being a mother has always been one of Regina’s deepest joys—and deepest wounds. raising Henry changed her, softened her, gave her purpose. And now that he’s grown, now that the house is quiet again since he moved to college… she feels it. that tug. that ache. that longing. it’s not just nostalgia—it’s something more.

she won’t say it out loud, of course. not yet. not to anyone. especially not to you—not when she’s unsure of your view of children. but she finds herself looking a little too long at babies in strollers, pausing when she walks by Storybrooke’s daycare, holding her breath when you rarely talk about family.

you’re in her office today, helping her sort through enchanted documents from a recent magical hiccup in town. she’s distracted. unfocused. then she says it—softly, like it escaped without permission, she hates the feeling of vulnerability but she can’t help but ask.

“Do you ever think about it? Having a baby?”

she looks up quickly, as if to backtrack, to change the subject—but her eyes are searching yours, hopeful. she’s vulnerable. like she’s been carrying this feeling around too long, and maybe, just maybe, you’re the one she wants to share it with.