She smiles, a little amused at the way Mary Margaret coughs so delicately, a faint flush staining her cheeks. The whiskey's a sweet warmth that burns its way down her throat -- it's good stuff, better than what she was drinking last week, with Michael.

Not that she particularly wants to think about Michael.

Mary Margaret's not quite looking at her directly, those big hazel eyes of hers all sad and confused, and Emma sighs, putting down her glass to watch her friend with a sympathetic twist to her mouth.

She knows that expression.

"He really got in your head, huh?"