# **CENTRAL PARK – THIRTY MINUTES LATER**
They find a bench near the pond—isolated enough for privacy, public enough that nobody will question four people having an intense conversation. Gold sits at one end, still clutching the baby blanket like a lifeline. Regina claims the other end, spine straight despite the emotional exhaustion visible in her eyes.
Emma paces in front of the bench, unable to sit, her detective brain working overtime. Harry leans against a nearby tree, arms crossed, watching her with quiet concern.
"Okay," Emma says finally. "We need to address the extremely obvious elephant that just walked into Neal's apartment wearing workout clothes."
"Tamara," Regina says flatly.
"Tamara," Emma confirms. "Who was *way* too calm about learning her fiancé has a secret ten-year-old son. Who looked at Gold and Harry like she was cataloging them. Who—" Emma stops pacing, "—who I'm ninety percent sure is lying about something."
Harry nods slowly. "I noticed that too. When I asked if we'd met, her response was too practiced. Like she'd prepared for that question."
"Prepared for meeting the Master of Death?" Regina's eyebrow arches. "That seems paranoid."
"Or accurate," Harry counters. "I've been alive long enough to recognize when someone's performing versus genuinely reacting. She was performing."
Gold, who's been silent, speaks up. "You think she knows. About magic. About who we are."
"I think she knows *something*," Emma says. "Whether it's magic specifically or just that we're not normal—I don't know. But my gut says she's dangerous."
"Your gut," Regina repeats carefully. "You're basing this on instinct?"
"I'm basing this on twenty-eight years of reading people in the foster system and ten years of tracking bail jumpers who lie professionally," Emma says sharply. "I *know* when someone's hiding something. And Tamara is hiding something big."
Regina considers this. "What do you want to do about it?"
"Research. Background check. Find out who she really is." Emma pulls out her phone. "I have contacts. People who owe me favors. Give me a few hours and I'll know everything about Tamara—" she pauses, realizing, "—I don't even know her last name."
"I can find out," Gold says. He's recovered some of his composure, the shock of seeing Baelfire giving way to the calculating dealer-maker everyone knows. "I have resources. Magical and otherwise."
"No magic," Emma says immediately. "If she *is* connected to something supernatural, using magic might tip her off that we're investigating."
"Then how—"
"Old-fashioned detective work." Emma's smile is sharp. "I'm going back to that apartment. Alone. Make nice with Neal, fish for information about his fiancée. You three—" she gestures at the group, "—find a hotel. Get rooms. We're staying overnight at minimum."
"Emma." Harry moves closer. "If she's dangerous, you shouldn't go alone."
"I won't be alone. I'll be with Neal." Emma's voice softens slightly. "Look, he's—he's a lot of things. A liar, a coward, someone who hurt me badly. But he's not dangerous. Not to me. And he'll answer questions if I ask them right."
"And if Tamara comes back while you're there?" Regina asks.
"Then I smile and play nice and fish for information from her too." Emma looks between them. "I know what I'm doing. This is my job—was my job. Finding people who don't want to be found, uncovering lies. Let me do what I'm good at."
Harry studies her for a long moment. Then: "Fine. But you text us every hour. And if something feels wrong—if your gut says to leave—you leave immediately."
"Deal."
Regina stands, moving to Emma. She takes both Emma's hands, ignoring the public setting, the strangers walking past, everything except the woman in front of her. "Be careful. Please."
"I'm always careful," Emma says.
"You're always *reckless*," Regina corrects. "There's a difference."
Emma's smile is soft. "Then I'll be carefully reckless. How's that?"
"Terrible. But I'll take it." Regina pulls her into a brief hug—public affection that would have been unthinkable a week ago. "Come back to us."
"I will." Emma looks at Harry over Regina's shoulder. "Both of you. I promise."
Harry nods, but his expression is worried.
Gold clears his throat. "While the Sheriff investigates, I should—I should call Belle. Tell her what happened."
"You haven't called her yet?" Emma pulls back from Regina, surprised. "We found your son two hours ago and you haven't told your girlfriend?"
"I was—" Gold stops. "I was processing. And I was afraid that if I told her, if I said it out loud, it might somehow become less real."
"That's not how reality works," Harry observes.
"I'm aware." Gold stands, leaning heavily on his cane. "But I'm allowed a moment of irrational emotional response. I believe I've earned it."
"You have," Regina says quietly. "Call her. She'll want to know."
Gold moves away, pulling out his phone with the careful movements of someone still learning modern technology. They watch him walk toward a more secluded area of the park, already dialing.
Emma turns to Regina and Harry. "So. Hotels. Are we getting separate rooms or—"
"One room," Regina says immediately. "Two beds. We can share."
"Presumptuous," Emma says, but she's smiling.
"Practical," Regina counters. "We're in New York. Hotel rooms are expensive. And besides—" her voice softens, "—after today, I don't particularly want to be alone."
Harry nods agreement. "I'll take the couch. Or conjure my own bed. Whatever works."
"You're not sleeping on a couch," Emma protests.
"I spent fifty years sleeping on ruins and rubble. A couch would be luxury." Harry's smile is crooked. "Besides, I don't actually sleep much. Decades of hypervigilance."
"That's not healthy," Regina observes.
"I know. Adding it to the list of things I'm working on." Harry looks at Emma. "Go. Do your detective thing. We'll find accommodations and wait for your hourly check-ins."
Emma takes a breath. This is—this is a lot. Confronting Neal, investigating Tamara, processing the fact that Gold is Henry's grandfather and Neal is engaged and everything is *complicated*.
But she has people now. People who stay. People who'll wait in a hotel room and worry about her and be there when she gets back.
That's new.
That's *good*.
"Okay," she says. "I'm going. Text you the address when I find a place to crash. Don't do anything dramatic while I'm gone."
"We're very boring," Harry says.
"You convinced a wraith to commit suicide through conversation. You're not boring."
"Fair point."
Emma leaves before she can second-guess herself, walking back toward the subway with purpose. She has work to do—detective work, the kind she's good at. The kind that doesn't require magic or prophecy or destiny.
Just instinct and stubbornness and a refusal to let dangerous people near her son.
---
## **THE BENCH – CONTINUOUS**
Regina watches Emma disappear into the crowd, then sits back down with a sigh that contains decades of exhaustion.
"She's going to do something reckless," she says.
"Absolutely," Harry agrees, settling beside her. "But she's also very competent. She'll be fine."
"You don't know that."
"No. But I believe it. There's a difference." Harry stretches his legs out, examining the park with the same fascination he's applied to everything in this world. "This is strange."
"What is?"
"Sitting in a park. In New York. Worrying about someone I care about who's investigating someone else I used to care about's suspicious fiancée." Harry's smile is slight. "My life has become a soap opera."
Regina laughs despite herself. "Welcome to Storybrooke. Well—welcome to our extended Storybrooke drama. It follows us everywhere."
"Apparently." Harry is quiet for a moment. Then: "You handled that well. The confrontation with Neal. You stayed calm, kept Emma grounded."
"I've had practice managing emotional crises," Regina says dryly. "Decades of it."
"Still. It was impressive." Harry looks at her. "You love her. Emma."
It's not a question.
Regina considers deflecting—old habits, old walls. But Harry has been honest with them from the start. She can return the favor.
"I'm falling in love with her," she corrects quietly. "It's—it's terrifying. I've spent so long being alone, being the villain, being someone people fear rather than love. And now—" She gestures helplessly. "Now there's Emma. And you. And possibly Ruby. And I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I," Harry says. "But we're trying. That's what matters."
Regina looks at him—really looks. At his impossible green eyes that have seen too much, at the way he holds himself like he's still expecting the world to end, at the gentleness that shouldn't exist after fifty years of solitude but somehow does.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"Always."
"Why us? Emma and me specifically. You could have—I don't know, found someone simpler. Someone less complicated. Someone who isn't the Savior or the Evil Queen."
Harry is quiet for a long moment, considering. "Because you're both trying to be better than your pasts. Emma's learning to let people in despite every instinct telling her not to. You're learning to be more than the role your mother cast you in. That's—" he searches for the word, "—that's *brave*. Real bravery. Not the 'face the monster' kind. The 'face yourself' kind."
Regina's throat is tight. "You make it sound heroic."
"It is heroic. You're both heroes. You just don't recognize it yet." Harry's smile is soft. "Plus, you're both brilliant and attractive and powerful. That doesn't hurt."
"There's the flirting again."
"Can't help it. You're very flirtable." Harry pauses. "Is that a word?"
"No."
"Should be."
Regina laughs—real and warm and surprised. "You're ridiculous, Harry Potter."
"I've been told." Harry takes her hand, lacing their fingers together. The gesture is casual, comfortable. "Regina. I know this is fast. Three days ago I fell through a portal. Now I'm—we're—whatever this is. If that's too much, if you need time—"
"I don't need time," Regina interrupts. "I've had thirty years of time. Twenty-eight under a curse, two more trying to figure out who I am without it. I'm tired of waiting for the 'right moment' to be happy." She squeezes his hand. "This is terrifying. But it's also the best thing that's happened to me in decades."
"Same," Harry says quietly.
They sit in comfortable silence, watching New York happen around them—joggers and tourists and locals walking dogs, everyone wrapped up in their own stories, oblivious to the two people on the bench processing centuries of trauma and three days of unexpected connection.
Gold returns eventually, his expression complicated.
"Belle?" Regina asks.
"Is thrilled," Gold says, and there's wonder in his voice. "She—she's proud of me. For finding Bae. For not running when it got difficult." He sits heavily. "She wants to meet him. When he comes to Storybrooke."
"That's good," Harry says.
"It's terrifying," Gold corrects. "What if he doesn't like her? What if she sees him and realizes I'm—I'm still the monster who abandoned his son?"
"Then you deal with it," Regina says firmly. "You don't run. You don't make deals to fix it. You just—you be honest and let them make their own decisions."
Gold stares at her. "When did you become wise?"
"When I stopped trying to control everything." Regina's smile is slight. "Turns out letting go is significantly less exhausting than holding on."
"Noted." Gold looks at Harry. "You're very quiet."
"Processing," Harry says. "Today was—a lot. For all of us."
"Understatement," Gold mutters.
Harry's phone buzzes. He checks it, and his expression softens. "Emma. She's at Neal's building. Says she'll text updates every hour as promised."
"Good." Regina stands, brushing off her slacks with practiced efficiency. "Then we should find a hotel. Get cleaned up. Prepare for whatever Emma uncovers about the mysterious Tamara."
"You really think she's a threat?" Gold asks.
"I think Emma's instincts are usually correct," Regina says. "And I think we should be prepared for complications."
"More complications," Harry corrects. "We're already swimming in complications."
"Then we'll drown stylishly," Regina says. "Come on. There's a hotel three blocks from here. Four-star. They'll have rooms available."
"How do you know?" Harry asks.
"Because I checked on my phone while you were being philosophical about love and bravery." Regina's smile is sharp. "I can multitask."
"That's terrifying and impressive," Harry observes.
"I know. It's my brand."
They leave the park together—the Evil Queen, the Dark One, and the Master of Death, looking for all the world like three tourists who definitely aren't processing earth-shattering emotional revelations.
Behind them, New York continues its chaos.
Ahead of them, a hotel room waits.
And somewhere in a Lower East Side apartment, Emma Swan is doing what she does best—digging for truth in a pile of very convincing lies.
---
## **NEAL'S APARTMENT – 4:30 PM**
Emma stands outside 4F again, hand raised to knock, trying to figure out what the hell she's supposed to say.
*Hey, so I know I just dropped a bomb about your secret son, but can we talk about your fiancée who gives me deeply suspicious vibes?*
Yeah. That'll go well.
She knocks anyway.
Neal opens the door immediately—like he's been waiting. He looks terrible. Red-eyed, hair a mess, the particular exhaustion of someone whose entire worldview just shattered.
"Emma," he says. "I didn't—I thought you left."
"I did. I'm back." Emma forces herself to meet his eyes. "Can we talk? Without an audience this time?"
Neal glances over his shoulder—the apartment is empty, Tamara presumably out with those groceries she brought in earlier. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. Come in."
Emma enters, and the space feels different without the others. Smaller. More intimate in a way that makes her deeply uncomfortable.
Neal gestures at the couch. Emma takes the chair instead—keeping distance, maintaining boundaries.
"So," Neal starts.
"So," Emma echoes.
They stare at each other for a long moment. Then Neal laughs—broken and slightly hysterical. "This is so fucked up."
"Extremely," Emma agrees.
"I have a son."
"You do."
"And my father is the Dark One who helped cast a curse to find me."
"That too."
"And you're dating the Evil Queen and some kind of—what was he? Master of Death?"
"We're in a complicated poly situation," Emma says. "It's very modern."
Neal shakes his head. "Your life got *weird*, Emma."
"Says the man whose father is an immortal sorcerer." Emma leans forward. "Neal. Henry. Tell me about him."
—
# **THE PLAZA HOTEL – SUITE 412 – 6:30 PM**
The suite is excessive—all marble and gilt and the kind of luxury that makes a statement about having money to burn. Two bedrooms connected by a sitting area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, bathrooms larger than most studio apartments, furniture that probably costs more than Emma's car.
Regina had insisted on The Plaza.
Harry hadn't argued.
Gold had taken one of the bedrooms immediately, muttering about needing to call Belle again, leaving Harry and Regina alone in the sitting area with the weight of the day pressing down on both of them.
Regina moves to the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the city lights beginning to sparkle in the twilight. She's still in her travel clothes—the expensive slacks and blouse that somehow look immaculate despite hours of emotional warfare—but her posture has finally cracked. The perfect control is slipping.
Harry watches her from the doorway, cataloging the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers dig into her own arms like she's physically holding herself together.
"Regina," he says quietly.
She doesn't turn. "I'm fine."
"You're not." Harry moves closer, stopping a few feet behind her. Close enough to matter, far enough to give her space. "You've been holding everyone else together all day. You're allowed to fall apart."
"I don't fall apart." Regina's voice is tight. "I'm the Evil Queen, remember? We're very good at maintaining composure under pressure."
"You're Regina Mills," Harry corrects gently. "And Regina Mills just spent the day mediating between her girlfriend's traumatic confrontation with her ex and said ex's reunion with his immortal father. That's—that's a lot. You're allowed to be not fine."
Regina's laugh is sharp. "And what would falling apart accomplish? Emma needs me to be strong. Gold needs—god knows what Gold needs. You—"
"I need you to be honest," Harry interrupts. "Not strong. Not composed. Just honest."
The silence stretches.
Then Regina's shoulders shake—just once, a brief crack in the facade.
Harry closes the distance, his hands finding her shoulders. The touch is gentle, grounding. "Talk to me."
"I'm—" Regina's voice breaks. "I'm terrified. Emma's out there with Neal, investigating someone who might be dangerous, and I can't protect her. Henry's in Storybrooke not knowing his father exists, and I can't prepare him. My magic is back but I'm still—" She stops, breathing hard. "I'm still the woman who destroyed lives. Who cursed an entire kingdom because I couldn't handle my own pain."
"Regina—"
"And now I'm supposed to be—what? A good person? A good mother? A good *girlfriend*?" Regina turns in his grip, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "I don't know how to do any of this. I've spent decades being the villain. Playing the role my mother wrote for me. And now everyone expects me to be something else and I don't—I don't know if I can."
Harry's hands slide from her shoulders to cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "You already are something else. You're a mother who loves her son so much you're co-parenting with someone you used to hate. You're a woman who fixed a curse to free an entire town. You're someone trying to be better despite every reason to stay bitter."
"That doesn't erase what I've done."
"No," Harry agrees. "But it means you're more than what you've done. You're—" he searches for the words, "—you're extraordinary, Regina. Flawed and powerful and trying so hard to be worthy of the love people are offering you."
Regina's breath catches. "You barely know me."
"I know enough." Harry's voice is soft, his thumbs still tracing gentle patterns on her skin. "I know you're brilliant and fierce and terrified of being vulnerable. I know you've been hurt by everyone who was supposed to love you. I know you're learning how to trust despite that."
"You see too much," Regina whispers.
"I see you." Harry leans closer, until their foreheads touch. "The real you. Not the Queen. Not the villain. Just Regina."
Regina makes a sound—half sob, half laugh. "That's terrifying."
"I know." Harry's smile is crooked despite the intimacy of the moment. "Being seen is the scariest thing in the world. But you're doing it anyway. That's—that's remarkable."
"Stop making me sound heroic."
"Stop being heroic and I will."
Regina laughs despite the tears threatening to spill. Her hands come up, fisting in Harry's shirt, holding on like he's the only solid thing in a world that won't stop shifting. "Harry—"
"Yeah?"
"Kiss me."
It's not a request. It's a command from someone used to giving them, but there's vulnerability underneath—a question she's afraid to ask properly.
*Want me. Choose me. See me and want me anyway.*
Harry answers by closing the last few inches between them.
The kiss starts gentle—careful, like he's handling something precious. His lips are soft against hers, asking permission, offering comfort.
Regina doesn't want comfort.
She wants to *feel* something other than fear and inadequacy and the weight of decades of mistakes.
She kisses him harder, fingers tightening in his shirt, pulling him closer. Harry makes a surprised sound but responds immediately, his hands sliding from her face to her waist, anchoring her against him.
This kiss is different from their first—less careful, more *hungry*. Regina pours everything into it: her fear, her hope, her desperate need to be something other than what she was.
Harry tastes like coffee and magic and something uniquely *him*—ancient and powerful and somehow still gentle despite everything he's survived.
Regina's back hits the window—when did they move?—and Harry's body presses against hers, solid and warm and *real*. One of his hands slides into her hair, careful not to pull but firm enough to feel possessive.
"Regina," he breathes against her mouth. "Are you—is this—"
"Don't stop," she commands. "Don't you dare stop."
"Wasn't planning on it." Harry's smile is crooked even as he kisses her again, deeper this time. His other hand finds her hip, thumb brushing the strip of skin where her blouse has come untucked.
Regina gasps at the contact—such a small touch, but it's been *so long* since anyone touched her with want rather than fear or duty or political maneuvering.
"Sensitive?" Harry's voice is rough with want.
"Out of practice," Regina admits breathlessly.
"How out of practice?"
"Thirty years." Regina's fingers dig into his shoulders. "Curse, then trying to be a good mother, then—it's been a while."
Harry pulls back just enough to look at her, and his eyes are very green, very dark. "Thirty years. Christ, Regina."
"Don't—don't make it a thing."
"I'm not." His hand spreads wider on her hip, possessive and grounding. "I'm just—that's a long time. We should probably slow down—"
"If you slow down right now, I will turn you into a toad." Regina's voice is sharp despite the breathlessness.
Harry laughs—surprised and delighted. "Threatening me with transformation magic. That's new."
"Is it working?"
"Extremely." He kisses her again, harder this time, and Regina feels his restraint cracking. His hand slides higher under her blouse, fingers tracing the edge of her bra. "Tell me what you want."
"You," Regina says without hesitation. "I want you. Here. Now. Before I lose my nerve or remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea."
"It's not a terrible idea," Harry murmurs against her mouth.
"We've known each other three days."
"Best three days of my life." His thumb traces the underside of her breast through silk and lace, and Regina's breath stutters. "And you're overthinking again. I can feel your magic crackling."
"Because you're touching me and my magic responds to arousal and I haven't been aroused in three *decades*—" Regina stops, cheeks flushing. "I did not mean to say that out loud."
Harry's smile is wicked. "I'm very glad you did. That's—incredibly hot, actually."
"You're very strange."
"I'm very interested in making sure you're aroused for significantly less than thirty years." Harry's hand moves with more confidence now, cupping her breast properly, thumb brushing her nipple through the fabric.
Regina's knees actually buckle.
Harry catches her, pressing her more firmly against the window. "I've got you."
"Clearly." Regina's voice comes out more breathless than intended. "How are you so good at this when you claimed to be out of practice?"
"I said I was out of practice, not incompetent." Harry's mouth finds her neck, teeth grazing gently. "Also, you're very responsive. Makes it easy."
"Responsive is a polite way of saying desperate."
"There's nothing wrong with desperate." Harry's other hand slides to her ass, pulling her hips against his, and Regina can feel exactly how much this is affecting him too. "I'm fairly desperate myself."
"I noticed." Regina rolls her hips experimentally and is rewarded with Harry's sharp intake of breath. "How desperate?"
"Very." His voice is strained. "Fifty years of celibacy kind of desperate."
"Fifty—oh my god." Regina pulls back to look at him. "Harry. That's—"
"A lot, I know." His cheeks are flushed, eyes dark. "So if I'm moving too fast or being too—"
"You're perfect," Regina interrupts. She kisses him hard, pouring reassurance and want into it. When she pulls back, her voice is rough. "We should move. To a bedroom. Before Gold comes out here and we traumatize him."
"Good plan." Harry doesn't let go of her. "Your room or mine?"
"Mine. Bigger bed."
"Practical." His smile is crooked. "I like practical."
"I know you do."
Regina takes his hand and leads him toward her bedroom, hyperaware of every point of contact—his fingers laced with hers, the heat of his body close behind her, the way his magic is humming against hers like static electricity.
The door clicks shut behind them, and suddenly the space feels very small despite being larger than most people's entire apartments.
Harry's hands find her waist again immediately, pulling her back against him. "I've been wanting to do this since I saw you in that cell," he admits against her ear.
"Wanted to maul me against a window?"
"Wanted to touch you." His hands slide up her sides, thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. "Wanted to see if you'd let me close. If you'd want this too."
"I want this." Regina turns in his arms, hands already working on his shirt buttons. "I want you. Even though it's fast and probably inadvisable and definitely going to complicate things."
"Everything about us is already complicated." Harry helps with the buttons, shrugging out of his shirt to reveal pale skin marked with scars. "Might as well add amazing sex to the list."
"Confident." Regina's fingers trace one particularly nasty scar across his ribs. "You haven't seen me naked yet. I might be terrible at this."
"Impossible." Harry's hands find the buttons of her blouse. "May I?"
"Please."
He unbuttons slowly—each movement deliberate, giving her time to change her mind. Regina uses the time to map the scars on his chest and stomach, cataloging stories she'll demand later.
When her blouse falls open, Harry makes a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a prayer.
"You're staring," Regina observes, trying for composed and landing somewhere near breathless.
"You're beautiful." Harry's hands hover at her shoulders, waiting for permission.
"You're required to say that."
"I'm choosing to say it because looking at you makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts." He slides the blouse off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. His eyes darken as he takes in burgundy lace and pale skin. "Christ, Regina."
"Is that good or—"
He kisses her hard enough to stop the question. His hands are everywhere—her back, her waist, sliding up to cup her breasts through lace that suddenly feels like too much fabric.
Regina makes a sound that's embarrassingly needy and reaches for his belt.
"Eager?" Harry's voice is rough with want.
"Thirty years, remember?" Regina gets the belt open, then the button of his trousers. "I'm allowed to be eager."
"You're allowed to be anything you want." Harry's hands slide around to her back, fingers finding the clasp of her bra with surprising efficiency. "This okay?"
"More than."
The bra joins the blouse on the floor, and Harry takes a moment to just *look*—appreciation clear in his expression, in the way his breathing has gone ragged.
"You're staring again," Regina says, but there's no bite in it.
"Can't help it." Harry's hands cup her breasts, thumbs brushing nipples in a way that makes Regina's magic spark purple around them. "That's new."
"My magic responds to emotion." Regina's voice is unsteady. "Strong emotion. Especially—oh—especially when I'm—"
"Aroused?" Harry's smile is wicked as he rolls her nipples between his fingers. "Say it, Regina."
"When I'm aroused," she gasps. "Are you happy?"
"Extremely." He leans down, mouth replacing his fingers, and Regina's knees give out completely.
Harry catches her, guiding them toward the bed. They tumble onto expensive sheets—graceless, desperate, nothing like the smooth seductions Regina remembers from decades ago.
"Smooth," Regina manages breathlessly as Harry's mouth continues its exploration.
"Told you I was out of practice."
"You're doing fine." Regina's hands find his hair, holding him where he is. "Better than fine. Don't stop."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
His mouth trails lower—across her ribs, her stomach, pausing at the waistband of her slacks. He looks up at her, question clear in his eyes.
"Yes," Regina says before he can ask. "God, yes."
Harry makes quick work of her slacks and the matching burgundy lace underneath, and then Regina is completely bare under his gaze.
She should feel self-conscious—she's not twenty anymore, has decades of history written on her skin—but the way Harry looks at her makes her feel *powerful*.
"Beautiful," he says quietly. "Absolutely beautiful."
"Your turn." Regina sits up, hands finding his trousers. "Fair is fair."
Harry helps, and then he's as bare as she is, and Regina takes a moment to appreciate what fifty years of magical sustainability has maintained—lean muscle, pale skin, scars that tell stories of survival.
"Hi," Harry says, suddenly looking uncertain despite his obvious arousal.
"Hi." Regina pulls him down on top of her, savoring the skin-to-skin contact. "Still okay?"
"More than." Harry's hands find her thighs, spreading them gently. "But I should warn you—it's been a very long time and you're incredibly attractive and I might not last as long as I'd like."
"I don't care." Regina's honesty surprises even her. "I just—I just want to feel something other than fear and regret. I want to feel wanted."
"You are wanted." Harry's hand slides between her thighs, and Regina gasps. "Very wanted. In case that wasn't clear."
"It's becoming clearer." Regina's hips arch into his touch. "Harry—"
"Tell me what you need."
"You." Regina pulls him into a kiss that's more desperation than technique. "Just you. Please."
Harry positions himself, pausing one more time. "Sure?"
"If you don't move in the next five seconds, I'm using magic to—oh—"
He moves, and Regina's threat dissolves into a moan as he fills her slowly, carefully, giving her time to adjust.
"Okay?" Harry's voice is strained.
"Perfect." Regina's legs wrap around his waist. "Move. Please move."
Harry does, and it's—it's *everything*. Thirty years of celibacy, of fear, of being alone—all of it melting away into sensation and connection and the perfect terror of being *wanted*.
"Regina," Harry gasps against her neck. "You feel—this is—"
"I know." Her nails dig into his back, probably leaving marks. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
"Not planning on it." Harry's rhythm is steady despite his obvious struggle for control. His magic rises to meet hers—death and life, darkness and light, crackling purple and green around them.
Regina's pleasure builds with terrifying speed—thirty years of need compressed into this moment, this man, this perfect combination of gentle and desperate.
"Harry—I'm—I can't—"
"Let go." His hand finds her hip, angling her for deeper penetration. "I've got you. Let go."
Regina does, and her climax crashes through her with enough force to make her magic explode outward—purple light flooding the room, the windows rattling, the very air crackling with power.
Harry follows moments later with a groan that sounds like her name, his own magic flaring green and gold.
They collapse together, breathing hard, tangled in sheets and each other.
For a long moment, neither moves.
Then Harry lifts his head. "Did we break the windows?"
Regina checks. The glass is intact but frost has spread across it in intricate patterns. "No. But I may have accidentally frozen them. Sorry."
"Don't apologize. That was—" Harry stops, clearly searching for words.
"Intense?" Regina supplies.
"Extraordinary." He kisses her gently, sweetly. "You're extraordinary."
Regina's throat is tight. "You're not so bad yourself."
"High praise from the Evil Queen."
"Former Evil Queen." Regina traces the line of his jaw. "Current disaster trying to figure out healthy relationships."
"I'll be a disaster with you." Harry shifts to lie beside her, pulling her against his chest. "We can be disasters together."
Regina should say something witty, something to deflect the intimacy of the moment.
Instead, she just holds on and lets herself believe—for this moment at least—that maybe she gets to have this.
Maybe she gets to be wanted.
Maybe she gets to be happy.
And when Harry's fingers trace idle patterns on her spine and she realizes she's already wanting him again—
Maybe that's perfect.
---
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