Chapter Text
Regina Mills is aware she's screaming.
She's aware of the phones pointed at her like tiny accusatory cameras. She's aware that Mrs. Henderson from her HOA is three stalls away, clutching a bag of organic arugula, mouth hanging open. She's aware that her voice has reached a pitch typically reserved for subway brakes and wounded animals.
She doesn't care.
"RED, EMMA. I MARKED IT IN RED."
Regina thrusts her phone forward, the digital calendar blazing on the screen like evidence in a murder trial. Her other hand clutches her printed backup calendar—because redundancy is the foundation of civilization—and both calendars display the same damning information: Saturday, 7:43 PM - Private Time (Regina's Apartment).
Emma Swan stands three feet away, holding a bouquet of wildflowers that includes—Regina's sinuses have already identified—ragweed, goldenrod, and some kind of purple thing that's making her left eye water. Emma's wearing that infuriating expression, the one where her lips quirk and her eyes crinkle and she looks like she's trying very hard not to laugh.
Which makes Regina want to scream louder.
"It's three in the afternoon," Emma says, voice deliberately calm in that maddening way of hers. "I wanted to surprise you."
Regina's eye twitches. "Surprise. Is. Chaos."
"Babe—"
"Chaos is the enemy of productivity!" Regina's heel catches on an uneven cobblestone. She doesn't fall—she's worn heels through worse terrain than the Portland Farmer's Market—but it's close enough that someone gasps. "Do you understand what you've done? You've disrupted the entire evening's schedule. If we're having this conversation now, at three-fourteen PM, we're not having the planned conversation at seven-forty-three, which means—"
"Regina." Emma takes a step closer. The flowers bounce. Regina's sinuses stage a small revolt. "You're yelling about our sex life in front of the kale guy."
Regina's head whips around.
The kale vendor—early twenties, man-bun, probably named Ethan or River or Leaf—has frozen mid-bunch-arrangement. His eyes are wide. A woman beside him has her phone out, definitely recording, and she's not even pretending otherwise.
"I was not—" Regina starts, but her voice is still too loud, still too sharp. She tries to modulate, to find her boardroom voice, her voice-of-reason voice. "I was simply explaining the importance of respecting pre-arranged intimate encounters—"
"Oh my god," someone whispers.
Emma's shoulders start shaking. She's biting her lip, hard, but it's not working. A snort escapes.
Regina's blood pressure, already in dangerous territory, spikes into the stratosphere.
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No." Emma's voice wobbles. "Definitely not."
"You are. You're laughing." Regina's hands are shaking. When did they start shaking? She tightens her grip on both calendars. "This is exactly the problem. You don't take our relationship seriously. You don't respect structure. You don't—"
Emma laughs.
Not a small laugh. Not a polite chuckle. A full, head-thrown-back, from-the-belly laugh that echoes across the market square.
Regina's vision whites out at the edges.
She goes cold. Perfectly, crystalline cold.
Regina straightens her spine, smooths her blouse—silk, cream-colored, already showing sweat stains under the arms but that's fine, everything's fine—and turns to face the crowd that's definitely, unmistakably formed around them.
"If I could have everyone's attention."
Emma stops laughing. "Regina. What are you doing."
"Providing a public service." Regina lifts her phone higher. Her hand's still shaking, but she locks her elbow. Stable. Professional. "If everyone would direct their attention to my screen, I'd like to demonstrate the importance of proper relationship time management."
"Oh no." Emma's face drains of color. "No, no, no—"
"You see here—" Regina swipes to her calendar app, zooms in. The crowd actually leans closer. There are at least fifteen people now. Mrs. Henderson has her reading glasses out. "—a properly organized schedule includes color-coding for different types of activities. Blue for work commitments, green for personal maintenance, yellow for social obligations, and red—"
"Regina, please—"
"—red for intimate encounters." Regina's voice doesn't waver. She's presenting to a board of directors. She's presenting quarterly earnings. She's presenting her meticulously planned life to a group of strangers at a farmer's market and this is completely normal. "Note the specific time allocations. Seven-forty-three PM arrival allows for three minutes of transitional conversation—"
"I'm begging you—"
"—seventeen minutes of foreplay, factoring in a margin of error for variability in arousal patterns—"
Someone in the crowd makes a choking sound.
"—followed by the main event, duration dependent on position and energy levels but typically ranging from twelve to eighteen minutes—"
"THAT'S IT." Emma lunges forward and snatches the phone from Regina's hand.
Regina's brain short-circuits. "Give that back."
"No." Emma backs up, phone held high. She's taller than Regina by three inches. Regina despises every one of them. "You've lost phone privileges."
"That's my property—"
"You were about to tell these nice people about our orgasm schedule!"
"It's a perfectly reasonable—Emma Swan, you give me that phone right now or so help me—"
Emma grins. It's that wild, reckless grin that made Regina fall in love with her in the first place and currently makes her want to commit violence.
Then Emma runs.
For a second—a single, crystalline second—Regina just stands there. Her brain hasn't caught up. Emma's running. Away. With her phone. Her phone that contains her entire life, her calendar, her to-do lists, her backup calendar, her notes about the backup calendar—
"GET BACK HERE."
Regina takes off.
Four-inch Louboutins were not designed for sprinting through a crowded farmer's market. Regina knows this. Regina is an intelligent, rational woman who understands basic physics and the limitations of stiletto heels on uneven surfaces.
Regina doesn't care.
She dodges around a stroller. Leaps over a dog leash. Her heel catches on a wooden crate and she stumbles but doesn't fall, doesn't slow down, just keeps moving because Emma's blonde ponytail is bobbing through the crowd ahead and that phone contains sixteen months of carefully curated scheduling data—
"PHONE THEFT," Regina shouts, because maybe someone will help, maybe someone will stop Emma, maybe someone will understand that this is a crisis. "THEFT IN PROGRESS. SOMEONE STOP THAT WOMAN."
Emma looks back over her shoulder, still grinning, and nearly crashes into a man carrying a basket of bread.
"Sorry!" Emma calls out, veering left.
Regina veers left too, faster now, gaining ground. Her lungs are burning. Her feet are screaming. There's a stitch forming in her side and her hair is coming loose from its neat bun but none of that matters because Emma's right there, just ahead, laughing like this is some kind of game—
Emma darts between two vendor stalls.
Regina follows.
Too late, she sees the display.
Artisanal honey. Locally sourced, the sign proclaims, from sustainable hives. Glass jars stacked in a pyramid, amber and gold catching the afternoon sun. Honeycomb displayed on wooden boards. Beeswax candles arranged in neat rows. The vendor—older woman, sensible shoes, currently reaching for something under her table—doesn't see them coming.
Emma tries to stop. Her sneakers skid on the grass.
Regina can't stop. Momentum and four-inch heels and sixteen months of frustration and love and carefully scheduled orgasms all crash together.
She hits Emma.
Emma hits the display table.
The table tips.
Honey doesn't shatter. That's not how honey works. But glass jars do, and when they hit the ground they explode in spectacular fashion, sending honey arcing through the air in thick, golden streams. Honeycomb splats against the grass. Candles roll. The pyramid structure that probably took the vendor an hour to build collapses in slow motion, each tier sliding into the next, creating a cascade of breaking glass and spreading sweetness.
Regina lands on Emma.
Emma lands in honey.
They're both covered in it. Regina can feel it soaking through her silk blouse, cold and sticky and completely ruining the fabric. It's in her hair. On her face. Her hands slip when she tries to push herself up and she falls against Emma's chest, which is also covered in honey, and Emma's arms come up automatically to catch her.
"Hi," Emma says. Her eyes are very green. There's honey on her cheekbone.
Regina's brain is malfunctioning. "This. Wasn't. On. The. Schedule."
"I know." Emma's still smiling, softer now. "That's kind of the point."
The vendor is screaming about insurance. The crowd has multiplied—Regina can hear them, gasping and laughing and oh god, definitely still filming. Mrs. Henderson is probably having a coronary. Regina's white silk blouse is transparent now, honey-soaked and clinging, and she's straddling her girlfriend in the wreckage of a honey display at three-seventeen PM on a Saturday when they should be—
Emma kisses her.
It's not on the schedule. It's not at seven-forty-three PM in Regina's apartment with the lights dimmed and the bedroom at precisely sixty-eight degrees. It's in public, covered in honey, with at least twenty people watching, and Emma tastes like wildflowers and chaos and everything Regina's been trying so hard not to need.
Regina kisses back.
She means to pull away. She means to stand up, apologize to the vendor, deal with this situation like a rational adult. Instead her hands slide into Emma's hair—sticky now, catching on honey—and Emma's hands grip her hips and they're definitely making it worse, definitely creating more of a scene, but Emma's tongue traces her bottom lip and Regina forgets why she cares.
Someone clears their throat.
Regina pulls back. Emma's lips are swollen. There's honey on Regina's tongue.
"Ladies." The honey vendor stands over them, hands on hips. She's holding a phone. Not filming—calling someone. "I've contacted the police."
Regina's stomach drops into her honey-covered shoes.
"The police," she repeats, voice faint.
"And my insurance company. And my lawyer." The woman's jaw is set. "That was four hundred dollars' worth of product."
Regina looks at the wreckage. Honey is still spreading, a slow golden tide across the grass. Shattered glass glints in the sun. A bee—an actual bee—has appeared from somewhere and is investigating the carnage.
This is fine. This is manageable. Regina handles crisis situations for a living. She just needs to stand up, brush herself off, get her phone back, and—
Her phone.
Regina's head snaps toward Emma. "Where's my phone."
Emma pats her pockets. They make squelching sounds. "Uh."
"Emma."
"It might be. Under us?" Emma shifts, honey making obscene sounds. "Or. In the honey somewhere?"
Regina closes her eyes. Breathes. Opens them.
Mrs. Henderson is definitely filming now.
"Excuse me." A new voice. Male, authoritative. Regina knows that voice. She knows it the way you know the sound of an approaching train when you're tied to the tracks.
She turns her head.
Mayor Walsh stands three feet away, flanked by two city council members. He's wearing his campaign smile, the one that doesn't reach his eyes. Regina works for the city planning department. Regina has a meeting with him on Monday about zoning regulations. Regina is currently sitting in honey, straddling her girlfriend, at a public market, covered in evidence of destruction.
"Regina Mills." Walsh's smile doesn't waver. "I didn't expect to see you here."
Regina's mind goes blank. Completely, utterly blank.
"Sir," she manages.
"Interesting afternoon?" He glances at the honey carnage, at Emma, at Regina's transparent blouse. "I've been reviewing your proposal for the waterfront development. Had some questions about your judgment regarding risk assessment and public image."
The council members are definitely filming now.
"I can explain—" Regina starts, but she can't. She literally cannot form words that would make this situation make sense.
"I'm sure you can." Walsh's smile sharpens. "Why don't you come by my office first thing Monday morning? Say, seven AM? We'll have a chat about professional standards."
He walks away.
The council members follow.
Regina stays frozen, honey-covered and straddling Emma, while her career implodes in real-time.
Emma's hand finds hers, sticky and warm. "That was your boss?"
"Worse." Regina's voice sounds hollow. "That was the mayor. And Monday's meeting was about my promotion."
"Oh." Emma squeezes her hand. "So. Probably not great for the scheduled career advancement timeline?"
Regina should laugh. The irony is almost perfect—she schedules everything, controls everything, and the one moment she loses control, it destroys the one thing she can't schedule back into place.
She doesn't laugh.
She looks down at Emma, at her concerned green eyes and honey-sticky hair and the flowers she'd brought—flowers Regina is allergic to but Emma had picked because they were pretty, because she'd wanted to surprise her, because Emma doesn't think in schedules and timelines and carefully plotted advancement strategies.
Emma just thinks in moments.
And Regina just destroyed both their moments and her meticulously planned future in one spectacular display of public hysteria.
"I'm going to be fired," Regina says quietly.
"Maybe not—"
"I yelled about our sex life in front of city council."
"You weren't to know they'd show up—"
"I gave a presentation on orgasm scheduling to a crowd of strangers."
Emma winces. "That was. Not your finest moment."
"I destroyed four hundred dollars' worth of honey."
"We could split—"
"My boss just saw me sexually straddling you in public wreckage."
"Okay, that one's harder to spin."
Regina's phone buzzes somewhere in the honey. They both freeze.
Emma digs around, comes up with the device. The screen is cracked—of course it is—but still functional. Seventeen notifications. All email. Regina recognizes the city's automated alert system.
Her work email has been tagged in six videos already.
"Oh god," Emma whispers, reading over her shoulder.
The first video has forty thousand views. Someone's titled it "Psycho Girlfriend Schedules Sex at Farmer's Market." The comments are already brutal.
Regina's mother has been tagged.
Regina's mother, who sits on the city planning commission. Who already thinks Regina's relationship with Emma is "unseemly and unprofessional." Who is definitely, absolutely going to see this before Regina can explain.
The phone buzzes again. Text message from her mother: We need to talk. Immediately.
Another buzz. Her assistant: Regina, are you okay? Everyone's talking about a video?
Another. Her best friend: GIRL. CALL ME.
Regina drops the phone in the honey.
"Maybe that's for the best," Emma offers weakly.
The police arrive. Two officers, looking somewhere between amused and exhausted. The honey vendor is already talking to them, gesturing at the wreckage, at Regina and Emma, voice rising.
Regina should stand. Should face this with dignity. Should start damage control.
Instead, she stays exactly where she is, honey-soaked and career-ruined and still straddling Emma in the wreckage of her perfectly scheduled life.
"I'm sorry," Emma says softly. "I just wanted to do something romantic. Surprise you with flowers. Maybe take you for coffee. I didn't mean—"
"I know." Regina's throat is tight. "I know you didn't."
"And for the record? You don't have to schedule everything. I like the spontaneous stuff too. The messy stuff." Emma's hand comes up, sticky and gentle, to cup Regina's face. "I like you even when you're covered in honey and screaming about calendars."
Regina's laugh comes out broken. "That's good. Because I think screaming-about-calendars-while-covered-in-honey is going to be my brand now."
"Could be worse," Emma says. "Could be eggplant."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"I really, really want to hate you right now."
Emma kisses her again, soft and sweet and tasting like honey and disaster.
One of the officers clears his throat. "Ladies? We need to take your statements."
Regina pulls back. Looks at Emma. Looks at the honey. Looks at Mrs. Henderson, still filming, and the crowd that's grown to at least thirty people now, and the vendor who's calculating damages on her phone, and the bee that's definitely multiplying—there are three bees now, possibly a fourth.
She thinks about Monday morning. Seven AM meeting with the mayor. The video that's probably gone viral. Her mother's incoming phone call. The promotion she can kiss goodbye.
She thinks about her calendar—printed and digital, now both destroyed—and all the carefully scheduled moments that were supposed to add up to a perfect, controlled life.
She thinks about Emma, who brought her flowers she's allergic to because they were pretty.
"I'm going to need you to arrest me," Regina tells the officer.
Emma's head snaps up. "What? No—"
"It's the only logical solution." Regina's brain is clicking into crisis mode. "If I'm arrested, I have an excuse for Monday's meeting. Criminal incident. Can't be held responsible. Might even generate sympathy—"
"Regina—"
"You." Regina points at the honey vendor. "How much to drop the charges if I turn myself in voluntarily?"
The vendor blinks. "I. What?"
"Strategic surrender. Shows remorse. Courts love remorse." Regina's standing now, honey dripping, already planning her defense. "I'll pay full damages plus twenty percent for your trouble. We'll call it an accident—"
"It was an accident," Emma interjects.
"—I'll do a public apology, maybe some community service—do you do community service for honey destruction? What's the precedent—"
"Ma'am." The officer holds up a hand. "This is a civil matter, not criminal. We're not arresting anyone."
Regina's emergency plan crumbles. "You're not?"
"You'll need to settle damages with the vendor. But no, we're not taking you in for crashing into a honey display."
"What if I insist?"
"Regina." Emma grabs her hand. "Stop trying to get arrested."
"It would look better than the alternative!"
"The alternative being?"
"Going viral as Psycho Schedule Girlfriend!" Regina's voice is rising again. She can feel it happening, can't stop it. "Losing my promotion! Disappointing my mother! Ruining my entire carefully planned life because I lost control for five minutes!"
"You lost control because I surprised you," Emma says quietly.
Regina stops. The market has gone quiet. Everyone's watching again.
"You surprised me," Regina repeats. The words feel heavy. "You brought me flowers."
"Yeah."
"At three PM when we had plans at seven-forty-three PM."
"Yeah."
"And I screamed at you. In public. About scheduling."
Emma's smile is sad. "Pretty much."
Regina looks at her girlfriend—honey-covered, patient, still holding those stupid flowers that are making her sinuses revolt. Emma, who doesn't understand calendars or structure or the importance of risk management. Emma, who thinks romance means wildflowers at three PM instead of scheduled intimacy at seven-forty-three.
Emma, who's looking at her like she's worth the screaming and the honey and the viral video and all of it.
"I'm going to get fired," Regina says.
"Maybe."
"My mother's going to disown me."
"Probably not."
"The entire city thinks I'm insane."
"Only forty thousand of them so far."
"This is a disaster."
"Yeah." Emma steps closer, honey squelching. "But we're together, right? So we'll figure it out?"
Regina wants to say yes. Wants to believe it's that simple.
Instead, her phone—still lying in the honey—buzzes one more time.
Emma picks it up, squints at the cracked screen. Her face goes pale.
"What?" Regina demands. "What is it?"
Emma turns the phone around.
The video has gone viral. Properly viral. National news is picking it up. #PsychoScheduleGirlfriend is trending on Twitter. Someone's made a remix of Regina shouting "CHAOS IS THE ENEMY OF PRODUCTIVITY" set to dubstep.
And worse—so much worse—someone's identified them. Their names, their jobs, Emma's address, Regina's position at city hall.
The comments are already calling for Regina's resignation.
Regina takes the phone. Scrolls. Each comment is a nail in her professional coffin.
"Well," she says faintly. "At least it can't get worse."
Emma's phone buzzes. She checks it. Goes even paler.
"Your mother's calling me."
"Don't answer—"
Emma answers.
"Hi, Mrs. Mills," Emma says, voice bright and doomed. "Yeah, we saw the video. Uh-huh. Yes, that's us. The honey. Yeah. No, Regina's right here—wait, you want to talk about what? Our relationship timeline? I don't think—yes, ma'am. Sure. I'll put you on speaker."
She holds the phone between them.
Cora Mills's voice cuts through the market like a knife through warm butter. "Regina Sophia Mills. You have exactly ten seconds to explain why the entire city is watching you discuss your sex life covered in honey, or so help me—"
Regina looks at Emma.
Emma looks at Regina.
They're standing in the wreckage of a honey display, covered in sticky evidence of disaster, with Regina's mother on speakerphone and the police still waiting for statements and Mrs. Henderson filming their downfall and at least fifty people watching their relationship implode in real-time.
Regina's promotion is dead. Her reputation is destroyed. Her carefully scheduled life has collapsed into chaos.
And Emma—Emma is still holding those stupid flowers, still standing beside her, still looking at her like none of it matters as long as they're together.
Regina takes a breath.
Then she hangs up on her mother.
The market goes silent.
"Did you just—" Emma starts.
"I did." Regina's hands are shaking again, but this time it feels different. Liberating. Terrifying. "I absolutely did."
Her phone immediately starts ringing. She declines the call.
It rings again.
Declines.
Again.
Regina turns the phone off and drops it in the honey one final time.
"Okay," Emma says slowly. "What's the plan?"
Regina looks at the crowd. At the cameras. At the honey spreading across the grass and the bees multiplying and the officers waiting impatiently and her entire life falling apart in broad daylight.
She thinks about schedules and control and everything she's built.
Then she thinks about Emma. Messy, spontaneous, chaos-inducing Emma.
"The plan," Regina says, "is we run."
"What?"
"We run. Now. Before my mother calls back. Before the mayor files a complaint. Before I remember all the reasons this is insane." Regina grabs Emma's sticky hand. "We run, and we figure out the rest later."
Emma's grin is sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "That's the least Regina Mills plan I've ever heard."
"I know." Regina's heart is pounding. "I hate it. Let's go."
They run.
Hand in hand, honey-covered and doomed, they sprint through the farmer's market while Regina's mother calls Emma's phone and the police shout after them and Mrs. Henderson captures every second for posterity.
Regina's heel catches on a cobblestone. This time, she does fall.
Emma falls with her.
They land in a display of fresh lavender, purple flowers exploding around them, and Regina's sinuses stage a full rebellion. She sneezes. Once. Twice. Can't stop.
Emma's laughing, covered in honey and lavender, and Regina's sneezing and her career is over and they're probably going to get arrested for real this time and none of it—absolutely none of it—was on the schedule.
"I love you," Emma says, breathless and grinning. "Even when you're insane."
Regina sneezes again. "I'm not insane. I'm strategically imploding."
"Is there a difference?"
"Yes. One is scheduled."
Emma kisses her, lavender and honey and chaos.
Somewhere, Regina's mother is calling the police.
Somewhere, the mayor is drafting her termination letter.
Somewhere, forty thousand people are watching her life fall apart in real-time.
But here, now, covered in disaster and holding Emma's hand, Regina thinks maybe—just maybe—some things are worth leaving off the calendar.
Then Emma's phone rings. Unknown number.
Emma answers without thinking. "Hello?"
"Miss Swan? This is Channel Seven News. We'd like to interview you and your girlfriend about the viral farmer's market incident. Would you be available for—"
Regina grabs the phone and throws it into the lavender.
"NO INTERVIEWS," she shouts at no one. "NO STATEMENTS. NO SCHEDULES."
Emma's still laughing as the police finally reach them.
"Ladies," the officer says, sounding exhausted. "You need to come with us."
Regina looks up at him, covered in honey and lavender and the ruins of her perfectly planned life.
"Is this about the honey?" she asks. "Because I can explain the honey."
"Ma'am, you just assaulted a lavender display."
"It was more of an involuntary collision—"
"And there's a restraining order being filed by a Mrs. Cora Mills—"
Regina's brain short-circuits. "My mother filed a restraining order?"
"Preliminary injunction, technically. Something about preventing further public embarrassment." The officer checks his notes. "She's also requesting a psychological evaluation and mandatory relationship counseling."
Emma's laughter dies. "She what?"
Regina sits up too fast. The world spins. "That's not legal. She can't—I'm thirty-two years old—"
"Ma'am, I just process the paperwork."
This isn't happening. This can't be happening. Regina's mother is controlling and manipulative but she wouldn't—she couldn't—
Her phone buzzes from the honey pile. Still working, somehow. Regina lunges for it.
Text from her mother: If you won't listen to reason, I'll make you. Consider this an intervention. You're welcome.
Another text: Also, you're fired. The mayor and I had a chat.
Another: We'll discuss your future after you've had time to reflect. Alone. Away from that woman.
Regina's hands go numb.
"She got me fired," she whispers. "My own mother got me fired."
Emma reads over her shoulder. Her face hardens. "Okay, that's it. We're going to your mother's house right now and—"
"No." Regina's voice is flat. Dead. "We're not."
"Regina—"
"She wins. She always wins." Regina stands, honey and lavender falling from her clothes. "She controls everything. My career, my reputation, my life. And I just—I just handed her the ammunition."
"By kissing me in honey?"
"By losing control." Regina's throat is closing. "By being. This. Whatever this is."
Emma's face crumbles. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't shut down. Don't go cold." Emma reaches for her. "We'll fix this. Together."
Regina steps back. "There's nothing to fix. She's right. I'm a mess. I ruin everything. I can't—I can't do this."
"Do what?"
"This. Us. The chaos." Regina's voice breaks. "I need structure. I need control. I need—"
"To breathe," Emma says firmly. She steps closer, ignoring Regina's retreat. "You need to breathe. And then we're going to deal with this. Not by running away, not by giving up, but by fighting back."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand your mother is a controlling narcissist who's been manipulating you your entire life." Emma's eyes are blazing. "I understand she just fired you for kissing your girlfriend. I understand she's trying to make you choose between me and everything else."
Regina's chest hurts. "Maybe I should."
The market goes silent again. Even the bees stop buzzing.
Emma's face goes very still. "Say that again."
"Maybe I should choose." Regina can't look at her. "My career, my reputation, my family. Or you. The chaos. The. This."
"This," Emma repeats softly. "You mean us."
"I mean—" Regina's voice cracks. "I don't know what I mean. I can't think. Everything's falling apart and I can't—I can't—"
She's hyperventilating. When did she start hyperventilating? Her chest is too tight and her vision's blurring and there's honey in her hair and lavender in her clothes and her entire life is imploding and Emma's looking at her like Regina just stabbed her and maybe she did, maybe she is, maybe—
"Okay." Emma's hands frame her face, sticky and gentle. "Okay. Look at me. Just look at me."
Regina looks.
"We're going to get through this," Emma says. "All of it. Your mother, your job, the video, everything. But right now, we're going to get you home. Get you cleaned up. And then we're going to make a plan."
"A plan." Regina's laugh is hysteric. "I'm great at plans. Look how well today's plan worked."
"A plan together. No schedules. No color-coding. Just us, figuring it out." Emma's thumb brushes honey from Regina's cheek. "Unless you really want to choose. Unless you really think your mother's right."
Regina closes her eyes. "I don't know."
"Then we'll figure that out too."
The police officer clears his throat. "Ladies, we really need those statements."
Emma doesn't look away from Regina. "Can you give us a minute?"
"Ma'am—"
"Please."
Something in Emma's voice must work because the officer steps back, muttering into his radio.
Regina opens her eyes. Emma's still there, still holding her face, still looking at her like she's worth fighting for.
"I ruined everything," Regina whispers.
"You had a bad day."
"I screamed about orgasm schedules in public."
"Okay, a really bad day."
"My mother filed a restraining order."
"Your mother's unhinged."
"I'm going to be unemployed."
"We'll figure it out."
"I'm covered in honey."
Emma grins, just a little. "That part's kind of hot."
Regina's laugh comes out as a sob. "You're impossible."
"Yeah." Emma kisses her forehead. "But I'm your impossible."
Regina wants to believe it. Wants to believe they can fix this, that love is enough, that chaos and control can somehow coexist.
But her phone buzzes again, and again, and again, each notification a reminder of exactly how public and permanent this disaster is.
She pulls away from Emma. "I need to think."
"Okay."
"Alone."
Emma's face shutters. "Okay."
"I just—I need—" Regina can't finish. Can't explain that her entire world is ending and she doesn't know how to rebuild it with Emma watching, expecting, hoping.
"I get it," Emma says quietly. "You need your space."
"It's not—"
"It's fine." Emma's backing away now, flowers finally drooping. "Take your time. Figure things out. I'll be. Around."
She turns and walks away.
Regina watches her go, honey-sticky and heartbroken, and doesn't call her back.
The officer approaches again. "Ma'am? Your statement?"
Regina mechanically provides the details. Accident. Honey. Damages. Will pay. Civil matter. She signs something. The vendor signs something. Money is discussed. Regina's credit card emerges from her honey-soaked purse, miraculously functional.
Four hundred dollars plus twenty percent, just like she planned.
Except nothing's going according to plan anymore.
By the time the paperwork's done, Emma's gone. The crowd has mostly dispersed. Mrs. Henderson is probably uploading the finale to her Facebook page.
Regina stands alone in the ruins of the farmer's market, covered in honey and lavender and the consequences of five minutes of lost control.
Her phone buzzes one last time.
Unknown number. Against her better judgment, she answers.
"Regina Mills?" Professional voice. Female. Familiar somehow.
"Yes?"
"This is Sandra Chen from the Portland Tribune. We're running a feature on viral moments and their impact on professional lives. Would you be willing to comment on how your public incident affects your position at city hall?"
Regina looks at the honey. At the lavender. At the place where Emma was standing.
"No comment," she says.
"Even if I told you the mayor's office just released a statement confirming your termination?"
Regina's stomach drops. "They what?"
"Citing 'conduct unbecoming of a city employee' and 'gross violation of professional standards.' It went out ten minutes ago." Papers shuffle. "They're making an example of you, Ms. Mills. Any response?"
Regina should hang up. Should call a lawyer. Should do damage control.
Instead, she hears herself say, "Print this: The only thing I regret is that I didn't kiss her sooner."
Silence.
Then: "Is that an official statement?"
"That's a promise." Regina ends the call.
She's done with schedules. Done with control. Done with trying to manage chaos into submission.
If her life's going to implode anyway, she might as well burn it down on her own terms.
Regina pulls up her mother's contact. Her thumb hovers over the call button.
Then she deletes it instead.
Next: the mayor. Delete.
Her boss—former boss. Delete.
Every contact who's ever made her feel small, controlled, scheduled.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
By the time she's done, her phone has thirty-seven contacts instead of three hundred and forty-two.
Emma's name sits at the top of the list.
Regina stares at it for a long time.
Then she pockets the phone, honey and all, and walks out of the farmer's market with her head high.
She has no job, no family, no plan.
But she has Emma's number.
And maybe—just maybe—that's enough to build something new.
Something messy and unscheduled and absolutely terrifying.
Something real.
Behind her, Mrs. Henderson shouts, "Regina! One more question! Are you and Emma still together?"
Regina doesn't turn around.
She just keeps walking, honey dripping, lavender trailing, into whatever comes next.
Unscheduled.
Unplanned.
Completely out of control.
And somehow—impossibly—okay with that.