So…remember that suspiciously productive plane ride I mentioned? Where I "accidentally" outlined a whole new Swanqueen fic somewhere over the Atlantic? Yeah, so THIS is the one!

I'm thrilled (and slightly feral) to finally share chapter one of this story.

A quick note before diving in:

This is a very E-rated G!P story. If that's not your jam, feel free to exit stage left (no hard feelings). But if it is…buckle up, baby, because I'm so excited to finally post this. It's emotional, tender, occasionally feral, and very close to my heart.

I would love to hear what you think—comments, theories, unhinged keysmashes, you name it. Feedback fuels my soul and helps me keep going when the writing goblins flee!

Enjoy—and thank you so much for reading!

Into the Wild

The silence inside the SUV was like a held breath—tight, brittle, and waiting to snap.

Outside, endless rows of black spruce blurred past, dusted with snow that caught the pale Alaskan sunlight. The mountains in the distance were jagged, cold, and remote. Just like the atmosphere between the two people in the car.

"You know what's really messed up?" Henry said suddenly, pulling one earbud out just to twist the knife. "You drag me out to the literal end of the world, and for what? Some bonding trip that's supposed to magically fix the fact that we're not even a real family anymore?"

Regina kept her eyes on the icy road. "Henry—"

"No," he cut her off, voice rising. "You don't get to 'Henry' me. You don't get to pretend this is normal. Or that I'm supposed to sit around and play happy family with you just because you're finally feeling guilty about being too busy to notice how fucked everything's been since Dad died."

Regina inhaled through her nose, slow and sharp, but her fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel.

"That's not fair," she said quietly.

He gave a cold laugh. "Oh, sorry. Should I try being fair? Because I remember you not being fair at all. I remember you yelling at him. I remember the fights. I remember the way you said you couldn't do it anymore."

Her hands clenched tighter. But she said nothing.

"You were going to leave him," Henry said, turning on her, voice raw now. "You were already talking to lawyers. And now you get to play the grieving widow, like he didn't die thinking you hated him."

She flinched—not visibly, but deep, in her chest. A hit she didn't deflect.

"I loved him," Henry spat. "And you were ready to walk away."

Still, she said nothing. She took it. All of it. Because the truth—the cheating, the betrayal, the heartbreak—wouldn't matter to Henry. Wouldn't fix anything. Would only shatter the last good pieces he still held onto. So she swallowed it. As she always did.

Henry turned toward her, eyes sharp. "Maybe this is just about you. Trying to clear your conscience. Make up for wanting to leave him before he died."

Regina's throat burned. Not from the cold. Not from guilt. From grief—thick and unspoken. From a marriage that had ended long before the man did. From a son who still couldn't see that she'd been mourning too—not just a husband, but a life that had unraveled, one slow, painful thread at a time.

She kept her gaze on the road. Steady. Quiet.

"This isn't about that. And you know it."

Henry laughed—hollow, bitter. "Right. So what is it then, Mom? Punishment? Rip me away from my life, my friends—from the only things I actually still care about—and drag me to some frozen forest with dogs and strangers?"

"They aren't friends if they're getting you arrested," she said tightly. "They're the reason I had to call in another favor with the police. The third one, Henry. Three. Do you know what that does to my reputation?"

"Oh, there it is," he said, turning to face her fully. "There she is—Regina Mills, Queen of Optics. Always worried about her fucking reputation. God forbid people think you're a bad mom."

The words landed like a slap.

Regina flinched, almost imperceptibly. But she didn't respond. Not to that. Her eyes stayed on the road, on the narrowing trail of packed snow ahead, on the GPS that helpfully reminded her they were eight minutes from their destination.

Henry wasn't done.

"Dad's been dead for two years and you've barely looked at me unless it's to yell or make some schedule. You don't even know me anymore. So spare me the whole 'this is for your own good' speech. I'd rather be home. At least there, I'm not stuck in a car with a stranger who used to be my mother."

Regina blinked hard.

The road curved left. Her grip on the steering wheel never faltered, but something tightened in her throat. Not from the cold. Not from anger. From the ache of a wound she'd been pretending had healed. It hadn't. It had only gone quiet—festering in silence while her son—her beautiful, broken boy—slipped further and further away.

"This isn't a punishment," she said at last, voice soft and fraying. "It's the only thing I could think of that might save what's left of you. Of us."

Henry didn't reply. He just shoved his earbud back in and turned toward the window, expression blank.

They drove the final stretch in silence. The kind that doesn't rest. The kind that gnaws.

Finally, the trees thinned, revealing a cluster of rustic buildings tucked beneath towering evergreens. The main cabin stood warm and solid at the heart of the clearing, smoke curling lazily from its stone chimney. Nearby, a smaller outbuilding sat nestled in the snow, its roof heavy with frost. Beyond that, the kennels came alive with barking, a chorus of eager dogs pacing in their fenced runs, tails wagging, fur dusted with ice. The entire place felt remote, self-contained—like its own quiet world hidden deep in the woods.

A woman stood outside, one boot propped on the lower rail of the fence, gloved hands tugging down a red wool cap. She was tall, strong-looking, with sunburnt cheeks and a crooked smile that flickered across her face when she spotted the car.

The GPS chirped: "You have arrived at your destination."

Regina let the car idle for a moment, her hands trembling slightly on the wheel.

Henry popped his door open without a word, the cold rushing in like a slap.

He slammed it behind him. Didn't look back.

Regina sighed and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel for just one second. Just to breathe. Then she composed herself, slipped on her gloves, and stepped out into the snow.

Emma wiped a smear of dirt across her jeans and tugged off one of her gloves, squinting down the snowy trail as the black SUV finally rolled into view. About time. She'd gotten a message from the local tourism office two days ago—high-profile client, single mom and teen son, private tour only, no last names. Emma had rolled her eyes at that. She didn't care who people were. She just cared that they listened, respected the dogs, and didn't complain when snow got in their boots.

The dogs were already going nuts, their harnesses jangling and tails slicing through the air. Red barked excitedly. Grumpy howled. Even Dopey—usually too chill to give a damn—was pawing at the fence. Tourists meant adventure, and the dogs lived for the trail.

Emma gave a sharp whistle. "Easy, guys. Show some chill for once, would you?"

She turned just as the SUV came to a stop. The passenger door slammed open and out stomped a teenage boy, all attitude and rolled eyes. Hood up, phone clutched like a lifeline, glowering at the snow as if it had personally offended him.

Oh boy, Emma thought. We got a sulker.

The driver's door opened more slowly. And then—

Well, shit.

The woman who stepped out looked like she belonged on a red carpet, not a snow-covered trail in the Alaskan backcountry. Long dark coat cinched at the waist, leather gloves, lips painted the kind of deep red that would stain if you kissed her—not that Emma was thinking about that. Just…observations.

She was stunning. Regal. Controlled. A sharp edge of elegance that made Emma feel like she'd wandered into the wrong movie.

She's probably married, Emma told herself, throat dry. Definitely rich. Probably some hedge fund husband somewhere with perfect teeth and a stick up his ass.

Emma swallowed the inappropriate thoughts and put on her best guide grin.

"Hey there!" she called, stepping away from the fence. "You must be Regina?"

The woman nodded once, her heels crunching against the snow as she approached. Up close, she was even more gorgeous. Dark eyes. A kind of exhausted grace. The weight of someone who carried too much, too well.

"Yes," she said, voice smooth but clipped. "And this is my son, Henry."

Henry didn't look up from his phone. He muttered something that might have been a greeting, then wandered toward the dogs without asking.

Emma raised a brow.

Regina followed her gaze, lips tight. "He's…not thrilled about being here."

"Teenagers rarely are," Emma said easily. "But the dogs tend to win them over."

Right on cue, Red trotted over from where she'd been sniffing around the sleds and gave a little whine, sitting a few feet in front of Henry. Her ears perked, tail wagging low and steady, her head cocked in quiet curiosity.

Henry glanced down at her, and for just a second, the mask cracked—his eyebrows lifted slightly, almost involuntarily. Then he caught himself and looked away again, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket like he hadn't just melted a little.

Emma smiled. "She likes you. Red's picky. That's a compliment."

"I didn't do anything," Henry muttered, but his feet had stopped moving. He stood there, just watching the dog, phone now forgotten at his side.

Emma turned back to Regina. "They've all got fairytale names—kind of a theme I ran with when I first started out. Red, Grumpy, Belle, Snow, Dopey…"

Regina arched a perfectly groomed brow. "Charming."

Emma grinned. "Oh yeah, we've got one of those too. He's a biter, though."

That earned her the faintest twitch at the corner of Regina's mouth. Not a smile, exactly. But close enough to feel like a win.

"I'm Emma, by the way. Emma Swan. Owner, musher, survival guide, dog wrangler, firewood splitter. Occasionally cook."

Regina looked her over, eyes flicking down to Emma's snow-dusted boots, her worn flannel jacket, the thermos half-hanging from a carabiner on her belt.

"You do all this alone?" she asked.

"Just me and the dogs," Emma said, then shrugged. "And the occasional surly teenager."

That might've been a joke. Regina didn't laugh. But she didn't walk away either.

Meanwhile, Henry had crouched beside Red now, tentatively holding out his hand. The dog inched forward, sniffed his fingers, and licked them once. Henry blinked. Emma didn't miss the surprise in his expression. Or the way he quickly tried to bury it.

"Looks like we're already making progress," she said softly.

Regina turned toward her son. And in that moment—just for a breath—Emma saw the real reason they were here. It was written all over Regina's face: exhaustion, love, guilt…and a desperation she was trying to bury under layers of silk and lipstick.

"Yes," Regina murmured. "Maybe."

Emma clapped her hands together, rubbing warmth back into her fingers. "Alright, how about we get you both suited up before you freeze out there."

Regina glanced down at her heels like she was only just now realizing the absurdity of them. "That would be wise."

"I've got some gear inside," Emma said. "You'll need thermal layers, boots, the whole shebang. Trail's beautiful, but it's no joke. Let's start with you," she added, tipping her chin at Regina. "I'll help Henry next."

Henry rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He was still watching Red, who was now sitting so close to him their knees were practically touching.

Emma opened the smaller cabin door and motioned for Regina to follow. It wasn't the main house, but something simpler—utilitarian. As Regina stepped inside, Emma turned to Henry and said with a casual grin, "You keep an eye on Red. I think she likes you."

Henry shrugged, but Red's tail thumped once against the snow. He didn't move away.

Inside, the cabin was warm and wood-scented, filled with soft golden light from the windows. The contrast to the cold outside was almost startling.

Emma knelt beside a large plastic tote and started rummaging through layers of fleece-lined jackets and insulated overalls.

"I wasn't sure of your sizes," she said, glancing up, "so I just grabbed a few options."

Regina, still standing by the door, peeled off her coat with precise, clipped movements. Underneath: a pristine silk blouse and tailored black slacks. Her heels clicked lightly on the floor as she moved. The kind of outfit you wore to court—not to the edge of the Alaskan wild.

Emma blinked. "Okay. Yeah, so…none of that's gonna survive out there."

Regina looked down at herself like she was seeing her own clothes for the first time. "Yes, I gathered."

"You'll need to layer up properly," Emma said, rising to her feet. "Thermal base, wool if possible, then a sweater, and snow gear over that."

"I didn't pack thermals," Regina admitted, folding her arms over her chest—not defensive, just bracing.

Emma hesitated. "Right. Okay. Gimme a sec."

She crossed the cabin, opened a cedar trunk near the stove, and pulled out a folded pile of thick, dark gray wool. "You can borrow a set of mine. They're clean."

Regina hesitated, then took them. "Thank you."

Emma nodded toward the corner where a wooden privacy screen stood. "You can change there. Just—uh—strip everything. I mean, not everything everything, but enough. The thermal set should go against your skin."

Regina lifted a brow—not offended, not shocked. Just faintly amused, like she was indulging the awkwardness. "Emma, I've walked through hotel lobbies in a bikini. I think I'll survive you seeing me in a bra and panties."

Emma's mouth opened, then shut again. Her brain blanked, and for a second she forgot how to breathe.

"Right. Good. Just offering privacy," she mumbled, suddenly very interested in the contents of the gear tote.

Regina took the bundle of clothes and turned toward the screen, completely unruffled.

Behind the screen, there was the sound of zippers, silk rustling, the soft sigh of fabric falling to the floor. Emma busied herself with pulling out snow pants and a down parka, trying very hard not to imagine what all those sounds meant. But she couldn't miss the faint intake of breath when Regina stepped into the cold thermals.

A pause.

"Emma?"

Emma looked up and turned instinctively—and froze.

Regina had stepped out from behind the screen, still barefoot, her blouse and slacks folded over her arm, her frame wrapped in Emma's oversized wool sweater and thermal leggings. Her hair was beginning to fall loose from its twist, cheeks faintly flushed. She looked…different.

Not polished. Not untouchable. Not like the woman who'd stepped out of the SUV in heels and silk.

She looked softer. Warmer. Beautiful. Like someone who hadn't let herself breathe in a long time—and finally was.

Regina hesitated, shifting her weight slightly.

"Is this okay?"

Emma swallowed hard and offered the snow pants like a shield. "Y-yeah. Yeah. More than okay."

Regina took them and began stepping into the legs, but the lining caught on the thermals, and the zipper jammed halfway.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she muttered, trying again.

"Here, let me—" Emma stepped forward before thinking it through.

She crouched slightly, tugging gently at the fabric. Her knuckles brushed Regina's thigh through the thermal layer, and suddenly the cabin felt too warm. Emma glanced up for half a second and found Regina watching her—not annoyed, not flustered. Just watching.

Emma cleared her throat. "These things are tricky. They never cooperate on the first try."

Regina gave a short, almost amused exhale. "Is that your professional opinion?"

Emma grinned despite herself, finally getting the zipper up. "Certified by experience."

Regina huffed a tiny laugh. Her defenses dropped for a moment, and Emma caught it—the real her, right there, just for a breath. Not the perfectly polished woman from a few minutes ago. Just a woman, tired and trying.

She slid into the coat, adjusting the sleeves. Emma took a step back to give her space as she turned toward the mirror by the door.

The sweater swallowed her frame slightly, the snow pants adding a gentle bulk. Her hair had begun to curl further from the cabin's warmth, her cheeks flushed from cold and change and maybe—just maybe—something else.

And then she smiled.

Not at Emma. Not for anyone.

Just to herself.

It was quiet. Beautiful.

Emma's chest gave a strange little tug.

"I thought," she said carefully, "your son might want a little more time with Red. And I figured you could use a few minutes to yourself."

Regina met her eyes then—really met them. And for the first time since they'd arrived, her guard didn't slam back into place.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Emma gave her a quick smile and motioned to the door. "Why don't you go surprise Henry with your new look?"

Regina gave a regal little sniff and stepped outside into the sun.

Back outside, Henry was sitting in the snow with his legs stretched out, Red curled against his side like she'd known him for years. Her head was resting in his lap, eyes half-lidded, tail thumping lazily whenever he moved. One of his gloves was off, and he was absentmindedly running his fingers behind her ear, pretending not to enjoy it.

Emma smiled to herself.

"Alright, your turn," she called out. "Let's get you geared up."

Henry sighed like it was the greatest inconvenience of his life, but he didn't argue. He gave Red a gentle shove—she huffed dramatically and rolled onto her back—then stood and followed Emma inside.

"Don't touch my hair," he warned immediately.

Emma smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

She handed him everything and gestured toward a bench.

Red, naturally, padded in behind them and flopped right back down by Henry's feet with a soft wuff.

As he shrugged into the sleeves, Henry glanced over. "So…the dogs. You named them all?"

"Yep," Emma said, passing him a pair of fleece-lined snow pants. "Fairy tale theme. Red, Grumpy, Belle, Dopey, Sleepy, Snow, even a Charming. Total misfits, the whole pack."

Henry snorted. "That's kind of lame."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Says the guy being guarded by a dog named Red."

He looked down. Red had draped one paw over his boot like she was claiming him.

"…She's alright," he muttered, but the faint curl of a smile gave him away.

"You say that now," Emma said, tossing him a knit hat, "but wait 'til you meet Sleepy. He snores louder than a snowmobile."

That actually got a laugh—short and real. Henry ducked his head quickly, like he hadn't meant to let it slip.

Emma didn't call it out. She just kept helping him adjust the straps on the snow pants, tightening them around his boots.

"You ever work with sled dogs before this?" he asked, eyes still on Red.

"Nope," Emma said. "Taught myself. Dogs taught me back."

He nodded, like he was filing that away. "They listen to you."

"They respect me," she corrected gently. "That's better than listening."

Henry glanced at her then, and Emma saw the flicker of something starting to shift. A spark of curiosity. Maybe even trust.

From the doorway, Regina stood watching. She hadn't interrupted, just leaned there quietly in her borrowed gear, her arms crossed but relaxed, her expression soft in a way that looked unfamiliar on her face—but right.

Emma crossed over and bumped her gently with her elbow.

"You two ready for an adventure?"

Regina looked at Henry—now kneeling again to rub Red's belly like it was no big deal—and nodded.

The dogs were vibrating with energy, paws scraping the snow, breath clouding in the crisp air. The sled sat waiting—wood polished smooth, lines taut, a quiet promise of motion.

Emma adjusted the harnesses and checked the tethers one final time. "We'll ride together," she said, brushing snow from her sleeves. "Regina, you'll sit in front. Henry, you'll be at the bar behind her—you'll drive."

Henry blinked. "Seriously?"

Emma gave a crooked smile. "The dogs know the trail better than any of us. Just keep your knees soft and listen when I tell you to lean. I'll be behind you the whole time."

Henry glanced at the sled, then at the dogs—and climbed on without another word. That alone felt like a victory.

Regina followed, carefully settling onto the front bench. She sat upright, composed, but as she adjusted her borrowed coat and looked out toward the trees, something in her posture shifted—a breath unspooling in her chest, her gaze pulled toward the wide open wild.

Emma stepped onto the back runners, hands light on the bar behind Henry's.

"You ready?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I guess."

Emma gave a sharp whistle and called, "Hike!"

The dogs exploded forward, and the sled lurched into motion—fast, smooth, alive.

The world opened up.

Snow kicked into fine mist beneath the dogs' feet as they thundered down the trail, their bodies moving in practiced rhythm. Trees raced past, heavy with snow, the sunlight golden and slanting through the branches. Cold wind rushed over them, crisp and clean and sharp enough to wake something in your bones.

Up front, Regina held tight to the side rails, the cold kissing her cheeks and tugging her hair loose beneath the hood. The sound of the runners slicing over packed snow, the breath of the dogs, the wind through the trees—it was like nothing she'd ever experienced.

Wide. Silent. Alive.

And behind her, Henry laughed.

It was quick, a startled sound—surprised out of him by a sudden jolt in the trail or the sheer joy of speed—and he immediately tried to cover it with a cough, pulling his shoulders in.

Regina turned slightly, looking back over her shoulder.

Henry's face was pink from the cold, his eyes bright, his mouth twitching like he was fighting off another smile.

She said nothing. Just turned forward again—but her own smile began to form, slow and private.

Emma, watching them both, said nothing either. She just leaned forward and murmured, "Lean left—gentle—there you go," and Henry adjusted, learning the rhythm, responding to the shift of the sled beneath his feet.

They wound through narrow trails between the pines, climbed low ridges, and burst into a wide clearing where sunlight lit up a frozen lake like glass. The sled caught just enough lift over a dip in the path, and Henry laughed again—louder this time.

Regina didn't look back. But her shoulders eased. Her hands unclenched. She tipped her face toward the sun, closed her eyes, and let the wind move through her.

Emma didn't say much. Just let the rhythm of the trail and the rise of Henry's laughter carry them all forward.

They rode like that for a while—quiet but not silent. Together, but without words.

Regina didn't know what this trip would bring. But in that moment—wind on her face, her son's laughter in the air—she let herself hope.