"Of course, I do," Mary Margaret said softly, affection and sympathy merging in her voice and her face as she stepped closer to Emma. Not touching her, but tilting her head, to try and catch her eyes.

The smile is thin and awkward, but true and faithful. "Because you're here, instead of anywhere else."

Not in a bar. Not in someone's bed. Standing in their kitchen. Looking haggard, worn, hurt, scared, and like she's waiting and praying for someone, anyone, to kick her out, shut her out. Because it is all she knows, and because she knows it, she can handle it, almost wants it. All of that, and still telling her the truth.


Of course she knows. How could she not?