Chapter Text
What happened?
Regina would remember if it hadn’t… wouldn’t she.
Regina slipped from the bed and crossed the room toward her closet, moving carefully to not wake the sleeping beauty beside her. Still, on her way out, she couldn’t help but steal one last glance at Emma’s underwear—simple, white. The sight made Regina’s heart palpitate all over again.
Once safely inside the closet, Regina turned to the full-length mirror.
She leaned in, inspecting her reflection. Her lips—mercifully—were not swollen from kisses. There were no visible hickeys along her neck or collarbone.
The absence of evidence should have reassured her.
It didn’t
But she was wearing only her underwear.
Red. Lacy.
Regina inhaled sharply.
Not willing to risk being seen like this, she dressed quickly—silk blouse, pencil skirt—her armor sliding back into place piece by piece.
Professional.
Not casual.
—
The first thing Emma noticed when she woke was the smooth glide of silk beneath her fingertips.
The second was the intoxicating scent of apple-cinnamon perfume.
The third was that the sheets at Granny’s were worn jersey cotton.
The fourth was that Regina wore apple-cinnamon perfume.
That realization jolted her fully awake.
She was not wearing pajamas.
Emma shot upright, scanning the room in a wide, frantic sweep.
White wainscoting climbed the lower half of the walls, crowned by cream-textured wallpaper patterned with dark, intricate flourishes. Rich, dark wood furniture anchored the space—bed frame, reading chairs, chaise lounge—all upholstered in crisp white.
The room was sophisticated.
Warm.
Intentional.
Light neutral accents softened the darker aesthetic: tall floor vases, beveled mirrors, brushed brass lamps. And above the dresser, a large framed illustration of a rose.
Of course there was a rose.
Emma slipped out of the bed and padded across the room toward the bathroom.
Regina’s bathroom.
Once safely inside, she locked the door and turned toward the mirror.
She leaned into her reflection and inspected herself, carefully.
She had no hickeys. Her lips were swollen from a night of making out.
The examination brought relief
And beneath it, a thin, unwelcome layer of disappointment.
Last night she didn’t kiss Regina’s soft and inviting lips. She likely didn’t feel along the curves of Regina’s body beneath silk sheets..
She didn’t sleep with her son’s adoptive mother.
She had only slept beside her son’s adoptive mother.
—
Regina remained as professional and detached as one could, considering the circumstances.
Yes, she had woken beside an infuriating woman—she refused to entertain the possibility that she harbored anything so juvenile as a crush—but she was still a host.
And Regina Mills was an excellent host.
She had even laundered Emma’s clothes.
When the dryer chimed its cheerful rendition of Schubert, Regina allowed herself a single, measured breath before retrieving the neatly folded stack. She paused outside the bedroom door and listened.
The bed was empty.
Water ran steadily behind the closed bathroom door.
Regina crossed the room and set the folded laundry at the foot of the bed.
Only then did she allow herself to think about it.
Emma in her shower.
Using her shampoo.
Her soap.
The shower cut off.
Before Regina could make a dignified escape, the bathroom door swung open. Steam billowed outward, curling into the cool air of the bedroom.
And there stood Emma.
Wrapped in nothing but a towel.
Regina’s towel.
Regina smoothed her palms down the sides of her pencil skirt—a steady, repetitive motion meant to anchor herself. To prevent any outward sign of… anything.
“I woke a few hours ago,” Regina said evenly, fixing her gaze somewhere above Emma’s shoulder. “I washed your clothes. Henry and I will be in the kitchen when you are… ready.”
Emma adjusted the towel at her chest, entirely too casual about the situation.
“Wow,” she said lightly. “You always run a full-service inn, or am I just special?”
Regina did not look at her.
“I am merely being polite.”
“Uh-huh.” Emma stepped a little closer, just enough for the steam to follow her. “Laundry, luxury shower, classical dryer music. If I’d known this was on the table, I would’ve stayed over sooner.”
Regina’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“You did not stay over, Miss Swan. You passed out.”
Emma grinned. “Technicalities.”
Regina finally allowed herself a brief glance—an unfortunate decision. Damp hair curled at the ends, shoulders still flushed from heat, collarbone bare above the towel.
She looked away just as quickly.
“You should dress,” Regina said coolly. “Henry is already awake.”
Emma tilted her head.
“Relax, Your Majesty. I’m decent.”
“That,” Regina replied evenly, “is debatable.”
Emma’s smile widened.
—
Emma’s walk to the kitchen only reinforced the sophisticated warmth of the Mills mansion.
Her idea of mansions had always been of the detached millionaire—wealth as an old, peeling bandage stretched over something hollow and lonely beneath.
Then she remembered.
The Mills mansion wasn’t really Regina’s.
It belonged to Storybrooke. To the city. Every few election cycles, a new tenant would decorate the halls, rearrange the furniture, hang their own art on the walls.
But for now, it felt homey. Light. Lived in.
A mother and her son.
It was, theoretically, a perfect home.
But in her years as a bondsperson, Emma had learned that perfection often meant the cracks were simply well-hidden.
With Regina, though, it felt different.
The mansion wasn’t a bandage.
Regina wore her loneliness openly.
In her restrained, professional perfection.
In the way her presence filled every corner of a room — except the one she stood in.
Emma had only known her for a few days. She didn’t want to assume too much.
But this one felt right on the money.
Because Emma wore her loneliness just as plainly.
She didn’t need a map to find the kitchen, she only followed the tracks. She was a skilled hunter in a new forest.
Henry’s laughter was the first sign of life. Clear. Bright.
Then came the rest—the rattle of pans, the scrape of a wooden spoon against a skillet.
And Regina’s voice.
Commanding. Controlled. Unmistakable.
A voice Emma had no business thinking about.
But she did.
She needed to stop.
She was here for Henry.
Emma found her marks.
A ten-year-old boy with her jawline.
And his thirty-five-year-old mother, whose chocolate eyes Emma could easily lose herself in.
She paused in the doorway to the kitchen. Quiet and watching.
The smell of butter and cheese filled the air.
Regina stood behind Henry, adjusting his grip on the spatula as he flipped the sandwich in the pan.
“Mom!” Henry protested brightly. “I know how to make grilled cheese.”
He bumped her hip, freeing himself from her motherly clutches.
Regina lifted her hands in surrender. “Está bien,” she said with a small shrug. “But don’t cry if the bread burns. Remember, you’re not just making your sandwich.”
The Spanish on her tongue made something in Emma flip unexpectedly.
A smile tugged at her mouth as she watched them.
Regina stepped back and rinsed her hands in the sink.
And then, before Emma could decide whether to announce herself—
Regina looked up.
Their eyes met across the kitchen. Lingering a second too long.
“Emma.”
Her voice was even.
Regina straightened slightly—shoulders back, chin lifted. And just like that, something softened disappeared. The warmth retreated. The mayor returned.
The thought that Regina felt the need to hide her happiness made something in Emma’s chest tighten.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was quiet.
And it hurt.
Emma composed herself.
“Morning Henry,” she said. “Regina. Thanks for washing my clothes.”
Henry spun away from the stove and crossed the kitchen in three quick strides. He wrapped his arms around her waist in a fierce hug.
“Morning, Ma,” he said as he pulled back. “You slept through breakfast, but I’m making grilled cheese for lunch.”
Regina smoothly took Henry’s place at the stove.
“You were making grilled cheese,” she corrected. “Now we are finishing it.”
She turned off the gas burner and plated the final sandwiches with practiced efficiency.
When she turned back around, she carried two plates, each stacked with two perfectly golden sandwiches.
“The plate on the counter is for you,” Regina said, nodding toward the remaining dish.
That one held three.
“Henry insisted you’d eat three,” she added, a hint of something softer threading her voice. “If you can’t, I’m sure he wouldn’t object to the surplus.”
Henry grinned shamelessly.
—
After eating the best grilled cheese she’d ever eaten, a mix of melty mozzarella and flavorful cheddar, Emma was wondering if this was what home felt like.
Growing up bouncing between foster placements in Boston, she had never stayed anywhere long enough to call one her own.
“Thank you,” Emma said softly.
She scooted her chair back and stood from the table. “I should head out. I need to figure out where I’m staying tonight.”
Henry’s smile faltered. The disappointment on his face sent a small, unwelcome pang through her chest.
Regina, however, looked confused.
“I thought you were staying at Granny’s?” she asked.
“Well, I was,” Emma replied, brow furrowing as she cast Regina a brief, pointed glance. “But my booking got messed up. Someone else has my room for two nights.”
She paused.
“Well. One night now. Since your mom was kind enough to let me stay over, Hen.”
Henry blinked. “Why did you stay, Ma? I thought it was weird when Mom told me.”
“Emma and I had drinks at the White Rabbit last night,” Regina answered smoothly. “She was in no condition to drive.”
Her tone made it clear that was the entire story. Henry accepted it without question.
“Mom, can she stay over again?” Henry asked, shifting tactics instantly and deploying his best wide-eyed look.
Regina rolled her eyes. “No. I’m sure Emma will manage. She is an adult, after all.”
“Mom’s making lasagna tonight,” Henry added quickly. “You’ll love it.”
Emma almost laughed.
Ten years old, and already understanding leverage. Learned from a politician.
“Lasagna does sound good,” she said carefully.
“Henry,” Regina interjected gently, rising from her seat. “Go on. I’ll meet you in the study for homework.”
Henry grinned at Emma before retreating down the hall.
Regina turned back to her.
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
—
Regina remained silent during the short escort. She didn’t speak until they reached the foyer.
“I’m sorry about Granny’s,” Regina said.
“I’m sorry about Granny’s,” she said.
Emma stopped. “I don’t need apologies from the mastermind,” she shot back.
Regina’s brow lifted. “I may have had a hand in your car being booted, but no one tells Granny what to do.”
Emma blinked. “Wait. You didn’t kick me out of the only hotel in town?”
“No, Emma,” Regina said softly. “I’m not cruel.”
Emma held her gaze.
Regina was many things — controlled, calculating, political — but she hadn’t lied to her.
Regina opened the front door.
“Henry already has your number. If I need it, I’ll have him send it along.”
“Hopefully your lasagna makes up for your attitude,” Emma replied.
A corner of Regina’s mouth twitched.
“Henry wants you in his life, Emma,” Regina said quietly. “And—”
She stopped herself
The unfinished word lingering between them.
Emma tilted her head, stepping closer to the line without crossing it.
“So,” she said, a teasing smile tugging at her lips, “a Latina who can make Italian food? That’s a dangerous combination.”
Regina’s eyes flickered.
“My father is Puerto Rican,” she corrected smoothly. “My mother is Sicilian-American.”
Something shifted in her expression — a flicker of vulnerability quickly shuttered.
“Dinner is at six-thirty,” Regina added, voice returning to its measured tone. “I won’t open the door if you’re late.”
Emma stepped out into the afternoon air.
The door closed behind her.
Not slammed.
Just firm.
Emma felt heat rise to her cheeks as a smile spread slowly across her face.
I love lasagna.