comforting quilt. Outside, the forest was still, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves carried on a distant breeze. Inside the cabin, the firelight cast golden patterns over the walls, flickering shadows that seemed to breathe with the room. Emma was still curled into the couch, her freshly bandaged hand resting on her lap, while Regina sat in the armchair across from her, a book balanced on her knee.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. Emma wasn't sure why the quiet didn't bother her tonight—it usually crawled under her skin, filling her head with the noise of everything she tried not to think about. But now, with Regina just… there, the quiet felt different. It felt still, but not empty.
"You're staring," Regina said without looking up from her book. Her voice carried a quiet amusement, though her lips quirked into the faintest of smiles.
Emma stiffened, the heat creeping up her neck like she'd been caught doing something forbidden. "I wasn't staring," she muttered, fidgeting with the blanket draped over her lap. Her voice sounded defensive even to her own ears. She scrambled to deflect, reaching for some quip to regain her footing. "You just looked… focused. It's rare."
Regina let out a soft hum, finally closing her book and setting it aside. She leaned back in her chair, her expression calm but undeniably amused. "I'll take that as a compliment," she said lightly, tilting her head as she studied Emma. "How's the hand?"
Emma flexed her fingers instinctively, the movement slow and careful. "It's fine," she said, her voice quieter now. "Doesn't even hurt that much."
"Good," Regina replied, though her gaze lingered on Emma's face for a moment longer than necessary. "Though I'll spare you the lecture about overexerting yourself. For now."
Emma smirked faintly, but it was fleeting, the humour not quite reaching her eyes. "You're full of lectures, aren't you?"
"I have plenty to say," Regina quipped, a sly curve to her lips. But then her voice softened, a gentle seriousness settling over her words. "But only because you're worth saying it to."
The room seemed to still, the crackling fire the only sound breaking the quiet. Emma's smirk faltered, her expression slipping into something unguarded for just a moment before she quickly looked away. "You're relentless, you know that?" she muttered, trying to mask the sudden tightness in her throat.
"One of my many talents," Regina said smoothly, but there was a warmth to her tone that Emma couldn't ignore.
The fire popped softly, its glow washing over the room. Regina's gaze was steady, and though she didn't say anything, Emma could feel it pressing gently against her, like a question she wasn't ready to answer. She shifted under the blanket, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between them—or maybe the lack of it.
"I keep thinking about what you said earlier," Emma admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She bit the inside of her cheek, her eyes fixed on the fire. "About not having to do this alone."
Regina's expression softened, her brow tilting just slightly in quiet curiosity, but she didn't interrupt. She waited, as she always did, letting Emma find her own way to the words.
"It's just… hard," Emma said finally, her voice barely louder than a whisper. She toyed with the edge of the blanket, her fingers picking at a loose thread. "Letting someone in. Letting you in."
Regina tilted her head slightly, her eyes thoughtful but patient. "I can't imagine it's easy," she said softly, her voice steady and warm. "But it's not something you have to do all at once."
Emma's chest tightened. She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. "It's like... I don't even know how to let someone stay," she admitted, her voice raw. "Every time I think about it, I just—" She cut herself off, her throat constricting as the words caught.
"Emma," Regina said gently, her tone unwavering. She leaned forward, her elbows resting lightly on her knees. "I'm not asking for anything you're not ready to give. I'm just… here." She paused, her eyes searching Emma's face. "And I'm not going anywhere."
The quiet conviction in her words made Emma's chest ache, the kind of ache that felt both painful and relieving all at once. She finally met Regina's gaze, her own eyes glassy with unshed tears. "Why?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why do you care so much?"
Regina's lips parted slightly, her expression softening further. She hesitated—not out of doubt, but as if she were carefully choosing words she knew Emma needed to hear. "Because I see you," she said finally, her voice steady. "Even when you're hurting. Even when you're trying to hide it. I see you, Emma. And I care."
Emma's breath hitched, the words settling into the hollow spaces inside her, filling them with something warm and terrifying. She clenched the blanket tighter in her hands, her pulse loud in her ears as she struggled to hold herself together.
Before she could stop herself, she spoke again, her voice raw and uneven. "You're making this really hard, you know."
Regina tilted her head, a flicker of confusion passing over her face. "Hard?"
"Yeah," Emma said, her laugh brittle and hollow. "You keep… showing up. You keep being here. And I don't know what to do with that." She looked down, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't know how to let it in."
Regina didn't respond immediately. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against Emma's hand where it rested on the couch. The touch was tentative, almost hesitant, but when Emma didn't pull away, Regina's fingers curled gently around hers.
"You don't have to figure it all out tonight," Regina said softly. "Just start here."
The quiet between them shifted, thick with something unspoken. Emma's heart thudded painfully in her chest, her gaze locked on their joined hands. She could feel the warmth of Regina's skin, the steady strength in her grip, and it made her feel both grounded and completely untethered.
Her eyes flicked up to Regina's face, and for a breathless moment, she thought she saw something there—something deeper, something raw and unguarded. Regina's lips parted slightly, her breath catching as their eyes locked, the air between them charged and heavy.
Emma's pulse raced, her mind spinning with the weight of the moment. She felt herself leaning forward, just the smallest fraction, her body moving before her mind could catch up.
But then the fire popped loudly, the sharp sound breaking the spell. Emma flinched slightly, pulling back just enough to shatter whatever fragile thread had been tying them together. Her cheeks burned, and she quickly looked away, her hand slipping out of Regina's grasp.
"Sorry," Emma muttered, her voice tight. "I didn't mean to… I just…"
Regina's voice was calm, but there was a faint rasp to it when she spoke. "You don't have to explain."
Emma nodded quickly, her gaze still fixed on the fire. The moment was gone, but its echo lingered, heavy in the air around them.
Regina rose from her chair, smoothing the fabric of her skirt as she stood. "I think I'll call it a night," she said softly, her tone even. "You should get some rest too."
"Yeah," Emma said, her voice barely audible. "Good night."
Regina lingered for a moment longer, her gaze unreadable, before turning and heading toward the stairs. Emma stayed where she was, her heart still racing, her mind spinning with everything she didn't say.
When the cabin finally fell silent again, Emma let out a shaky breath, her hand lifting to touch the spot where Regina's fingers had lingered just moments ago. The warmth was still there, faint but unmistakable, and it left her feeling both grounded and completely adrift.
The cabin was silent now, the fire reduced to a faint glow of embers that cast soft shadows on the walls. Emma sat alone on the couch, her knees pulled to her chest as she stared at the dying flames. Her bandaged hand rested loosely on the blanket draped over her legs, the faint ache in her palm a sharp reminder of Regina's care.
She touched the bandage absently, her fingers brushing over the fabric. The memory of Regina's hands—gentle, deliberate—lingered like an ache in her chest. She didn't know how to hold it, this strange, quiet thing Regina kept offering her. It was too big, too fragile, and it terrified her.
Her mind drifted back to Snow's voice on the phone, the relentless optimism that felt like a weight pressing down on her chest. Snow didn't understand. She never had. But Regina… Regina saw her. She didn't try to fix Emma or push her into being something she wasn't. She just stayed.
Emma swallowed hard, her throat tight as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She didn't really cry—not anymore, not since she was a kid. But tonight, with the firelight fading and the cabin quiet, the walls she'd built around herself felt too thin, too fragile to hold.
She buried her face in her hands, her breath shaky as she let herself feel the weight of it all—the fear, the longing, the quiet hope she didn't know how to name. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't push it away.