Henry’s chatting about something, walking by her side, oblivious in the way children (children, but he isn’t a child anymore, a teenager already, he’s fourteen) can be, he’s visibly startled when Regina lets out a gasp, a hand against her bump as her steps stutter.
He drops what he’d been saying immediately, instead asking, “Mom?” sharply, there’s already panic in his voice; he’s got his hands up, as if to comfort her or defend her.
The baby kicks again, and Regina can’t hold in another gasp, the baby kicks strong enough for her little foot to be felt through Regina’s coat and mittens. “I’m alright, your sister is just kicking, Henry,” Regina soothes, rubbing at the spot.
“Oh,” he says, Henry is staring at the bump, he licks his lips before holding out a hesitant hand, “um, could I, you know feel her?”
“Of course,” Regina breathes, nodding, she’d thought Henry had been angry with her, he’d been snappish and a little rude, Robin had held her as she sobbed over it (it’s hormones, she’d sobbed, hiding her face in Robin’s neck), she’d thought Henry had been angry at her for having another child.
His hand hovers between them before Regina reaches out and grasps it, gently leading it down until it’s resting against her rotund stomach, “ah, there,” Regina says, smile still on her face, “do you feel it?”
“Yeah,” Henry says, quiet, and Regina thinks he might be a little awestruck, “yeah, I-” The baby kicks again, harder, and a grimace decorates Regina’s features, Henry’s brow wrinkles in concern, “Are you okay?” he asks.
Regina smiles again, a sigh escaping, “She must like you,” and Henry absolutely beams.