Work Text:
The paperwork is endless—property tax forms spread across Regina's mahogany desk like some bureaucratic plague—when Emma leans against the doorframe with that infuriatingly disarming grin. Not the sheriff's professional half-smile, nor the tight-lipped expression she wears during town meetings. This is the real thing: crooked incisors peeking out, crow's feet crinkling at the corners of hazel eyes, dimples carving parentheses into freckled cheeks. Regina's fountain pen stutters mid-signature.
It's ridiculous. Thirty-four years old and her pulse still staccato when Emma's whole face lights up like Storybrooke's Christmas tree. She blames the way sunlight slants through stained-glass windows, how it gilds Emma's blonde waves with copper. Blames the fact that this woman once shattered her curse with nothing but hope and that damnable smile.
"Need help with those?" Emma's voice drips with honey-slow amusement as she nudges a stray form with her boot.
Regina exhales through her nose. "Yes," she lies.