The school bus doors hissed open and a flood of fifth graders poured out like a burst dam.
Little boots crunched on packed snow and frostbitten dirt as their excited voices warmed the crisp morning air. Mr. Grumpy and David trailed close behind, tugging hats down lower against the cold and adjusting too-heavy overnight backpacks slipping off shoulders. The breath of Emma's twenty-five children hung in the air like little clouds of mischief.
"Everyone off the bus and into line!" Mother Superior's sharp clap echoed like a gunshot, and half the kids flinched. "Count off as you go. If I must call anyone twice, you're scrubbing dishes after dinner!"
Emma pulled her scarf tighter around her neck as she stepped off the bus behind them. Her boots met the frozen ground with a solid thud, and she took a moment to inhale air so clean and crisp that it stung her nostrils and lungs. Elsa would have been right at home, Emma thought, missing her friends.
The sign "Camp Enchanted S'morest" hung above the entrance like something out of a summer camp postcard, the wood carved with curling letters and the outline of a chipper little bear waving at them with an acorn in its paw. Towering evergreens bordered the entire campground. To the east, beyond the rows of bunkhouses and a small lodge, the Penobscot River glittered in the distance, its frozen surface stretching like a silver ribbon through the snow-covered woods. It was stunning, breathtaking, even.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"THREE!"
The kids, full of energy, yelled out their numbers as they lined up, most of them still craning their necks to gawk at the cabins and the frozen river. Emma moved along the line, scanning faces and mentally counting heads. Regina's influence.
As they waited, Riley nudged Henry, pointing toward the river. She grinned wide, and they both stepped towards the icy surface in the distance.
"Don't even think about it," Emma warned dangerously. Both kids jumped, clearly surprised an adult had noticed.
But she wasn't the only one. David, clad in a red beanie and thick utility coat, cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Away from the river! Ice this time of year's a liar. It'll crack before you hear it coming!" His booming voice echoed through the trees, and several kids turned to stare, wide-eyed.
"Y…yeah, we know," Riley muttered, elbowing Henry as they trudged back toward the group. "We're not stupid."
Emma's gaze lingered on the river. She watched as a breeze rippled through the evergreens, the shadows of their needles dancing across the ice. Almost like ghosts.
She shook the morbid thought away and focused on the kids. "Everyone got their buddy? If your buddy goes missing, I better hear you yelling louder than a fire alarm. Mother Superior and I will be doing cabin checks before dinner, so if you think sneaking off is cute… think again."
Emma's gaze swept over her fifth-graders, sharp and steady, mouth firm, eyes unwavering. One by one, their faces shifted from playful to serious, their small nods coming quick and certain. That was all she needed. Message received.
A soft drag of fingertips traced down her back, followed by the warm scent of jasmine and spice. Emma's breath hitched at the quiet spark those fingers sent down her spine.
"Your teacher voice has gotten so good," Regina murmured, close enough that Emma could feel the warmth of her breath near her ear.
"Yes, it has," Mother Superior's voice cut in from the side, making Emma straighten on instinct. Mother Superior smiled tightly, face pink from the cold, but not unkindly. "You've really come a long way, Ms. Swan." Her gaze shifted to Regina. "You both have. You should be proud, Ms. Mills."
Regina's face flickered with surprise, but she recovered quickly. "Yes, I am proud," she said, warmly. Her eyes crinkled as she looked at Emma. "Ms. Swan is my son's favorite teacher for a reason."
Emma's throat tightened. "Thanks," she said, quieter than she intended.
Mother Superior moved on, already halfway toward her own students, calling them to attention with another sharp clap. Regina lingered, just a moment longer. No words, just that look. Soft and steady. Then she too followed the kids, directing them toward the lodge to set up their sleeping bags.
Warmth bloomed in Emma's chest. She glanced at her boots, digging a toe into the snow. For a second, she let herself have it. The feeling of being seen, of being valued, of knowing someone was proud of her. Proud of her. It wasn't the kind of thing she let herself feel often.
Her breath fogged in front of her as she turned toward the riverbank. A group of boys had gathered by the edge, their focus locked on David, who stood firmly between them and the frozen water. His arms gestured animatedly, voice loud and booming as he regaled them with one of his legendary fishing tales.
"And just as I'm about to pull it up… WHAM! That trout flips so hard it slaps me right across the face! Got scales in my beard for a week!"
The kids burst out laughing, and even Emma snorted, the sound catching her off guard. David's grin stretched wide, and he stood taller, basking in their amusement like it was fuel.
He'd been like that all morning. Sparkle in his eye and a pep in his step. On the bus ride over, he hadn't stopped smiling, his head leaned against the window like a lovesick teenager. Every so often, he'd sigh— a dreamy, contented sound that had Emma side-eyeing him.
David glanced up, catching her grin and matching it with a goofy one of his own. "What?" he asked.
"You look happy," Emma remarked. The group of boys had already scattered, lured away by the distant call of hot cocoa from the canteen. She narrowed her eyes. "Suspiciously happy."
David tried to shrug it off, ducked his head even, but his smile was too big to hide. "Can't a guy just be in a good mood?"
"Yeah, except I know that dopey look means you're thinking about Mary Margaret."
David chuckled, but he didn't argue.
They stood there a while, watching their campers settle in. Mr. Grumpy chopped firewood in the distance, whistling something that might've been a camp song. Every clean swing of the axe sent a sharp crack echoing through the air, chips of wood scattering like confetti. A few kids gathered to watch, like he was Paul Bunyan himself.
It wasn't often she and David got moments like this— just stillness. No kids hanging off their arms, no meetings, no deadlines.
"Hey," David said after a long pause. His voice quieted now, like he didn't want to shatter the calm. "Can I tell you something?"
"Sure."
David glanced around, checking for any stragglers, and stepped a little closer. "I think I'm gonna ask Mary Margaret to marry me."
Emma froze, heart jumping in her chest. "What?" Her face broke into a grin so wide it hurt. "You're… Are you… Holy shit!"
"Yeah," David said, cheeks blazing. "I, uh… figured I should ask her work-daughter's permission first."
Emma's chest clenched. Her heart ached. It pressed into her ribcage like it had nowhere else to go but her eyes. "You have it," she croaked, immediately. "You have it, you absolute dork. Of course you do."
She pulled David into a hug, smacking his back harder than necessary just to hear him wheeze a laugh. They held on for a little longer than they usually did— than they needed to.
"Thanks, Emma," David whispered into her hair.
Emma nodded against his shoulder, eyes closed tight, letting herself have that feeling too.
The whole day felt strange. Emma couldn't shake it.
Her eyes tracked the students as they ran wild, giggling and tossing clumps of snow that exploded in soft puffs against each other's coats. Her heart did that weird twisty thing again— tight but not painful, big but not heavy. It wasn't just love, not exactly. It was more.
Emma watched the children feeling faraway. Something settled into her, the understanding of it. Her kids. They weren't really hers, not the way Henry was, but she loved them fiercely all the same. Their "Dear Teacher" letters armored her, she lost sleep thinking about them, felt her chest ache when they cried.
It wasn't something she signed up for. No one tells you that's part of the teaching gig. But it was as real as the ground beneath her boots and the giant snow-covered log she sat on. As real as the pines that stood long before she got here and would stay long after she was gone.
Emma had never been like those pines. She'd always been a boat with no anchor, drifting wherever the current took her. But something had changed. It had been slow. Roots breaking through stone, quiet and unseen— but now it was undeniable. She'd put down roots here. Here. Her chest rose with a deep, shaking breath.
"Stop looking like you're about to cry," Grumpy grumbled, stepping in front of her with a chunk of wood and a small carving knife. He pressed them into her hands with a scowl. "Here. Do something with your hands before you start leaking all over the place. Embarrassing."
Emma blinked, glancing at the wood in her hands. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Figure it out," he snorted, already stomping away toward a group of kids trying to sneak too close to the riverbank. "You're supposed to be a creative type, ain't ya?"
Emma's lips twitched. Grumpy, the secret patron saint of emotional regulation.
She turned the wood over in her hands, testing the weight of it. Small enough to carve something simple. Her fingers curled around the knife, and before she even realized what she was doing, she started slicing away pieces of bark.
She didn't have a plan for it, but somehow her hands knew. Of course, it's a horse, she thought bitterly, chipping away at its neck. Her thumb brushed over the rough, uneven snout, the point of its nose still too blunt. It was nowhere near finished, but she could already see it coming together. Regina loves horses.
Her gaze flickered toward the lodge, where she'd last seen Regina with Henry, and her heart did that twist again. She hated it. Hated how much she'd let herself care, how much it hurt now that it was too late to stop.
The horse's ears were too big, its legs too stubby, and she winced at the wonky shape of it, but she kept going.
The sun shifted, and something blocked the light. A shadow stretched long in front of her. Regina stood just a few feet away, hands in her coat pockets, her back to Emma, head tilted up. The sun hit the edge of her sunglasses, flashing bright, and the world around her glittered with fresh snow.
The sight of her used to send Emma's pulse into overdrive. Shallow breathing, heart punching in her throat. But lately, it was the opposite. Her chest felt warm, her breath even, like everything inside her finally understood it was safe to be still. Safe to stay.
Emma eyed the lopsided little horse in her hands, exhaling through her nose. With a flick of her fingers, she set it aside, brushing snow from her jeans as she stood. Regina didn't turn, giving Emma space in that quiet, unobtrusive way she always did.
Mr. Grumpy was now guiding two kids in stacking firewood. His eyes darted toward her, guilty and quick, before snapping back to what he was doing. Well, that explained how Regina found her so quick.
"I think that's why he likes woodshop," Emma said, tilting her chin toward Grumpy.
Regina's head tilted slightly, just enough to show she'd been listening. "Who?" she asked, feigning disinterest.
Emma smirked, arms crossing over her chest. "Grumpy. He's always pissed off, so he keeps his hands busy. Keeps it from eating him up."
"How insightful."
Emma shot her a look. "What? Don't act so shocked. I have layers too, you know."
That earned her a laugh. Regina finally turned, snow catching in the edges of her dark hair. Funny how quickly their walls had come down. Without realizing it, they'd built a quiet little bridge between their fortresses.
"What's wrong?" Regina asked, not wasting time with small talk
"Nothing," Emma lied. Then, because it was Regina, she added, "Everything."
Regina didn't press, but her black eyes didn't budge. She'd wait Emma out, patient and unyielding.
"I'm happy," Emma admitted, finally meeting her eyes. "I'm so damn happy. And that usually means something's about to go belly up."
Regina stepped forward, the snow crunching beneath her boots. "Don't do that," she ordered. "Don't punish yourself for getting what you want."
"Yeah, well. Old habits." Emma shrugged.
"Break them," Regina said. She was so sure about it. Her voice didn't waver. "For Henry's sake, if not for your own."
She noticed the little horse Emma had left beside her and her eyes softened. Regina pulled her hand from her pocket to reach out and brush a thumb over its blunt snout.
Her lips pressed together, like she was holding something back. "For mine too."
Emma blinked hard, looking up at the glittering sunlight breaking through the pines, breathing it in slow. Her chest swelled.
"Okay," Emma said softly.
The frozen river in the distance glowed faintly under the sun's glare. It was sturdy now, but Emma knew better. Ice never broke all at once. It cracked slowly, until it didn't.
In front of her, Regina, held the little horse in her palm like it was something precious. Emma sucked in a sharp breath, letting cold air flood her lungs. And somewhere in the back of her mind, a shadow moved. Not seen, not felt— just a flicker of knowing. A pull, like the part of you that senses when a wave's about to break.
But Emma stayed where she was, feet firm in the snow.
The canteen buzzed with noise, the hum of conversation and clatter of trays filling the space like Granny's diner at rush hour. Steam rolled up from long metal trays of food under heat lamps, the scent of roasted chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and fresh rolls filling the air. Emma's stomach growled, loud enough that one of her students, Kiara, snickered.
"Hungry, Ms. Swan?" she teased. A cat-like grin widened behind her milk carton.
"Starving," Emma admitted, clutching her tray with both hands. She glanced over her shoulder to see Henry piling his plate like it was a Thanksgiving feast. Regina, behind him, stared, concerned, as he heaped on extra helpings of everything.
"Are you sure you can finish that mountain of potatoes, Henry?" she asked, but she didn't stop him.
"A potato mountain build character, Mom," Henry shot back with a grin.
"A potato mountain puts you to sleep," Regina muttered, tossing an apple onto his tray with a well-practiced flick of her wrist. Henry groaned.
Dinner tasted even better than it smelled. Emma's plate was practically empty within minutes, and she leaned back in her chair, poking at the last crumbs of roll with her fork. Henry sat next to her, feet swinging under the table like he'd forgotten he was ten and not five. He stuffed a final bite of mac and cheese into his mouth, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. Across from them, Regina picked at her plate, taking neat, measured bites of chicken. Emma eyed her for a moment, trying to figure out how she ate so slowly when the food was this good.
"Maybe your mom is just trying to outlast the apocalypse?" Emma joked to Henry.
"Maybe you are just three racoons in a trench coat," Regina shot back.
Henry snickered into his cup of water, eyes darting between them like he was watching a tennis match. Emma reached across the table and swiped one of Regina's last bites of mashed potatoes, popping it into her mouth with a wink.
"Unbelievable," Regina muttered.
After supper, the adults gathered both classes outside. The giant campfire crackled in the clearing, flames leaping up toward the stars.
Grumpy sat on one of the logs, guitar in hand, his rough voice leading them in off-key campfire songs that somehow still sounded perfect. David, standing beside him, clapped his hands in rhythm, stomping his boot to the beat. It was the kind of goofy, un-self-conscious joy Emma didn't often see from him, and it was infectious.
Regina leaned against her, arms crossed and head tilted to the stars, tapping her boot in time.
When the first round of "If I Had a Hammer" ended, Grumpy barked, "Alright, alright, enough singing. Time for the only reason kids come to camp— s'mores."
Soon the sweet, golden smell of marshmallows bubbling over flames filled the air. Students knelt by the fire, their faces intense as they turned their sticks, aiming for that perfect toast.
Emma, never known for patience, shoved her marshmallow directly into the flames, holding it steady until it caught fire. The blackened, crackling shell spread fast, and she blew it out, holding up the charred wreckage with a grin.
"Looks perfect!" Henry laughed. He then squished his perfectly golden marshmallow between two graham crackers. Chocolate oozed from the sides, and he licked it away before it dripped onto his gloves.
"Art," Emma declared, waving her marshmallow like a scepter. "This is modern art."
Regina, perched on the edge of the log next to her, shot her a dry look. Her marshmallow, of course, was golden perfection. Emma watched as Regina pressed it between graham crackers, her fingers gentle, deliberate, like she was assembling fine jewelry.
"Ms. Mills, not everything is a contest you know," Emma muttered, taking a messy bite of her scorched one. Flakes of black ash stuck to the corner of her lip.
Relenting, Regina glanced at Emma, lip twitching. "I'm sure yours still tastes good, though, doesn't it?"
Emma held up her half-eaten s'more with mock pride. "Darn right, it does."
"See? Looks can be deceiving," Regina said, and Emma perked up again.
Beside her, Henry chewed quietly, his eyes flicking from Emma to Regina. He'd been watching them all night.
Henry swallowed, rubbing his sleeve against his mouth. "Sometimes I wish you were my mom too," he mumbled quietly, eyes on the fire.
The words hit Emma with the force of a wave. Her eyes darted to Regina, whose face had gone still.
"Henry," Emma said softly, voice catching.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I just… never mind."
"Don't 'never mind' me, kid," Emma said, setting down her s'more. "That's not how this works. You say something big like that, you gotta let me answer."
Henry glanced at her, wide-eyed, and then at Regina. Emma could see his fingers twisting in his coat sleeve.
"You don't have to wish, kid," Emma said, smiling. "You already feel like mine."
"Really?" Henry pressed eagerly.
"Really, really," Emma said.
At that, Henry's face softened, his whole body easing like tension had been wrung out of him. He leaned against Regina, head resting on her shoulder sleepily.
As the stars sharpened into cold pinpricks and the fire dimmed to its final embers, exhaustion finally won out over the staff. The kids gathered at the outdoor sinks, their breath curling in little clouds as they rinsed, spit, and splashed water on their faces. It should have been an easy, routine wind-down. But nothing about children at night ever went according to plan, and Emma had every reason to believe tonight would be no exception.
Lilo zipped her coat up to her chin, arms locked so tight she looked like a burrito of pure defiance. Across from her, David held up a tiny medicine cup, his patience hanging on by a thread.
"It tastes like feet," Lilo announced, chin jutting up in challenge.
"It tastes like bubblegum," David countered, voice flat.
Lilo squinted at him. "Feet."
"Bubble. Gum," David enunciated, voice dangerously close to cracking.
"Feet," Lilo repeated, unwavering.
David exhaled through his nose, grip tightening on the little plastic cup. "How would you even know what feet taste like?"
Emma, biting back laughter, nudged him as she passed. "Bubblegum-flavored feet, David. Just let her live."
Nearby, Nemo stared in horror at the toothbrush that had—once again—tumbled into the frozen dirt.
"Ew! Ugh! Gross!" he wailed, staring at it as though it had personally betrayed him.
Emma crouched beside him, picking it up. "Relax, kid. We'll rinse it."
"But what if—"
"No one ever died from a little mud," she interrupted, already running it under the sink.
Nemo gave a long, suffering groan but snatched the toothbrush back with a dramatic sigh, as if accepting the worst fate imaginable.
Meanwhile, Kiara sat cross-legged on a log, braiding Melody's hair with quick fingers. Across from them, the ever-vigilant Tattle Tale had her arms crossed, expression scandalized.
"That's against the hygiene rules," she declared. "You're not supposed to share hairbrushes or anything with scalp contact."
Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. "For the love of all things holy, shut it down," she muttered as she slumped onto a log next to Regina.
Regina, ever the enforcer, straightened. "Alright, that's enough," she called, her voice cutting through the night with quiet authority. Immediately, children halted, and voices quelled. "To bed. Now."
Like magic, the kids fell in line. Emma watched, impressed, as they scrambled to obey without so much as a groan. She shot Regina a look.
Regina arched a smug brow. "What?"
Emma huffed, shaking her head. "Maybe I should just resign after all."
With the chaos finally corralled, David called a final, "Goodnight, campers!" His voice echoed into the trees, soft but commanding. The students sleeping bags took over the entire main floor of the lodge, but there were only a few giggles lingering in the packed room Soon, the distant creak of branches filled the empty space where chattering voices had been.
Emma zipped herself into her sleeping bag, the nylon crinkling as she shifted. This—this felt like family. The quiet hum of night settling over them. Kids whispering under blankets. Grumpy snoring somewhere close by. David's boots crunching in slow, steady circles outside, a sentry on patrol.
Regina sat nearby, phone close to her face, catching up on the mountain of work Emma knew she'd been putting off to be here. Her hair was soft and mussed, reading glasses perched on her nose, pajamas loose and comfortable—utterly, ridiculously adorable.
Emma exhaled, letting the warmth of the sleeping bag wrap around her. If she could freeze any moment in time and keep it forever, it might be this one.