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Chapter Text

Fall 2016

The stage lights were bright in the way that reduced the audience to a black void, inscrutable shadows recognized only by the cacophony they produced. Miranda couldn’t remember the last time that she’d been onstage, and almost felt nervous until she reminded herself who was on the other side of the curtain. She smoothed out the pockets of her blazer and adjusted a lock of hair.

“… has made her career as the preeminent voice in fashion, leading Runway magazine for over three decades. Today, it remains one of the few print magazines still in circulation, boasting readership numbers in the millions, with editions across Europe, South America, and Asia. Please welcome my guest, Miranda Priestly.”

She nodded at the audience as she walked out, but steadied her gaze on her interviewer as she made her way center stage.

“Thank you, Andrea. It’s wonderful to be here.”

—

“Print is a changing world, Miranda, and…”

“I’m well aware of that, Larry,” Miranda said, lifting her lips in a tight smile. “However, I —”

“And exposure like this, in a forum that we’ve seen has great viral potential, especially for younger audiences, is a huge opportunity,” Larry continued, as if Miranda hadn’t spoken. “We’ve made some gains in the online influencer spaces, but not enough. This is an easy leg up, as far as I’m concerned, and I frankly don’t understand your resistance to it.”

There was a finality to Larry’s tone that made it clear that the board wasn’t going to let Miranda turn down The New Yorker’s invitation to their annual festival for the nth time in a row. They’d all taken their turns uttering their common turns of phrase: brand relevance, new markets, verticals, the works. Exhausted, she finally waved a hand and accepted, agreeing to a one-hour panel… as long as she could choose the moderator. 

She hadn’t been avoiding the events, though Larry had accused her of that at one point. Gallivanting after-hours with investigative journalists was hardly high on her list of priorities, and more often than not there were names on those guest lists that she’d rather not have to cross paths with.

Irv, that backstabbing, suffering sycophant. She’d successfully ousted him years ago, and yet he still ended up getting invitations to nearly every gathering, always sidling up to her to ask about her daughters or some other inane topic. 

Naomi Vasquez. Her profile of Miranda in Vanity Fair had been downright libelous, full of unnamed sources and out-of-context quotes from conversations that Miranda had assumed were off-the-record. Not someone to be trusted in any setting.

Christian Thompson. A walking can of cheap mousse and nothing more. 

She asked her first assistant to confirm her attendance to The New Yorker Festival on her way out of the board meeting, and by the time she was back at her desk a few hours later, Miranda was already impatient to have the details worked out.

“Camila, has the New Yorker sent over the interviewer choices?”

She heard the familiar squeak of an office chair, and her assistant came running in. 

“Oh, yes, I —”

Miranda held her hand out as Camila squirmed. “It’s… in your email inbox?”

Miranda blinked, and her assistant turned on her heel.

She snatched the printed list from Camila’s hand once she returned and scanned it quickly.

“No.”

Camila stiffened. “Sorry?”

“No,” Miranda repeated impatiently. There was no one on that list that she’d allow to interview her. She slid the paper towards Camila, who was now wringing her hands. 

“So I’ll tell them —”

Miranda turned back to her computer. “That’s all.” 

It took two days and three more lists before the name she was waiting for appeared. 

“Camila.”

“Yes, Miranda?”

“Her.”

“Yes, Miranda.”

— 

“You rang?” Nigel said as he waltzed into her office. She tipped her head silently, and he shut the door behind him. “Intrigue. Who fucked up the shoot?”

“Renata, of course.” She cleared her throat. “Also, I need an outfit for this silly… gathering,” she said, waving her glasses noncommittally. 

“The dinner with Claudie tomorrow?” 

“No,” Miranda said tightly. 

He watched her carefully before tapping his glasses. “Ah. The New Yorker Festival. What time is the panel?”

“Four,” Miranda muttered. A horrible interruption to her day.

“There’s the new spring collection from Chanel.”

“I don’t want black.”

“No, no, with the silk, and the —”

“The blazer, right,” Miranda said thoughtfully, bringing her glasses to her chin. “Fine.”

She’d lured Nigel back only recently, after he’d flitted between various fashion ventures for the better part of a decade. A few hits here and there, but she knew that Runway was where he really belonged. When Enzo departed for Vanity Fair, it was hardly a question of who would become her next Managing Editor. Enough years had passed that her… decision in Paris was behind them. She was thankful to have someone in the office that knew her better than almost anyone, though she’d never admit it. 

He’d raised an eyebrow when she had first told him about the panel, in that way of his that meant he thought it was a good idea, but knew better than to say it aloud. Now, satisfied with his outfit suggestion, she waved him off. 

“Camila, schedule an appointment with Claire tomorrow for a fitting,” she called softly.

— 

Among the demands on Miranda’s list to the New Yorker: a preview of the space it was being held in. They’d picked some odd theater in Midtown West — no doubt a ridiculous cost-saving measure — and the last thing she needed was agreeing to a talk in some beatnik garage. She’d been assured that her interviewer would meet her there to go over everything. 

They arrived fifteen minutes early, Camila trailing behind her, and scrolled through her emails as they waited in the lobby (dated, but clean, she noted). 

“Miranda!”

And there it was. Said like no one else, that Midwestern affect still holding strong. She still hadn’t lost it after all these years in New York. It made Miranda’s lip twitch. 

“Andrea,” she said evenly.

Andrea smiled broadly. “You’re still the only one who’s ever called me that.”

Miranda hummed. “To your relief, I suppose.”

Andrea regarded her for a moment, with that naked, wide gaze that made her look 24 again. “I guess it always just felt like your nickname for me.”

And that honesty, god. She said it like it was nothing, moved onto another topic when an assistant — since when was Andrea old enough to have an assistant? — joined them, chattering on about microphones or… something. Andrea nodded before looking behind Miranda. 

“I’m Andy. You must be Miranda’s assistant?”

“Yes,” Camila said. Miranda nearly rolled her eyes at how her voice shook. 

Andrea’s eyes flicked to Miranda’s, and she raised her eyebrows slightly. “You know, a million girls would kill for that job.”

I know one that wouldn’t sat on the tip of her tongue.

“Yes, Camila here nearly lost an arm,” Miranda drawled instead.

Andrea was already turning on her heel with a chuckle as she asked her assistant to lead the way into the theatre. “I figured you’d want to see it from the audience's side first?” she said over her shoulder. 

“An inspired thought, unless you planned to stand here all evening.”

The theatre was full of bustling energy, and Miranda’s eyes were immediately drawn to the stage, where a crew was setting up a matching set of chairs and a potted plant.

“Are those…” 

“That’s the set, yeah,” Andrea finished. Her lips curled slightly. “Why? Does it clash with your outfit?”

How was it that they always slid so easily back into that ribbing? It had been fleeting back then, yes, but it was familiar now, along with the rush she felt each time she let Andrea toe that line. 

Miranda squinted as she surveyed the rest of the room. “Stop bouncing,” she said to Andrea’s young assistant, who flushed immediately, before turning back to Andrea. “I assume you’ll be wearing something more…” She raked her eyes up Andrea’s figure, clad in some awful washed denim and a casual blouse. Andrea shifted her weight onto one leg and crossed her arms.

“I might not have access to The Closet anymore, but I can dress myself, Miranda.”

Miranda pursed her lips, and was pleased to see that even this older, more confident version of Andrea still withered slightly under her gaze. 

“I can… send you what I’m wearing?” Andrea guessed, voice going up slightly with each word. Her shoulders slumped in visible relief when Miranda nodded once before turning around. She’d seen all she needed to. Without looking back, she pulled out her phone and called Nigel. “I need a new outfit.”

It was nearly nine that evening when Miranda’s phone buzzed.

I have a navy blue jumpsuit that I was planning on wearing. 

She read the text again, then a third time, and brought a finger to the keyboard before noticing the final message that had been sent before this one. 

She turned her phone over and slid it across her desk, risking a final glance at it before bringing her eyes back to The Book.

— 

“You’re welcome,” Nigel said in lieu of greeting the next morning. A garment bag was slung over one shoulder, and he carried a red tote in the other hand. 

“And this goes with the —”

“Heather grey chairs, yes, and the navy. Ugh. Is there no chance of talking her out of that? Or into better chairs, even?”

Miranda pressed her lips together. “It would certainly be a good way to ensure that I’m never invited to one of these events again.”

“Then I say call her up. God, navy.”

She waited until Nigel had left and turned the corner before picking up her phone and re-reading the follow-up text she’d received that morning. 

I’ll take your silence as defeated acceptance. I’ll see you later today!

A last-minute request that she’d had Camila make, knowing that Andrea would accept: a meeting to preview her questions. 

— 

She was scrolling through her email when she heard a familiar voice in the entryway. 

“Camila, right? Yeah, I have a meeting with Miranda. Is it okay if I go right in?”

Miranda stood up before Camila could spit out some incoherent answer, and tried to calm her heartbeat as she waved Andrea inside.

She’d fled the theatre the day before with a similar nervous feeling, which she’d attributed to anticipating one of her first large speaking engagements in years. It had been as unwelcome then as it was now, and she pressed her foot into her stiletto, trying to channel it into how the heel bit down on her toes.

Andrea flashed Miranda a smile when she walked in, holding up a Starbucks tray. “I’m assuming you still take your coffee the same way?”

Miranda hummed to hide her pleasure, turning the cup in her hands as she sat back down, waving a hand at the chair opposite her desk. Andrea shrugged off her coat — mercifully, Miranda’s other dim assistant appeared and grabbed it to hang up — and sat down, looking around the office.

“Not much has changed,” she said warmly as she scanned the walls and shelves. 

“To the untrained eye, perhaps.”

She regarded Miranda, eyes flicking over her outfit. “You look great, by the way.”

Miranda busied herself with sliding her glasses off of her face and twirling them in her hands, trying to distract herself from how the words made her stomach flip. “The questions, Andrea.”

Unfazed, Andrea pulled two pieces of paper out of her messenger bag and passed one to Miranda, who skimmed it quickly. She was surprised to feel disappointed by the pedestrian nature of the questions: the future of fashion, print media, how Runway planned to position itself in a world of influencers… 

She sniffed before looking up at Andrea again, who was watching her with unfettered interest.

“Surely a journalist like you is looking for something more… salacious.”

Andrea rolled her eyes. “You know I don’t do fashion. I’ve mostly been on the international beat.”

Miranda tossed the paper onto her desk. “Well, I suppose we should call Ban Ki-Moon, then? A more valuable —”

“Stop. You know what I mean,” Andrea said, leaning forward slightly. 

“Do I?”

“I’m not the Post, Miranda.”

“But you’re freelancing, are you not?”

“Yeah, and other stuff.”

Miranda slid her glasses down her nose. “Stuff.”

Andrea’s eyes twinkled as she sat up straight in her chair, shoulders held steady with clear defiance. “Yeah, stuff.”

Miranda rolled her eyes, pulling her glasses off and twisting the Cartier band on her middle finger. They sat in familiar, comfortable silence for a moment before Andrea leaned forward again, this time placing her hands on the edge of Miranda’s desk. Miranda watched the flex of her long fingers, the white of her nailbeds as she pressed down on the glass.

“Well… tomorrow,” she said quietly. 

Andrea nodded. “It’s gonna be fun, okay?”

“It will be nothing of the sort,” Miranda huffed.

She was rewarded with another broad smile as Andrea stood up and wished her goodbye. 

— 

Miranda had been in the public eye for far too long to feel nervous about events like this, particularly when she knew what to expect, right down to the bottle of Pellegrino that would be waiting for her onstage. Nigel had dressed her well, as he always did, in an Yves St. Laurent skirt from their latest collection, paired with an oxford shirt and vintage Givenchy blazer, all in tones of cream and sage. Slingback Louboutins and a few coordinated Cartier pieces completed the look.

She was greeted in the green room by David Remnick, the longstanding Editor-in-Chief of the New Yorker, who thanked her warmly for her participation. 

“Anytime, David, of course,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. David was a legend in his own right; he’d been at the New Yorker nearly as long as Miranda had been at Runway, but had always been afforded far more grace as a leader, and certainly more accolades. He was, of course, a talented writer, but he was also known for luring many of her contributing writers to his publication with promises of more "sophisticated" readership and future publishing privileges. Par for the course in this industry, yes, but she kept him at arm’s length nonetheless. Fortunately, like many of these men, his head was far too big to really notice.

“And there’s the woman who made it happen!” David said, looking past Miranda.

“Navy jumpsuit” had been an understatement, but Miranda shouldn’t have been surprised given Andrea’s continued resistance to learn almost anything about fashion. The color was closer to midnight blue, though the fabric was still some sort of horrible poly-blend. The most unexpected part was the cut, however: tapered, sleeveless, with a plunging neckline that, were Miranda some sort of heathen, would have driven her eyes further down Andrea’s chest than would ever be appropriate. She fiddled with her bracelet, sliding the clasp inside her wrist, setting her gaze somewhere past Andrea’s shoulder.

Andrea chuckled graciously, waving David off. “I made nothing happen. I’m just lucky to be here.” She tipped her head towards Miranda, flicking her eyes from her shoes to her top, and Miranda met her gaze like a challenge.

“Well, I’ll leave you ladies to it. Thanks again, Miranda,” David said, clapping his hand on Miranda’s back. Andrea bit back a smile as she watched Miranda narrow her eyes at David’s back as he left the room.

“You ready?”

“That’s your question, Andrea?” Miranda tutted. “Honestly, of all the —”

“Okay, okay, let’s go.”

— 

The gathering after was a pathetically simple affair: drinks and hors d'oeuvres at a gallery down the street, the crowd a mix of publishing faces and B-List celebrities trying to schmooze their way up. 

“Fifteen minutes,” she muttered to Camila as they walked inside.

“Yes, Miranda.”

She made her way around the room, saying hello to familiar faces and artfully dodging the visible hangers-on. She was really only looking for one person, anyway, though she’d never say that to Camila.

Only five minutes remained when she saw her come in, alone. Andrea scanned the room, waving to someone, and Miranda headed towards the back of the gallery, uninterested in seeming eager.

It took only moments for Andrea to find her. “Fifteen minutes not up yet?”

She turned slowly. “Andrea, whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, please. I practically ran here once I heard you’d already headed over. You’ve got, what” — she looked at Camila for confirmation — “three, four minutes left?”

“Don’t answer that,” Miranda said out of the corner of her mouth, and rolled her eyes when Camila stiffened slightly. “Oh, for the love of god. Go get a canape or something.”

“She seems nice,” Andrea said, watching Camila hurry off.

Miranda grunted. “That’s one word for it.”

“I won’t keep you, really,” Andrea said. “I just wanted to catch you before you left and see if you’d like to get dinner sometime and catch up.”

Miranda fiddled with the clasp of her clutch. “Didn’t we just do that?”

“In front of hundreds of people? Not really. I don’t necessarily care about the goings-on of digital content marketing.”

“Ah, but you were so convincing,” Miranda said, letting her voice dip slightly, savoring how Andrea flushed slightly. “So what would you like to know?”

“Dunno,” Andrea said with a shrug, but her flushed cheeks betrayed her. “What you’ve been up to.”

“Up to.”

“People say that, Miranda.”

“They also say ‘yeet.’ But proper English —”

Andrea threw her head back in laughter. “Just let me know, okay? It would be… great to see you again.” She knew better than to wait for a response, and waved goodbye before disappearing into the crowd.

— 

Torrisi. Next Wednesday at 7:30.

See you then :)

— 

Sitting next to Andrea in the curved corner booth, Miranda could see the small signs of aging: deeper wrinkles along her laugh lines, hints of softness around the angles of her jaw. Refreshing humanity after her decades in an industry where injections seemed to start after one’s 21st. 

Miranda was well aware of how much she had aged, too; she wasn’t above some Botox now and again, but gravity was inevitable. Her skin was more fragile, her joints quicker to tire. She’d never been one to admire her body in a mirror, but she avoided it more now. She was also, unfortunately, conscious of how much more she’d cared about her appearance tonight. 

Andrea was rosy-cheeked, owing to her tardy arrival — as always, it came with a story about a subway or a stroller or something equally baffling — and, as always, Miranda couldn’t find it in herself to be annoyed. She was almost charmed, in fact, listening to Andrea narrate the whole debacle as she shed her coat and settled in.

“Congratulations on winning Nigel back, by the way,” Andrea said as she put her napkin in her lap. “Next thing I know you’ll be courting Emily again.”

“Yes, right after I experience a catastrophic brain injury. Nigel, though… he was meant for Runway. I knew that he would return.”

Andrea smiled. “Always so confident. I’ve tried to channel that, you know.”

“Don’t be silly, Andrea. You have always been confident. Screaming at me about, what was it? Trash unions and frumpy sweaters less than five minutes into meeting me. Very convinced of your own ideas.”

“And maybe a little naive,” Andrea said, ducking her chin slightly. 

“Oh, isn’t maybe doing some heavy lifting in that sentence.”

Andrea moved to open the wine menu, but Miranda pushed it away from her. 

“But I —”

“Who do you think knows more about good wine? You or me?”

“Fine,” Andrea said. It was a familiar dance by now. “But you’ll at least let me order my own entree.”

“You forget that my magazine is now making inane cooking videos for your generation — I know what passes for food nowadays. I assure you that everything I’ve ordered will be up to whatever odd excuse for standards you have.”

As if on cue, the server appeared at their table with a bottle of wine, and poured a sample. Miranda inched it in Andrea’s direction, ignoring her wide-eyed stare.

“You wanted to give your input, didn’t you?”

She didn’t miss the smile that Andrea hid when she brought the wine glass to her lips. “This is great, thanks,” she said to the server, grinning broadly before throwing Miranda an eye roll. 

“Shocking, isn’t it,” Miranda murmured, “That I would know how to order a bottle of wine.”

“Cheers,” Andrea began, lifting her now-filled glass.

“I do not cheers.”

Unperturbed, Andrea clinked her glass against Miranda’s with a sly grin. “To reuniting.”

Miranda pressed her lips together, but she took a sip of her wine alongside Andrea anyway. 

“You’re still in the townhouse?” Andrea said. 

“Yes. The twins are off at college now, of course —”

“Oh, I know. We follow each other on Instagram.”

Miranda had an Instagram, carefully managed and curated by some Elias-Clarke staffer. She only logged in under duress, and “followed” no one. Previously a point of pride, she suddenly felt very old, knowing that Andrea had been seeing this aspect of her life without her there. 

“That’s… nice,” she said. “And you’re living in…?”

“Brookyn. Williamsburg, actually.”

“How positively modern of you.”

Andrea rolled her eyes. “Brooklyn is cool now!”

“If you consider waiting forty-five minutes for the L on a weekday cool, then by all means, sign me up.”

“Okay, you’ve got me there,” Andrea said good-naturedly.

There was a pause in discussion as Miranda ordered for them, aware of Andrea watching her the entire time. She adjusted the teardrop pendant around her neck before speaking again. 

“I saw your article on labor practices in cobalt mining.”

Andrea’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

She took a sip of water. “Really.”

The truth was, she’d more than seen the article. She’d read every one that Andrea had written, saved the ones she enjoyed most. Subscribed to the digital version of that cockeyed publication just to get an alert whenever Andrea had a byline.

Andrea didn’t take her eyes off of her, fully twisting in her seat to face Miranda. “Well, cool. Thanks. It was really tough to get them to talk, especially…”

She launched into a retelling of her journalistic process as their food arrived, stories of her trips to Texas and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Andrea talked animatedly as ever, all hands and wide eyes, self-effacing comments sandwiched by impressive feats of persistence. Miranda didn’t realize that she was smiling until Andrea interrupted herself mid-sentence.

“Did I say something funny?”

Miranda dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Hardly. Carry on.”

Andrea lifted her chin, her look of concern melting into something mischievous as she leaned on the table with her elbow. “My editor says that you requested me for the panel.”

Miranda focused on cutting her salad greens. “Nonsense. I simply chose from the options presented to me.”

“Options that you rejected three times until I showed up?”

I’m going to have David’s head the next time I see him. “And is that such a problem, Andrea?”

Andrea’s voice was softer this time. “Of course not. I was flattered, obviously.” She took a small breath. “But if you wanted to see me, you could have just —”

“You’ve also been writing for The Atlantic, is that right?” Miranda said. 

Andrea blinked at her, and Miranda almost felt guilty for cutting her off. But that wasn’t how this was supposed to go, and Andrea knew that. It was why it had been almost two years since they’d seen each other last, and why Andrea should have known full well that Miranda couldn’t just call her. 

Andrea had always pushed the boundaries though, even when she’d worked for Miranda all those years ago. Truthfully, the moment that she showed up head-to-toe in Chanel was when everything had shifted. That day, she took a piece of Miranda’s power and didn’t give it back. And the worst part was that Miranda didn’t want her to — not then, and not all these years later.

Chapter Text

Fall 2016

Andy had years of practice of holding Miranda’s gaze and its hawkeyed intensity, drilling so deep yet revealing nothing about her own thoughts or emotions, but doing so onstage in front of an audience of peers and fans felt like an entirely new challenge. Beyond a brief glance at the crowd, Miranda’s eyes didn’t wander from Andy’s as they embraced lightly. 

There was a time when she would have let her lips graze Miranda’s cheek and savored the tiny intake of breath that it would elicit. She didn’t dare try that now, not in front of a crowd of strangers, and settled for simply breathing the air along Miranda’s cheekbone, the familiar scent of Dior that she always put behind her ear. They separated wordlessly, settling into their respective chairs as the applause died down.

“Miranda, thank you so much for being here today.”

The requisite nod and exchange of pleasantries followed, and she watched Miranda easily slip into her public persona: quicker to make conversation, her answers still succinct, but lacking their usual edge. Once or twice, she caught a glimpse of amusement in Miranda’s eyes at a question that Andy knew she would find particularly boring, but she enjoyed the public forum’s challenge to force Miranda to respond kindly. 

“How has Runway pivoted to respond to the reading habits and content consumption of the new generation?” Andy asked.

Miranda spun a diamond ring on her middle finger and looked out at the crowd before turning towards Andy. “Ah, yes, ‘content.’ The word of the day, isn’t it? Somehow we’ve taken it to believe that things must be bite-sized for people to engage with them… we’ve lost all faith that the everyday person will, I don’t know, read an article, or watch a video longer than thirty seconds. That’s simply not true, especially when the quality of the ‘content’ is of value.”

Andy smiled. “So you’re saying that ‘content’ today is bad?”

Miranda’s lip twitched as she tilted her head towards the now-laughing crowd. “There are… opportunities for improvement.”

“Always the diplomat, aren’t we?” Andy said, leaning closer to Miranda from her chair.

Miranda lifted an eyebrow. “Famously not, I’d say.”

— 

Fall 2006

She’d seen Miranda less than a month after returning from Paris without her, walking out of the Elias-Clarke building alone. Andy’s body went into fight-or-flight mode, and she willed herself to come to a stop on the sidewalk and wave. Miranda had more or less just secured her a newspaper job, bizarro wording aside. She hoped that that meant there were no hard feelings.

A pause before getting into the car, nothing more. But it felt like enough in that moment.

Andy took the same route to work the next week, stopping at the Starbucks next to Elias-Clarke on her way.

“Andy!” Liza said from behind the counter. “No more coffee duty, huh? You get promoted?”

So there was a replacement already. Andy shook her head as she pulled out her wallet. “Not exactly. I work somewhere else now, actually.”

Liza waved off her payment and slid a cup towards Andy. “Good for you. The new girl’s practically vibrating with fear every time she comes in. We miss seeing you, but I hope your new place has you doing something a little more interesting.”

The months following felt like a blur: settling into her first reporting job, moving into a new apartment, and learning about New York City without Miranda. Andy suddenly had roommates and funny coworkers and after-work plans; she found a favorite bodega and neighborhood gym. She had a life, but it didn’t stop her from going into that Starbucks occasionally and wondering if the tall, picture-perfect girls ordering trays of coffee at 7:00am were the new Emily — or the new Andrea, rather. Elias-Clarke was a few blocks out of the way on her walk to work, but the prospect of seeing Miranda got her to add five more minutes to her commute a few times a week.

It didn’t help that less than a month into living at her new apartment, she arrived home to an unexpectedly full mailbox. Upon wrestling it open with her mail key, Andy discovered that the culprit was the latest thick, glossy issue of Runway. She ran her hands over it and imagined the bejeweled hands that would have touched its draft copy.

The next day, Andy visited the circulation department at The Mirror and gave them Miranda’s home address, which seemed permanently etched into her memory. Bill typed it in and shook his head.

“Already subscribed as of last month. Want me to call and —”

Chills ran down Andy’s spine, and she shook her head. “That’s okay. Thanks, Bill.”

She went home and read every page of Runway like she was looking for her own name, and wondered if the same person subscribed to The Mirror had sent her this. 

She stopped walking by Elias-Clarke, somehow satisfied at this new string attaching her to Miranda, and told herself that it was progress. She was starting a new life that had nothing to do with her old boss and her blue eyes and sharp stilettos and power.

Just when Andy thought that she’d started to shake Miranda from her subconscious, her editor showed up at her desk looking puzzled. He held out a thick, creamy envelope. 

“Gotta assume this is for you, but the messenger wasn’t sure,” Dixon told her.

It was a single invitation to New York Fashion Week, specifically for two designers' shows: James Holt, and a design house that Andy hadn’t heard of. She felt her cheeks flush as she stared at it, and was only reminded of her editor’s presence when he cleared his throat. 

“Sorry,” she said shakily. She set the invite down carefully on the table like it was an explosive device. “I… should go?”

She wanted him to say yes. She wanted him to say no. Dixon shrugged and told her to see if she could find an interesting angle. She was nearly six months into her tenure at The Mirror, and he was open to granting her some more bylines. “You’re on your own for an outfit, though.”

Andy had been toying with reaching out to Nigel — her single conversation with Emily after quitting had been rather icy, to put it kindly — but had struggled with what to say. Sorry about everything? Hope you’re not too miserable?

She dialed the office before she could think too much about it, and was put through more quickly than she’d expected. Nigel’s greeting, though rather curt and hoarse, made her chest tighten with affection. 

“Nigel? It’s Andy.”

There was a pause, and she could practically hear his smirk. “Six. What the hell are you calling about?”

Part of her had hoped that Nigel had sent the invitation, but as they spoke, it was clear that he knew nothing about it.

“Bet you’re sorry you gave all of those Paris clothes to Emily,” he said smugly.

“No, she deserved them.”

“What makes you think that I’ll let you into The Closet after you abandoned me in my time of need? You know she’s been on the warpath since then.”

She needed no explanation. Andy flushed just at the mention of Miranda, and had to keep herself from grilling Nigel while she was still trying to get back in his favor. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to ground herself. “My charm and wit?”

He chuckled. “Nice try. There’s no way they’re letting you in the building, but there’s a small chance that I could send some pieces to your apartment. Are you still living in the basement of Value Village?”

“Har har.”

True to his word, Nigel sent over a beautiful trio of gowns: a ruched black Carolina Herrera, a  midi Yves St Laurent in an unsettling ochre, and an off-the-shoulder red Valentino. Too nervous to consult the opinions of her friends or roommates, she tried them on in the cramped corner of her room, imagining what a single pair of eyes would think when they saw her. She landed on the Carolina Herrera: it hugged her curves and flattered her figure without standing out. She reminded herself that it was just a fashion show, not the Met Gala: she’d be sitting back and watching someone else be pretty.

Nigel had left her on her own for jewelry and shoes. The morning of the shows, Andy slid on her one remaining pair of Chanels from Runway and some cubic zirconium and hoped that no one would look too closely. 

She arrived early; the show prior to James Holt was still going on. The bass from the runway music was deafening, and she had to yell her name and shake her press badge at security to be let in. There, she joined a small press pool waiting in the back and pretended like she knew what she was doing. Pretended like she was doing anything but looking for a head of white hair and that her heart wasn’t beating out of her chest. 

“Press, you can make your way to rows 12, 13, 23, and 24,” a bored-looking person with a headset called, waving their arm over their head. 

Andy had hardly made her way into the event space when a hand wrapped around her arm, manicured nails digging into her bare skin. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Emily hissed in her ear. “I can’t possibly imagine what your podunk publication has to say about this.”

Andy turned around and tilted her head at her former coworker. “I got a ticket. How’ve you been, Em?”

“Fine, no thanks to you,” she spat.

“Who’s the new Emily? I mean, Andy.”

Emily narrowed her eyes — as usual, they were racoon-black with accents of peacock greens and blues — but seemed incapable of freezing Andy out completely. “Oh, it’s still Emily. And there isn’t one. She got sacked yesterday. Got the steak from the Times Square TGIFriday’s.”

Andy threw her head back in a laugh, imagining an assistant stepping into Miranda’s office with a red-and-white striped takeout bag. 

“Yes, go ahead. Laugh at my expense,” Emily snapped. She took a step closer to Andy and squinted at her, lowering her voice slightly. “But don’t think I don’t know where that dress came from. And if she finds out, say goodbye to your little career.”

Before Andy could respond, Emily stood up straight, her eyes going wide. “Miranda,” she said manically, “There’s a seat for you —”

Andy turned slowly, every nerve ending in her body feeling like a live wire. Only a few feet separated them when their eyes finally met. 

Miranda looked as regal as ever, dressed in a tasteful blouse and skirt whose greys and blues made her eyes stick out that much more. The diamonds in her ears and around her neck glinted in the spotlights around them, and Andrea watched as Miranda’s eyes raked down her body like they had so often done in the privacy of her office. As always, there was no visible reaction when their eyes met again, but Miranda held a steady gaze, even with Emily chattering away in her ear.

Andy had just summoned the courage to take a step closer, maybe say a hello and a how are you like a normal person, when a flurry of activity whisked Miranda away, and she didn’t look back at Andy as the group made their way to the front row.

Whatever article she’d hoped to write on James Holt’s newest collection, even if she had something to say, was a wash. The only thing she could focus on was the homing beacon of white hair out of her reach, and the confirmation that whatever collection of things she felt for Miranda had veered far past intimidation and into something far more dangerous. 

The other show was in a separate venue down the street, smaller and more intimate; mercifully, Miranda nor anyone else recognizable from Runway was in attendance. Andy was surprised to learn that the designer was an entrepreneur from East New York whose pieces were handmade by unionized workers in Brooklyn; between the show and an exclusive interview with him afterwards, she secured her first solo byline in The Mirror the following week. 

She knew that it wasn’t a coincidence.

— 

Fall 2007

The first time that they’d gotten dinner together, it was by accident. 

After the success of her fashion week article, Andy had convinced her editor to let her seek out more unconventional story sources, including the many after-hours events across the city for new brands, product launches, and various fundraisers. She’d work the crowd, looking to profile the next big name in New York City. 

It had been nearly a year since she’d seen Miranda at Fashion Week, though she hadn’t stopped reading Runway and sneaking glances at Page Six. 

Not that she cared about Miranda’s personal life. But she wasn’t upset to see that no alleged Mr. Priestleys were showing up in the tabloids.

The event that night was for a publishing house’s launch of a new imprint focused on art and fashion. Andy had finagled a ticket through the same designer she’d met at Fashion Week, which was the only reason she’d convinced Dixon to let her leave work early for it. 

Leaving work early also meant that she showed up wearing jeans, the most expensive blouse that she could dig out of her closet at 7am, a leather jacket, and saying a prayer that she wasn’t dressed too casually. 

Her body buzzed with anticipation as she stepped into the crowded venue, but she tried not to be distracted by the hope she’d carried. Andy had attended plenty of these events with no sign of Miranda, and she focused on finding people she knew and making introductions. 

An hour and a half in, the volume of the conversation in the room dipped, just briefly, and Andy knew that she’d arrived. 

Miranda was flanked by Emily, Jocelyn, and someone Andy didn’t recognize. She scanned the room quickly as she pulled off her sunglasses, and their eyes met almost immediately. Andy didn’t move from where she stood, but she didn’t drop Miranda’s gaze, either. This time, before her entourage could pull Miranda away, Andy waved. 

Behind Miranda, Emily dragged her pointer finger across her neck with a scowl.

Miranda blinked once, and let her eyes linger on Andy as the event host came to greet her. 

Half an hour later, Andy was still trying to decide how to approach Miranda when a rumor started to ripple through the crowd: the caterer had fallen through, and the drinks were running out. 

Nothing pissed Miranda off more than poor planning and logistical errors, and Andy felt a pull to experience Miranda’s reaction when she was no longer accountable for the fallout. It wasn’t hard to find her among the sea of people, and when she saw that Emily and Jocelyn weren’t at her side, Andy joined her easily. 

Miranda eyed her before continuing to scan the room. “Andrea,” she said smoothly. 

“Who’s getting fired for this whole catering thing?” Andy said under her breath. 

Miranda hummed and looked at her watch. “God only knows.” She looked up at Andy, who was somehow still taller even with Miranda in heels. “Am I sensing a guilty conscience? You clearly didn’t dress for this event.”

Andy was surprised to feel herself roll her eyes. “I’m not scared of you anymore.”

“Oh, please,” Miranda tutted. “Comparing yourself to a skittish street cat.”

“What’s a better word? Intimidated? Terrified?”

"Really, Andrea, you’re so dramatic.”

“Dramatic and hungry,” Andy said, encouraged by the hint of warmth in Miranda’s tone. “That Italian place you like isn’t far from here, right? I might stop by and get something before I starve on my way home.”

It was a shot in the dark, but Andy wasn’t taking risks all that often anymore, and it wasn't like she could be fired.

Twenty minutes later, they were seated in the back of Scarpetta. The shock of Miranda’s agreement — and her dismissal of the rest of the Runway staff — was softened slightly by the prices on the heavy, leather-bound menu. It would take Andy two months to pay off an appetizer on her credit card, but sitting two feet from Miranda was worth it.

“Thanks for saying yes to this,” she told her.

Miranda pursed her lips as she raised a finger to summon the server. “I can’t stay long. The girls are expecting me.”

“How are they doing?”

“Well,” Miranda said tightly.

Andy fidgeted with her napkin. “And with the divorce?”

“Get a salad. The chicken here is inedible.”

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy said, falling into the oft-repeated phrase. It earned her a raised eyebrow from Miranda and the faintest twitch of the corner of her mouth.

“Okay, maybe I’m still a little scared,” Andy admitted. 

Miranda slid on her glasses and looked down at the menu. “Ha.”

— 

Fall 2016

And then it kept happening. Sometimes only weeks would pass, sometimes months, but they’d always cross paths somehow: fleeting glances outside of Elias-Clarke, or brief conversations at gatherings that Andy found herself seeking out as much as possible. 

This time, two years had passed since their last encounter. The longest interval, and the only one taken intentionally. There was no doubt in Andy’s mind that Miranda had kept tabs on her, too, orbiting each other like distant stars on the opposite sides of a universe. 

But she’d crossed a line, one that they’d been toeing for years, and Miranda had punished her for it. 

The server pulled the check from their table and wished them a good night, though Andy wasn’t ready for it to be over. Miranda had shut their conversation down earlier, but she couldn’t risk letting her go again. She touched the inside of Miranda’s elbow just as she had begun gathering her things. Miranda whipped her head around, eyes narrowed as they found Andrea’s thumb on her pale skin. 

“Did you need something?”

“I just… why did you request me? After so long?”

Miranda’s eyes flicked to Andy’s before she carried on arranging her scarf and purse. “The board —“

“No,” Andy said, letting her fingers press more deeply into Miranda’s skin — not pushing, just a reminder of her presence. Miranda stilled, but she didn’t look at Andy, either. 

“If you don’t plan on allowing me to finish a sentence, I don’t know what you expect to hear.”

Andy pressed her lips together and dropped her hand from Miranda’s arm. She missed the warmth immediately, but she’d already pushed her luck. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

Miranda ran her finger along the curve of her Patek Philippe. “The board insisted on me making an appearance at the event.” She finally turned to Andy, a sparkle of cynicism in her eyes. “For the content. I simply needed a competent… counterpart on stage.”

“And I was that person.”

A nearly imperceptible shrug. “There are others, of course, but this would have been far below their —“

“Don’t finish that sentence. You were almost being nice to me.”

Miranda looked up — not quite an eye roll, but exasperation nonetheless — before turning to Andy again. “And why did you ask me to dinner, Andrea?”

She hadn’t forgotten how blue Miranda’s eyes were, of course, but she’d let the feeling of their intensity at such a short distance fade from memory — or she’d forced it to fade, maybe. She couldn’t keep herself from flushing at the question, at not only the words themselves but how Miranda said them. Silky smooth and suggestive, low like a secret, fluid like a second language that only they spoke. 

“I’d hoped that… I mean…” Andy groaned and sat up straighter in the booth, pulling her shoulders back to face Miranda fully. “I want to start over.”

“Start over,” Miranda repeated, like she was tasting the words on her tongue. 

Andy nodded. 

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“I haven’t really thought it through,” Andrea admitted. “I was just hoping to make it through dinner.”

“Well,” Miranda said slowly, in the way that she only did when her patience was hanging on by a thread, “Dinner has ended. Aren’t you journalists supposed to be quick on your feet?”

Miranda’s body was stiff now, fingers gripping the clasp of her clutch like a lifeline. Andy knew that she had about thirty seconds of grace left. 

“Let me make it up to you. Everything that…” She swallowed and moved her gaze to her wine glass, tracing the stem for something to do. “I’d like you to be in my life again.”

“Does this” — Miranda gestured at the table before them — “not qualify as being in your life?”

“It’s one dinner, Miranda,” Andy scoffed. 

“Is there a rubric we’re following? Should I get out my glasses?”

Miranda’s tone dripped with its usual sarcasm, but there was something familiar behind it. Private and low. Deeper in the way one’s voice drops before a laugh, that extra bit of air caught between throat and mouth. And Andy knew then that she was getting another chance.

Chapter Text

Fall 2006

“Do you like to dance?”

How ridiculous that such a simple question would make Miranda’s heart beat that quickly. It had been asked innocently enough, like nearly everything Andrea said to her nowadays, but there had increasingly been an undercurrent of something more. An almost calculating tone, one she’d heard Andrea use on the phone when she was trying to talk someone in or out of something. And there was genuine interest in Andrea’s questions that she seemed less and less interested in hiding.

No thanks to Emily, Andrea had learned not to ask Miranda questions early on in her role. She took instructions and ran with them, sometimes tripping over herself to do so. 

That had changed when she’d walked in on Miranda fighting with Stephen. Where others may have retreated, shrunken back, Andrea seemed to be emboldened by that shared moment of humanity. She still avoided asking for clarification about endless daily tasks, but something about the way she performed her duties — delivering coffee, confirming appointments, going on treasure hunts for Miranda’s wants and needs — felt personal. Sometimes, when refilling Miranda’s Pellegrino or dropping off items from another department, she’d cap off her usual recitation of the task with something more personal: “I hope you’re having a good day,” or “I like your necklace.” Acting like she knew Miranda, like she had the right to know how she was.

And the problem was that Andrea wasn’t wrong. She had started anticipating Miranda’s needs unlike anyone else, smiling at Miranda in situations where others would have recoiled like she understood. Their time together during this week in Paris had only confirmed this further.

It felt like Andrea was trying to figure out where the line was, and slowly crossing it with the tip of her Louboutins with every passing day.

Miranda should have felt annoyed by this question about dancing, should have demurred or told Andrea to go yell at the florist again. But Andrea had been trying, and caring, and looking at Miranda with such naked interest for enough weeks that she was compelled to answer. Test the boundaries. Andrea clearly wasn’t afraid to. 

Andrea smiled at Miranda’s response, but didn’t move from where they stood at the edge of the floor, observing the partygoers weaving and spinning in front of them. Miranda tried not to wonder what it would feel like for them to be there, too.

— 

Summer 2009

“Time.”

“Nine-thirty,” Claire said in her ear.

Miranda pasted on a smile as a couple approached her (“RogerLastowandhisthirdwifeUrsula, fromSimonandSchuster,” Claire whispered frantically) and made small talk while she did the math on how much longer she’d stick around. Fashion Week season was a marathon, and capping off New York’s with tonight’s party only meant that Paris was around the corner. She sighed once the couple had scuttled off, scanning the room for some distraction.

A distraction. 

This had, much to her annoyance, become a habit: looking for Andrea at these events, seeking out whatever brief moment they might share. The passing years had made Andrea an easy conversation partner; no longer was she some nervous, tittering wreck, but someone who easily interpreted the space between Miranda’s words, the narrowed eyes and pursed lips, and never seemed put off. She was a welcomed relief in rooms filled with people who either saw Miranda as a source of intimidation or clout.

It took three more dull conversations and a second glass of champagne that she wouldn’t touch before Miranda spotted her: hair halfway up, a gorgeous off-the-shoulder Siriano gown perfectly tailored to her body. Not that Miranda was looking, obviously; she was simply admiring craftsmanship. 

As if on cue, Andrea turned, and her eyes found Miranda easily. There was no hesitance in how quickly she walked over now, not like the early days when it looked like she was swimming through molasses just to wave. 

“You check the time yet?” Andrea asked, eyes sparkling.

“Fifteen minutes. Possibly more… with good company,” Miranda replied under her breath.

Andrea tipped her head towards the exit, raising her champagne glass in the same direction. “It’s quieter on the other side of the promenade.”

Miranda followed her, ignoring her first assistant’s desperate, confused expression. The girl could figure it out. 

The venue, a part of Lincoln Center, had been recently remodeled (poorly, Miranda thought) and had been oddly arranged for the Fashion Week celebration, crowding each passageway with clumps of people reaching for drinks and crudités on bars and buffet tables. To Miranda’s surprise, Andrea didn’t head for the exterior landings or fountain; instead, they ended up in the wings of the orchestra hall itself. Miranda followed her to one of the boxes overlooking the stage.

“Silence,” Andrea whispered, bringing her glass to Miranda’s. She didn’t break eye contact as each of them took a sip. 

“An unfortunate rarity these days,” Miranda said dryly. She mirrored Andrea as she stood at the edge of the box, overlooking the dark stage.

“When do you leave for Paris?”

Miranda pursed her lips. “Any topic but that, please.”

“I saw the second Spider-Man movie last week.”

A sharp exhale escaped from Miranda’s nose as she took this in. 

“It wasn’t good,” Andrea added. She giggled, light and wobbly in the way that she did when she’d had a little too much to drink. “I had to lie to Andrew Garfield when I ran into him at the Versace show.”

“You’re ‘running into’ celebrities now?” Miranda said, not bothering to mask her amusement. 

Andrea laughed. “Hardly. He was just part of that profile I did on nonprofit boards last year. Somehow he remembered me and said hi.”

“Well, you’re quite memorable.”

Andrea set her empty champagne glass on the edge of the box and turned to Miranda. “Is that so?”

Her tone — low, edging on sultry, like the feeling of a warm breeze on a humid night — was something Miranda had slowly become familiar with as they’d spent more time together. It was dangerous, and she wanted more of it, but her instinct thus far had been to shrink back, deflect, change topics. The time never seemed right; jobs and children and maybe-dates were always in the back of her mind. 

But she knew that Andrea had no one on her arm, neither tonight nor as of late. And Miranda certainly wasn’t taking anyone’s calls. So she let Andrea narrow the distance between them, let their bare arms touch until the hair on both of them was standing up. 

“Perhaps,” she said softly, and she lifted her hand to trace a freckle that she’d noticed on the top of Andrea’s forearm years ago. It was faint, only showing itself in the summertime, blooming with the other perennials. She heard Andrea’s breath catch softly as she watched. 

When she looked up, Andrea was staring at her, brown eyes wide and searching, lips parted ever-so-slightly. A question. 

Miranda didn’t shrink back this time when Andrea brought her hand to Miranda’s jaw, tracing it with a single finger, her eyes following its sharp angles. As if to steady herself, Miranda wrapped her hand around Andrea’s forearm as they drifted closer.

Suddenly there were voices bouncing around the room, the squeaking of hinges and the invasion of sound below them as someone unseen opened a door on the first level. 

They sprung apart, Andrea’s mouth opening in clear horror. Miranda inhaled deeply. 

“Wait thirty seconds,” she said under her breath. “Do not follow me.”

Miranda walked out and did not look back.

— 

Fall 2016

Two weeks after their dinner at Torrisi, Miranda received an email from Nigel with a link to a YouTube video. Watch this, he had written. 

It was an SNL skit starring a likeness of her. She didn’t bother to unmute it; decades of parodies had taught her that there was no point in watching. She let it play for three seconds before texting it to Andrea. 

Is this your doing?

Kind of you to think that I have Lorne Michaels on speed dial. I would have insisted on a better wig.

Miranda was staring at the phone, trying to decide if she wanted to respond, when a second text came through. 

My colleague is looking for some people to test that new Mediterranean place in the Village. Any chance you’d like to go?

That was how she found herself at a dimly-lit, monochrome restaurant with a staff that was far too young to recognize her. That had been happening more lately: her favorite restaurants closing or changing ownership, a new generation of chefs and visionaries taking their place. In some ways, it was a relief to go unnoticed. But she couldn’t help but feel like it meant that she was going extinct, too. 

A hand on her shoulder alerted her to Andrea’s presence, and she was surprised when the touch lingered even once the maitre’d was escorting them to their table. 

“Thanks for joining me,” she told Miranda as they took their seats. “Hannah was looking for another test subject, and I told her I knew a pretty good critic. Plus, they have steak.”

“It’s…” Miranda smoothed out her napkin as she searched for the words. “The things you remember, Andrea. I would have thought that your brain would be filled with more useful information.”

Andrea laughed. “Even if I tried, I couldn’t forget your lunch order. You’re a memorable woman.”

A pause. A crack in the ice. Miranda touched the pendant around her neck. 

“The same could be said about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Andrea said. Confidence slowly returned to her voice. “What suburb of Cincinnati am I from?”

They’d rarely spoken of their lives before each other, and Miranda tried to mask a sudden spark of regret that she didn’t know. “Something… burg.”

“No.”

Miranda’s glare was met with a broad smile. 

“Nuh-uh,” Andy said. “That look would’ve worked on me way back when, but not now.” She took a sip of water. “Forest Park, if you must know.”

“Oh, I mustn’t.” But she filed it away anyway.

“New York feels like home now, though,” Andrea continued. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

“Have you not always felt that way?”

“It was an intimidating place at first. And I had an” — she smiled at Miranda —  “intimidating job.”

“Are you equating me to…” Miranda waved her hand vaguely towards the street. 

“I guess you did feel kind of synonymous with the city that first year. I got to know my way around most of Manhattan because of you.”

It felt like a confession given all too easily, and by the look on Andrea’s face, she realized it, too. Another crack. Miranda forced herself to break the silence. 

“And yet you chose this other borough.”

Andrea smiled again, visibly relieved by the change in topic. “Face it, Miranda. Most of your staff probably lives in Brooklyn or Queens by now. And I’d bet that there are more Starbucks per square foot than anywhere in Midtown.”

“You know, I frequent other coffee establishments these days,” Miranda said coolly. “Small, bespoke brands.”

Andrea’s mouth parted slowly, and she leaned on her elbow towards Miranda, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Did Howard Schultz finally do something to piss you off?”

“Am I that predictable?” Miranda said. She placed a hand on her chest, feigning distress. 

“More like Howard doesn’t seem to play nice.”

She almost let herself return Andrea’s smirk, but was thankful for the arrival of the server. Various dishes were ordered by Andrea per the directions from her colleague. Miranda watched as she took copious notes throughout their meal, easily reading her sloppy handwriting upside down. 

“What’s this about your dinner ‘companion’?” she asked as the server cleared their table, trying to decode a series of bullet points.

Andrea looked up, flushing immediately. “It’s not — you know how the reviews are written, right?” She rolled her eyes when Miranda smirked. “Don’t make me more nervous.”

It was a recurring joke from Andrea, stemming from their earliest encounters: unabashed self-awareness that she wore proudly and seemed to use as a tactic to diffuse tension. Unfortunately, it always seemed to have the opposite effect when she tried it with Miranda, and Andrea seemed to remember this as she returned to scribbling in her notebook, cheeks burning cherry-red.

“For what it’s worth, I thought that the labneh was especially impressive,” Miranda said evenly, watching Andrea’s shoulders relax slightly as she made the note.

They lingered at the end of the dinner, making casual conversation about things around the city — a new development that Andrea was covering, a gallery of awful art that Miranda had visited for a show earlier that week. The server refilled their water glasses thrice before Miranda glanced at her watch. 

“You’ll get a ride home, I assume?” she said to Andrea, who smiled.

“Subway’s right there.”

“Ah, yes. Your beloved L.”

Andrea’s hand twitched towards Miranda, but at the last second reached for her jacket instead. “This was really nice. It was good to see you. I mean, it’s been good to see you.”

“And you insist on taking the train?” Miranda said, dodging the compliment. 

“Yes, Miranda.”

“Well, if you make it home alive, I’d appreciate an update.”

She heard from Andrea an hour later.

Home. By the skin of my teeth. What’s the name of that coffee place, by the way?

Wilder. 

Your Emily still pick it up?

I could be enticed to go myself for the right reason. 

Tuesday?

Wednesday is better. 7:30?

Perfect. 

— 

“This worked out well,” Andrea said as she held open the door for Miranda. “I have an interview this morning on the Upper West Side.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow towards the coffee shop menu. “Are you still ordering your usual sugary milkshake disguised as coffee?”

“So you do remember some things. I’m off the Frappuccinos, but I still like a little flavor.” As if to prove her point, Andrea turned and ordered for both of them. “One vanilla latte, and a skim, no-foam latte with an extra shot. And extra hot on that skim latte, if it’s not too much trouble?”

Miranda watched her reach for her wallet, and put a hand out to stop her. “Andrea —”

Andrea shrugged her off with a grin, handing over her credit card smoothly. “Did you hear that they pay people fair wages now? I can’t have you footing the bill every time we go out.”

Go out?

Miranda pursed her lips. “Technically, the other night was on you,” she countered.

“That’s right! Okay, you can owe me.”

Publicly, Miranda owned no one. She had plenty indebted to her; no one dared to be in a position to ask for more. Privately, she’d gotten used to having a single exception, and turned towards the cafe’s bank of windows to hide the way it brought heat to her cheeks.

“Who are you interviewing?” she asked, assuming that Andrea would follow.

Andrea’s shoulders slumped as they took their seat at a table near the window. “This is my third try with this guy. He’s being treated for a rare disease that his health insurance denied, and we’re doing a project with ProPublica into how these denials have changed since the Affordable Care Act passed.”

“And you haven’t been successful because…?”

“He’s… cagey. I don’t think he trusts me to tell his story accurately. I’ve been playing it safe, trying to win him over, but I can’t tell what his problem is.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “That you’re a woman?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Thanks.” Andrea smiled at the barista as their beverages were delivered to the table. She took a sip before looking over at Miranda again. “How’s that going for you?”

“Oh, a coup d’etat is threatened on a quarterly basis. New board members threaten my imminent extinction. And yet Runway is the only publication whose circulation numbers have risen consistently in the last three years, and our online… presence has been relatively successful.”

“You’re viral,” Andrea said with a smirk.

“I hate that word,” Miranda groaned. “One thinks of the plague, snots and fluids. God forbid anyone come up with something less repulsive.”

Andrea laughed, and it made Miranda’s stomach flip. “You’re not wrong. Hey, our interview did pretty well.” She pulled out her phone and held it towards Miranda, who pulled her glasses out of her blazer and slid them on, scanning an email that contained an assessment of web traffic, social media feedback, and articles written on the interview. She leaned in closer, touching the phone to scroll down, and let her fingers graze Andrea’s as she did so.

They were close enough that she could smell the floral shampoo that Andrea wore, and the familiar, warm scent that Miranda had always associated with her apartment. Clearly it had traveled with her from the Lower East Side to Williamsburg. 

Andrea was the first to pull back, and Miranda inhaled slowly, feeling foolish. 

“I should go,” Andrea said. The smile she gave Miranda was oddly bashful, and she bit her lip as she stood up. “So… next time.”

Miranda rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance. “No need to badger. It’s… on me.”

She was rewarded with a wide grin. Andrea brushed her shoulder as she bid her goodbye, and Miranda felt the warmth for her entire ride to Runway.

Andrea invaded her train of thought for the rest of the week, in the middle of board meetings or halfway through a review of The Book. It felt odd that they had fallen into a routine so similar to the early days that they’d spent together after Andrea had left Runway: spontaneous meals, careful conversations, some undercurrent of a shared want that neither of them was ready to express. This time around, there were far more things left unsaid. 

Miranda would not be the one to say them aloud. As far as she was concerned, that task was Andrea’s. She’d initiated this reunion of sorts, and she’d been the reason for their… distance. Miranda refused to make the same mistake again.

— 

Winter 2007

When Miranda went downstairs to retrieve The Book, she was surprised to see an envelope with her name on it. She re-read the cryptic text message from Emily that she’d received an hour earlier: Something got delivered for you here. Will send with Claire.

She waited until she was in her office to open it. It was a simple white envelope, the paper thin and cheap. The front of the card was a print of Renoir’s Dance at Bougival. It was all she needed to know who had sent it.

I would include a cutout of what I wrote, but I suspect you’ve already seen it. 

Thank you.

She slid the card in the bottom of her desk drawer, alongside a cutout of Andrea’s first individual byline. Her fingertips tingled as she thought about the hands that had written it.

Chapter Text

Fall 2008

“To two years of freedom,” Nigel said, tapping his glass against Andy’s. “How does it feel? Oh wait — you’re still under her thumb. I know how that feels.”

Andy shook her head as she swallowed her wine. “Har har. Going to a few fashion shows does not qualify as being under her thumb, Nigel.” She hoped that he would assume that the alcohol was to blame for the blood suddenly rushing to her face. 

“You keep telling yourself that. You’re the only person I know who’s left Runway and hasn’t cut that woman out of her life. I think Emily shredded her green card on her way out the door.”

“Has Miranda been on a tear since she left?” Andy asked with a grimace.

“What qualifies as a tear at this point? The new Emily will suffer just as much as the rest of them. I think it would be hard for her to be as pissed off as she was when you left, though.” Nigel looked at Andy over his glasses before taking another sip of his cocktail. 

Andy felt herself flushing again. Of all the things that she and Miranda had talked about in their various encounters over the years, she’d still not managed to ask about that day, that week, or even the rest of that year. Now, sitting across Nigel for the first time since she’d left Runway, she was desperate to know more — and desperate to prevent him from catching on.

“Oh,” she said, swirling her wine to feign disinterest. “Really?”

“She fired so many people that HR stopped sending her resumes until she threatened to fire all of them, too,” Nigel said as he began perusing the menu. “Her steak was wrong, her coffee was wrong, every single one of my deadlines got moved up a week…” He looked up at Andy. “We all hated you so very much.”

She returned his smile with a smirk of her own. “And yet, here you are. Onto bigger and better things.”

Nigel raised his glass again. “Huzzah. Chanel, here I come.”

“When are you going to tell her?”

Nigel cleared his throat, but his shifting eyes betrayed his casual tone. “On Monday. Six weeks’ notice still won’t be sufficient, but it’s the best I can do. Jocelyn will survive.”

They slid into easy gossip about colleagues, caught up in nostalgia now that they could both look back on Runway as survivors. A comfortable silence passed over the table as the server delivered their affogatos. 

“So, line cook is no more,” Nigel said. “Any other beaus on the horizon?”

Andy shrugged. “I’ve gone on some dates. Saw a guy for a few months, but…” He was nothing like Miranda. “I dunno. I’m trying to keep my options open.”

Nigel pursed his lips. “So you need to get laid.”

“Nigel!” Andy said, swatting him from across the table. He laughed before seeming to remember something, his eyes growing wide.

 “You know who’s also keeping her options open… La Priestly. Lots of dinner dates… and lots of cancellations of dinner dates,” he said under his breath. “I don’t get it. There’s no way she’s still pining after that drippy ex-husband. Does she ever say anything to you?”

“Me? No. Of course not. Why would she? We barely know each other.” Andy forced a laugh before taking a large sip of wine. 

Nigel raised his eyebrows. “Okay, Six, calm down. You just always seemed to get all of her gossip.” He bit his lip and leaned over the table. “Don’t tell her I said anything. I haven’t decided where I want my funeral plot to be yet.”

Miranda hadn’t said anything to Andy, of course, but it hadn’t stopped her from wondering if one day Miranda would show up to an event with a man on her arm, or if she would find out in the tabloids. Governor Spitzer took up most of Page Six at this point, and Miranda had stayed out of the front pages of the gossip rags for the better part of the year. So maybe Andy still looked at the tabloids here and there. She was a journalist, after all. 

And there had been moments lately — brief and fleeting, but moments nonetheless. Miranda staring at her a moment longer than seemed necessary, dinners at nice restaurants where they lingered far after the check had been paid. Small moments that showed that Miranda had been paying attention: ordering her favorite dessert, mentioning that she’d read an article that Andy had recommended. Roy had taken to hailing a taxi for Andy after dinner, sometimes wordlessly handing off a dry-cleaning bag of Chanel, Dior, and Versace. All in Andy’s size, all an unspoken suggestion for what to wear at whatever upcoming event Miranda might mention offhand one night.

Andy tried to thank Miranda in her own ways: giving her a book that she enjoyed, finding new restaurants or art that Miranda might like. But what intrigued her most was that, while Miranda clearly tolerated those little actions, what she seemed to enjoy most was Andy’s compliments.

They started out fairly as innocuous statements: Andy would mention how much she appreciated Miranda’s taste in restaurants, compliment a piece of jewelry, or acknowledge a new pair of shoes. Instead of her usual hum of acknowledgment, Miranda would do that thing: shifting her eyes away from Andy, lifting one corner of her lips such an infinitesimal amount that someone not accustomed to once spending 80 hours of their week with her might not notice.

But Andy knew the thing. She’d seen it a total of three times at Runway. 

She saw it a lot more now. 

Like the day she decided to tell Miranda that she not only noticed her new jacket, but that it looked good.

Or the time she mentioned that the gray scarf Miranda was wearing really made her eyes pop.

And sometimes it just happened when she laughed at Miranda’s sly comments. Her biting words once made Andy shrink in fear, but she knew how to read between the lines now, how to distinguish between irony and vitriol, taunting and teasing. 

Once they were standing in the corner of some gallery, having found themselves at the same fundraising event. Miranda leaned in to comment on someone’s shoes: “How unfortunate that so many pigeons had to die for one single, sad pair of boots.”

“Rude,” Andy tutted, smacking Miranda’s arm lightly as she held back a laugh. 

She held onto the memory of that particular smile for a long time. 

—

Fall 2016

Andy tossed her coat onto a chair and made her way to the kitchen sink, not bothering to watch her front door close. She turned the kitchen tap on and splashed cold water onto her face until the warmth in her cheeks began to fade. She’d hoped that the walk from the L back to her apartment would help calm her nerves — that she could somehow walk off the adrenaline, divert all the blood in her face and chest down to her legs if she hustled enough. She buried her face in a kitchen towel and groaned until she ran out of air in her lungs.

As she patted her face dry, she lamented at how quick she’d been to trick herself into thinking that surviving her interview with Miranda at the festival meant that she was ready to see her again. And that a casual dinner at one of their favorite spots would be fun and breezy two years after one of the worst moments of her life that they had never discussed.

Andy had gone through enough uncomfortable situations, whether it was a politician bristling at her questions, or some creepy source trying to hit on her in a dark hallway, that she knew how to keep her composure and hold her own. She could make a laugh seem effortless, steady her voice at the height of her nerves, and keep her countenance placid and unremarkable.

She realized that it was foolish to have believed that Miranda wouldn’t shatter that facade in a second. The minute she’d seen Miranda at Torrisi, Andy knew that the years had done nothing to soften her feelings. It took everything in her not to spill her guts in the first five minutes. 

She forced herself to pretend that they were just friends, colleagues, catching up after a long time. 

As if they’d ever been either of those things.

The last thing Andy wanted to do was push her luck. She’d ruined so much by doing that.

A life without Miranda had been painful. But this almost felt worse.

— 

Spring 2010

Andy closed the townhouse door behind her, careful to wipe her shoes before going too far into the entryway. Without thinking, she helped Miranda out of her coat, holding it by the shoulders as Miranda shrugged it off, then placing it carefully on a hanger. Miranda watched closely as Andy shed her own coat.

“James seems to be doing well,” Andy said, enjoying the way Miranda’s lips puckered slightly. 

“If you call making a picture book well, I shudder to think what you would consider for a Pulitzer.”

Andy followed Miranda down the hall and into her office, laughing as she tried in vain to defend James, who had kindly invited both of them to that night’s book launch. “It’s a series of photo essays!”

“And Runway is Encyclopedia Britannica,” Miranda said dryly. She rummaged around the beverage cart before delivering a finger of whisky to Andy, joining her on the couch with a glass of her own. 

“Nigel looked happy,” Andy said carefully. His departure from Runway was recent enough in Miranda’s mind that it was still a sore subject, and they rarely spoke of his career. It was too easy for other memories to come to the surface. 

Miranda nodded serenely. “Indeed.”

Andy took a small sip of the whisky. She’d started to grow accustomed to the taste, though she’d learned the hard way that what she was drinking at Miranda’s was very different from what the bar down the street was carrying. She enjoyed the warmth cascading down her throat and into her chest, buoying her mood alongside the two drinks she’d enjoyed earlier that night.

“Do you miss him?”

“Andrea.”

“It’s a fair question,” Andy said, turning her body slightly to press her knee against Miranda’s. It was intended to be a tap, a source of levity, but she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. 

“Fair, perhaps. Necessary, no.” Miranda took a sip of her drink, pointedly ignoring where their bodies were now touching.

Liquid bravery pushed Andy to ask her next question. “You missed me, though, right?” It was meant to tease — Miranda allowed her to do that more and more — but her voice came out more thinly than she’d hoped. It softened the question instead, suggesting a sincerity that Andy hadn’t meant to reveal.

“The office felt… different without you,” Miranda said after a moment, her eyes not leaving her glass.

“In a good way?”

“The shoes were considerably better.”

Andy was relieved to see Miranda’s lips twitching slightly, and she found herself placing her hand on Miranda’s knee as she laughed. “I stopped wearing those clogs on my second day!”

Miranda hummed as she shifted her focus from her drink to Andy’s hand. 

They had been doing this more often: fleeting touches, lingering glances, allowing themselves to be drawn into the gravitational pull that Andy had tried to act on nearly a year prior. Never speaking of it, never going further, but every moment never strayed far from Andy’s thoughts.

“I did… miss you, yes,” Miranda said, her voice suddenly hoarse. 

“Good thing I never really went away.”

“Yes,” Miranda said, finally meeting Andy’s eyes. “Good thing.”

It was a lethal combination: blue eyes, whisky, and that familiar sarcastic tone of Miranda’s that she put on to critique Andy’s casual language. Andy watched herself move her hand up Miranda’s leg, pausing where her skirt touched her thigh, letting her fingers graze the hem. She heard Miranda inhale sharply, and then her fingers were grabbing Andy’s chin and pulling her close.

Their first kiss wasn’t soft or chaste or slow. It was decisive, intentional — a claiming. A silent admission that the last few years hadn’t been for nothing: they had survived the pushing, and now they were submitting themselves to the pull. 

Miranda anchored Andy in place as she sucked her lower lip into her mouth, teeth raking over it as such an excruciatingly slow place that Andy heard herself whining, like surviving all these years of Miranda’s eyes on her mouth meant that she deserved less teasing and more doing. Miranda chuckled as she pulled away briefly, taking their whisky glasses and setting them on the table before placing her hand on Andy’s thigh.

They stayed like that for a moment, just watching each other, lips parted in waiting as they puffed out shallow breaths. Neither moving, in an unspoken agreement that they wanted this. 

Miranda’s eyes were slightly wider than usual — not in fear or alarm, but like she was trying to see all of Andy. Her eyebrows turned up slightly as Andy weaved her fingers through Miranda’s hair, resting them on the back of her head. The white locks were softer and finer than she’d expected, and she felt herself blushing.

“What?” Miranda said quietly. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, just slightly. 

Andy pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at herself. “I just… I’ve thought about what your hair feels like for so long.”

“Oh,” Miranda breathed, and Andy had no choice but to kiss her.

Miranda let her take the lead this time, opening her mouth as Andy swiped her tongue against her lips, her nails digging into Andy’s skin as they shifted closer together. 

It all left Andy breathless, from the way Miranda cupped her jaw as she licked into her mouth, to the small intake of breath that followed each time Andy nipped at Miranda’s lower lip, pulling back just enough that Miranda had to lean in to press their lips together once more. She tasted like malt and honey, the soft sting of alcohol having faded to something woodsy and sweet. 

In the back of her mind, Andy remembered that she was supposed to be going on a second date on Tuesday.

She’d cancel. No way was she going to dinner with a corporate lawyer now that she knew what it was like to have Miranda Priestly’s tongue in her mouth.

— 

Winter 2009

“Hi, is this Andy Sachs?”

Andy adjusted the phone in the crook of her neck as she pushed open the door to the offices of The Mirror. “Speaking.”

“I was just calling back in regards to your interest in the Michael Kors benefit and, um… unfortunately, we aren’t able to accommodate your attendance.”

Andy slowed her walk to her desk. “Oh. Did… I mean, is it full or something?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway.”

It was the third event that Andy had been turned away from in as many months, and she knew why it was happening. Or, more accurately, she knew who was doing it.

A pit of regret sat deep in her gut, painfully twisted with the adrenaline that came with the memory of almost kissing Miranda. 

She hadn’t seen her since, and every voicemail she left and email she sent had gone unanswered. She went through fits and bursts of anger and resentment when she remembered how Miranda had leaned into her touch, the way she’d looked at Andy like she was seeing her for the first time. How she’d been complicit in the act for which she now seemed to be punishing Andy. But some days Andy was more forgiving, opening the door to something that felt dangerously close to grief.

Because it went further than wanting to kiss Miranda Priestly just for the hell of it. She loved to be in the same room with her, sharing a look over something silly, or sitting across a table from her at a loud restaurant debating a book review or arguing over the wine list. She had grown accustomed to the thrill of seeing her around Manhattan, how each encounter, though public and planned, somehow felt like a secret rendezvous. 

So instead of attending fun events and private dinners, Andy had dived into her work with a higher intensity than ever, chasing every byline she could and broadening the scope of her articles far beyond anything she’d been covering for the past three years. She’d finally found her niche in some of the more investigative articles — though at The Mirror, it was mostly limited to local politics and white-collar fraud — and had started to consider moving on.

As long as Miranda hadn’t already bad-mouthed her to every other publication in town.

So Andy made one last futile attempt to bury the hatchet, move on, find closure. She wasn’t going to let Miranda threaten her career for a second time if she could help it. Fueled by adrenaline and rage, she scribbled a note on a legal pad, folded it tightly, and slid it underneath the door to Miranda’s townhouse at exactly 5:45pm. 

Because, despite everything, she still knew Miranda’s schedule. The twins would be at soccer, Miranda would still be at the office, and their housekeeper didn’t come on Tuesdays. Miranda would pick up the girls at 7pm and bring them home with Roy, and with any luck, she’d unlock the door and see the piece of paper before Cassidy or Caroline could pick it up.

The note was cryptic enough, anyway — less of an apology, more of a declaration of severance. Unsigned and unspecific. 

Andy was on her way to work the next morning when her phone rang with an unknown number.

“Andrea Sachs?”

She signed, anticipating another rejection from another event. “Speaking. Listen, if it’s about —”

“Roy will pick you up at your apartment at six-thirty tonight,” a woman’s shaky voice said. “Don’t” — she cleared her throat — “Um. Don’t wear those ugly Manolos. Black pumps will suffice.”

Andy hadn’t realized that she’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk until someone pushed her out of the way with a grunt. 

“You said Roy?” she repeated. 

“Yes, at six-thirty.” 

“But where —”

The voice’s pitch rose to a sound of panic that Andy knew all too well. “That’s all I know. Bye.”

Andy went home an hour early, unable to focus on her work. She showered, forced herself to eat a piece of toast, and waited by the window until she saw the familiar silver sedan pull up. To her surprise, Roy came out holding a dry cleaning bag, and headed for the entrance to her building.

She sprinted downstairs, heels clacking on the linoleum, and met him at the door. 

“Hi, Andy,” he said amiably. He lifted the bag towards her. “This is for you. I’ll meet you back here when you’re ready. You have…” He tipped his head towards his watch before smiling up at her. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, god. Okay. Thanks, I guess?”

Andy ignored her roommates’ questions as she raced towards her bedroom, slamming the door and unzipping the bag recklessly. It held a simple black Chanel dress: cap sleeves, hemmed just above the knee, accompanied by a matching cropped sweater. 

She found herself eyeing the Manolos, then laughed out loud at the memory of the phone call. It soothed her nerves briefly before she sprung into action, pulling on the dress and shoes and gathering her hair into a half-ponytail. She replaced her simple studs with gold hoops, threw on some matching bangles, and spent the remaining ten minutes trying to find her goddamn black pumps. 

Roy had just honked the horn as she emerged onto the sidewalk, and she slid into the car without another glance. Her stomach dropped when she realized that there was already someone in the backseat.

“Go,” Miranda said, and as the car took off down Ludlow, she pressed the button to roll up the privacy screen. She did not look at Andy when she spoke.

“You cannot be leaving scrap paper” — she practically spat the word — “under doorsteps like some sort of cartoon spy.”

Andy realized that she was clenching her fists, and took a breath before responding, shifting to face Miranda. “I didn’t know what to do. You wouldn’t… talk to me.”

Miranda touched her sunglasses, pushing them up her nose by a millimeter. “Did it ever occur to you that I might have been busy?” she said quietly. 

“It felt like you were doing it on purpose.”

“Don’t be childish. My life does not revolve around you.”

Andy crossed her arms and sat back on the seat. “Fine, whatever. Can I go home now?”

“No.”

“I think a kidnapping requires a ransom note,” Andy shot back, picking at her cardigan. “And you just said how much you hate those.”

She was too focused on her sweater to notice Miranda smiling. They sat in silence for the remainder of the ride, finally pulling up to a warehouse in Chelsea. Andy could hear the low hum of music coming from the building. 

“David Remnick is hosting this gathering. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Andy’s eyes reached her hairline as she took in Miranda’s words, and practically fell out of the car once Roy opened the door. 

“What did I just say?” Miranda hissed. She briefly placed a hand on the small of Andy’s back as they crossed the sidewalk before seeming to remember herself. Andy took a deep breath before following Miranda into the large, crowded space, still not accustomed to how many eyes fell onto the woman before her.

They emerged three hours later, Andy feeling grateful for the suggestion of the black pumps after standing and chatting for so long. Her clutch was filled with business cards and scribbled notes, and even though she’d only drank water, she felt like she might float home.

A few blocks passed in silence before Miranda spoke up. She was tracing one of the buttons on her jacket, and her voice was low and hoarse. “Did you have a nice time?”

“I did. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Mhmm.”

She finally looked at Andy once Roy had pulled up to her apartment. They hadn’t spoken all night, and finally seeing Miranda’s eyes after so many months made Andy’s chest tighten. 

 “Goodbye,” Miranda whispered, and Andy let herself return the ghost of a smile that she caught in the shadows of the streetlights.

— 

Fall 2016

The day after they had coffee, Miranda left for Paris.

She hadn’t said anything to Andy, but she didn’t need to. The dates were burned into her brain. By now, they marked far too many anniversaries for her to forget.

And it wasn’t like they owed each other anything. Of course, there had been a time where they’d shared schedules and plans, compared calendars and made appointments, and Andy felt herself missing it more than ever now that she’d had a taste of Miranda’s attention again. 

She waited two weeks before sending Miranda a text: a link to an article in the Times about a new Coco Chanel biography. There was no response. It took two more days before she’d worked herself up into a fit of simmering anger that only Miranda had ever induced in her. 

For two years, Andy had been patient. She’d behaved, she’d worked hard, and then somehow she’d gotten invited back into Miranda’s life with no explanation. 

She knew what she’d done wrong those years ago. Miranda hadn’t chased her down, and Andy hadn’t looked back. If Miranda was going to freeze her out again, Andy decided that she had a right to know why.

She took a cab — Miranda did kind of have a point about the L train — and asked to be dropped off at the corner. Half a block to rethink her decision. 

Third of a block.

Quarter of a block.

Eighth of a block.

Front steps.

It took almost thirty seconds for the door to open. 

Two steps forward.

When Andy kissed her, Miranda made a sound that Andy didn’t know she’d been waiting to hear for far too long.

Chapter Text

Spring 2009

Miranda pinched the top of her nose, closing her eyes briefly as she hunched over her desk. Before her was a spread that she had been trying to rework for over a week now: focused on amateur designers, it had been kicked down the road after not fitting into the last two issues, and it was only because the CFDA was sponsoring part of it that she was even allowing it to be shoehorned into the July issue. 

“Emily,” she called absently. To her surprise, when she leaned back in her chair to await her assistant, Andrea was there instead.

As far as Miranda knew, Andrea hadn’t been back to the office since security had escorted her out nearly three years ago. Even though they’d been spending more time together — hovering in the corners of event halls, brief dinners after they’d encountered yet another inedible catering spread — they had never seen each other so early in the day, and certainly never at Runway. 

She blinked, wondering if editing this awful feature had finally driven her to insanity and caused a hallucination. 

“I’m getting coffee with Nigel,” Andrea said in lieu of a greeting, pointing her thumb behind her as if Miranda couldn’t possibly know where Nigel would be. “Just thought I’d come say hello first.” She looked around, grinning unabashedly. “Looks the same in here. Is your latte cool enough to drink yet?”

Miranda narrowed her eyes at her, trying to summon annoyance at the mention of a fact that she had shared with Andrea in confidence. It was difficult for her to break her concentration once she arrived at the office, and a regular coffee would always go cold before she remembered to pick it up. The extra-hot order gave her more time to notice the beverage, by which time it was a normal temperature. 

“It’s… acceptable,” she murmured, pulling off her glasses. “Coffee, you said?”

Andrea went into detail about some new “place” they were trying, and that she owed Nigel for a recent favor, but Miranda was only half-listening. 

Andrea had arrived in one of the new suits from Gucci’s recent spring collection: matchstick slacks, black with purple detailing, and a matching cropped jacket. Underneath was a simple black pinstriped oxford shirt, which she had only buttoned halfway. It was arranged artfully, still obscuring most of her pale skin, but Miranda could tell where it had been left unfastened, and found herself wondering what it would be like to push the blouse out of the way. 

She came hurtling back down to earth when she realized that the room had gone silent. 

Andrea was watching her closely, mouth curling into a smirk, clearly having noticed that Miranda was staring. She slid her hands in the pockets of her slacks, jutting one hip out slightly. Performing. Gloating, even.

Miranda pressed her lips together. She had a decision to make — one that she’d been confronted with increasingly often. She could take the easy way out: brush it off, return to her work, and ignore that look that Andrea so regularly gave her now. It hadn’t been working, necessarily — Andrea often looked far too satisfied with herself to believe it — but it still gave Miranda some degree of plausible deniability that she was doing anything but admiring the clothing itself. It was her job, after all. 

But there was another option, one that she’d only entertained once so far. Two months prior, they’d crossed paths at an event that Andrea had shown up to in one the few outfits that she’d kept from Paris. Off-the-shoulder Chanel in viridian charmeuse. Gold jewelry. Red lipstick. Miranda didn’t even try to keep her eyes off of her, and by the way Andrea’s cheeks matched her lipstick by the end of the night, she’d certainly noticed. 

To show such naked appreciation — though it was more than appreciation, wasn’t it? Miranda tried not to think about that — should have felt embarrassing. But it sparked a thrill in Miranda instead, one she’d been denying herself for far too long.

She was still holding her glasses. Without breaking eye contact, she dragged the tip of the silver arm across her lower lip, letting it linger on the corner of her mouth. 

Andrea’s chest rose and fell slowly, her lips parting slightly as she exhaled, but she held Miranda’s gaze with surprising intensity.

Nigel breezed into the room then, pulling them out of their reverie.

“This looks good on you, Six,” he said, dragging his fingertip down the sleeve of Andrea’s blazer. She cleared her throat, her eyes lingering on Miranda briefly before she turned to Nigel with a smile that was a little too wide. Nigel raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press the matter.

“Miranda, Mark at Givenchy confirmed that he’ll have those proofs to you by one,” he said. "I’m stopping by Lanvin’s office in an hour to look over that shoe collection they promised us.”

“Fine,” Miranda snapped, turning her attention back to the layout in front of her. “When you return, bring the design team in here. I want the meeting moved up by an hour to figure out this disastrous scrapbook that they somehow felt comfortable delivering to me.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

She glanced at Nigel before bringing her eyes back to the layout. “That’s all.”

—

Summer 2010

As with most aspects of Miranda’s life, rules were put in place.

Never while the twins were home.

Never in the car, or an elevator, or anywhere else within one hundred feet of the public eye.

Never further than chests or shoulders. Invisible borders were created, outlined by curves and dips of skin, barricaded by ribs and muscle that prevented temptation. 

Never more than twice a week. Except for that one week that her team kept fucking up the Moschino shoot and Andrea’s body against hers seemed to be the only thing that prevented her from firing every last one of them.

The rules gave Miranda time to figure out what the hell she was doing. Sent Andrea the message that they were moving slowly, if at all. Eliminated hope that came with whirlwind romances and flights of fancy. Theoretically.

It all began to crumble the moment that the twins left for their eight-week sleepaway camp. 

She had been vague about the exact dates with Andrea, careful not to seem eager or presumptive. Instead, Miranda waited until a week after the girls had left to call her — they’d started speaking by phone more and more — and mention that her Friday night was no longer taken up by the usual family dinner. 

“Oh,” Andrea said, and Miranda could tell that she had stopped pacing around her apartment as she usually did on their calls. “So you’re…”

“Alone, yes,” Miranda snapped, a wave of impatience hitting her more aggressively than she’d anticipated. “Roy will pick you up in half an hour.”

They had backslid slightly since that first kiss. Each look and touch felt more weighted, like it was a prelude to something instead of simple intimacy. Pauses in conversations no longer brought comfortable silence, but carried unspoken questions and windows of opportunity. They were closer than ever in many ways, but they’d taken a sharp left turn away from friendship and into territory far more tenuous. After four years, Andrea somehow knew Miranda better than nearly anyone in her life, which only made whatever they were doing feel that much more fragile. Consequential. Heavy.

Instead of facing that reality, Miranda brushed off any thoughts of logistics or commitment, of future consequences, and told herself that she was simply… indulging. Experimenting. Allowing herself a few hours of irrational thought every month. She deserved it, didn’t she? 

An hour later, Andrea was on her doorstep, wearing a simple sleeveless linen dress. Since she’d taken the job at The New Yorker, she’d started upgrading her wardrobe, favoring brands like Reformation and Free People. They suited her stubborn insistence on toeing the line between casual and professional. She still, however, indulged Miranda from time to time, accepting dresses or tops that landed on her doorstep, somehow always knowing when and where Miranda wanted her to wear them.

“Happy Friday,” Andrea said warmly as Miranda stepped aside to let her in. She pulled a bottle of wine out of her bag, holding it out label-up. It was a blend that Miranda had mentioned having trouble finding months ago, even after having her second assistant bring the regional distributor to tears with her demands.

She lifted the corner of her mouth as she accepted the bottle. “Wherever did you find this?”

Andrea grinned. “I don’t share my sources.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Tease.” She turned around before she could watch Andrea’s reaction, but smiled at the sharp inhale that she heard as she led them towards the kitchen. “Had I known that you were bringing secret wine, I would have ordered something else. It won’t pair with any of this.”

She’d ordered dinner from a Lebanese place that Andrea enjoyed, and watched her carefully as she surveyed the spread on the kitchen island. “I think I can wait to try the wine,” Andrea said. Her cheeks were slightly pink as she came to stand between Miranda and the island. “I thought you hated tabbouleh,” she said quietly, dipping her head so that her lips were less than an inch from Miranda’s cheekbone.

“I’ll survive,” Miranda whispered.

She was a civilized woman, not some desperate heathen, so she only pressed her leg between Andrea’s once as they kissed before pulling back and fetching plates and silverware from the cabinet. 

“Tease,” Andrea muttered.

In what had become a habit, they made their way to Miranda’s sitting room after dinner, starting off on opposite ends of the couch as Andrea discussed her recent contributions to Talk of the Town and an article that she was pitching to the culture section. Between reaching for drinks and refilling glasses, they slowly moved closer, tucking their legs underneath them and positioning themselves around pillows and cushions. 

Miranda was in the middle of narrating a particularly frustrating conversation with Irv Ravitz’s recent replacement when she noticed that Andrea was staring more than listening. 

“For god’s sake, stop looking at me like that,” she murmured. 

Andrea tilted her head in mock confusion. “Like what?”

“Some sort of googly-eyed Looney Tune.”

“I think it’s always plural,” Andrea said.

“Excuse me?”

Andrea was smiling now, and she shifted a little closer to Miranda. “They’re not each a tune, you know? I think that —”

“Andrea,” Miranda warned, but she pulled Andrea closer anyway.

“Off-topic? Sorry.”

They were still new at this, slowly growing familiar with how their bodies moved together, what each other liked. Miranda had been surprised by just how sure of herself Andrea could be, how utterly unselfconscious she became under Miranda’s touch. She liked to take the lead, be in control… just like Miranda did. 

So Miranda made a game out of pushing Andrea to relinquish control, making her chase her lips or ask three times to touch her, just enough to get her frustrated and pliant under Miranda’s touch. 

But Andrea was just as good at turning the tables: instead of holding back, she’d learned what made Miranda surrender. She’d moan quietly in Miranda’s ear, tell her how good she was doing, how beautiful she was. Whine into her mouth, a sound so utterly distracting that she could probably convince Miranda to hire Hugh Hefner as Runway’s CEO and she wouldn’t even notice. 

Andrea ended up on top of Miranda that night, her dress bunched up criminally high with her knees on either side of Miranda’s thighs. Their mouths never wandered lower than the necklines of their tops, but Miranda found herself incapable of resisting settling her hands on Andrea’s bare legs, feeling skin that she’d observed from a distance for… 

Well, if she admitted how long she’d been doing that, she would probably have to report herself to HR.

They separated only to catch their breath. Andrea’s eyes were nearly black in the fading light, and she shifted forward on Miranda’s lap as they watched each other. Miranda inhaled sharply, biting her lip as she squeezed her legs together. Andrea’s focus drifted there, and she sat back slightly. 

“We should probably…”

Miranda nodded. “Yes. It’s late.”

There were still rules, after all. For the sake of rationality, of moving slowly.

Of putting off the inevitability that they would break each other’s hearts. 

— 

Fall 2016

Miranda pulled away from Andrea almost immediately, pulling her inside and slamming the door behind them. 

“Have you lost your mind?” she snapped. It came out weaker than she’d wanted it to, still totally destabilized from the feeling of Andrea’s lips on hers. It didn’t help that the sight of Andrea in her entryway carried a heart-wrenching familiarity that Miranda hadn’t realized that she’d missed until now.

Andrea stood stock-still, fists clenched at her sides in the way she always did when she was angry but convinced that she wasn’t showing it. “I thought you would have grown out of doing this,” she said, each word dripping in condescension. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Andrea's scoff made Miranda flinch, but it seemed to go unnoticed, as Andrea had crossed her arms and was now fixated on the marble floor, tapping one foot rapidly. 

(Miranda had called the tapping her Bugs Bunny habit at one point. “You mean the tune?” Andrea had replied, with a grin so warm and wide that Miranda couldn't even summon an eyeroll.)

Miranda bit her lip. She knew that she’d fallen back into old habits. It always felt easier to push Andrea away and get the pain over with on her own terms instead of waiting for Andrea to walk out on her own.

And Andrea had proved that she was capable of that in the end, of leaving Miranda’s life without looking back, and then having the nerve to do this interview and go to dinner and have coffee like things were normal. Like nothing had happened, like they were… acquaintances. She’d left each of those encounters feeling almost sick from it — and desperate for her next fix.

“Tell me what you want, Andrea,” she said. Gently, slowly. A request, not an order, doing her best to keep her composure. But Andrea prickled at it anyway.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said, practically sneering.

“So you think it’s that easy,” Miranda said, narrowing her eyes. “Waltz back into my life, knock on my door, and then what? Happily ever after?”

Andrea shook her head and finally dropped her arms back to her sides. “No, I…”

“Haven’t thought it through.” Miranda’s laugh was hollow. “I’m not wrong, am I?” Seeing the sheepish look on Andrea’s face, she reached for the door, preparing to usher her out. “For chrissakes, Andrea, at least lie next and tell me you’ve put some thought into it.”

Andrea leaned over and grabbed Miranda’s arm. “All I do is think about you,” she said quickly. “Don’t you understand that? But hoping for something more is what ruined everything the first time around. I’m… I don’t want to tell you what I want, because last time I did, you cut me out of your life. I’ve spent two years trying to figure out how to live a life without you in it, and I don’t want to do that anymore. But I think that it… it almost hurts more to ignore everything we’ve been through.”

“Been through. As if we’re soldiers in some dusty foreign nation.”

Andrea made a sound of disbelief. “Miranda.”

She nearly rolled her eyes, but took a step back from the door instead, watching Andrea expectantly and trying not to think about how she was currently barefoot, making Andrea tower over her in her heels. A silly thought in the midst of such an argument, but a knock to her pride nonetheless.

“You’re the one who requested me for the interview,” Andrea said slowly. “You brought me to your office, said yes to dinner. I have a right to know why.”

“A right,” Miranda repeated. Andrea lifted her chin slightly, trying for defiance, but Miranda could see how her eyes grew a little wider. Her voice softened when she spoke up.

“We want the same things, don’t we, Miranda?”

Miranda pressed her lips together. She wasn’t ready for this, but all she could think about were the final words that they had exchanged in this very home. She inhaled slowly and looked past Andrea. “I… think you already know the answer to that.”

Andrea sighed. “Can you blame me for wanting to hear you say it, though?”

—

Spring 2014

Miranda was already awake when Andrea’s alarm sounded. She had never been a good sleeper, but there was a time when sharing the bed with Andrea guaranteed her at least six hours. It seemed that that benefit had finally expired, and she’d been chasing sleep for months now, spending more time staring at ceilings than dozing off on a pillow. 

The sheet slipped down Andrea’s torso as she sat up to turn off the alarm, exposing the thin nightgown that Miranda had gifted her two birthdays ago. It was nice to appreciate it in the daylight, especially given that she’d arrived home from the office so late that Andrea was already asleep when Miranda had slid into bed.

Andrea turned over, propping herself up on her elbow. “Morning.”

The periwinkle silk sat loosely over her chest, complementing her pale skin, so smooth that it could have been made of the same fabric. Miranda leaned over and ran her hand under one of the thin straps that was on the verge of sliding off of Andrea’s shoulder, savoring the softness against her fingertips. Andrea parted her lips as she watched, looking up at Miranda with eyes still soft from sleep.

She had Andrea on her back ten minutes later, pushing one finger into her in that slow, gentle way that Andrea only ever tolerated this early in the morning. When Andrea came, it was quiet, her hands pressed into the small of Miranda’s back as she inhaled sharply before bringing their lips together for a slow, chaste kiss. She returned the favor moments later, pulling Miranda over her and smirking slightly while she watched Miranda’s knuckles go white as she gripped the headboard for dear life.

Starting the day like that made it easy to forget things, like how the last time they’d had sex was over a month ago, or that Andrea had hung up on her two nights prior during an argument that they hadn’t yet revisited. Miranda wasn’t naive enough to believe that sex solved everything, but there was comfort in knowing that Andrea still wanted her. Still wanted them. 

They moved in a well-practiced morning dance: reaching over each other for a hairbrush or lotion, offering reminders of where a rogue bracelet or blazer might have ended up, tucking stray hairs into place. 

“The fundraiser for the opera house is tonight, right?” Andrea said as she put in an earring. She had chosen gold hoops that went nicely with the double-breasted Givenchy suit jacket that she was wearing. Miranda had taught her well, she thought.

She bristled at Andrea’s question, however, knowing that they were veering into what was becoming an increasingly prickly topic. “Yes,” she said, and took her time zipping up her skirt before looking at Andrea again. “I will be attending with Colin.”

“Right. Of course.” 

Andrea turned around as she said it, but Miranda didn’t miss her curt tone and narrowed eyes. She followed her downstairs, their stocking feet silent on the plush carpet.

“We’re…” Miranda cleared her throat, fussing with her purse to avoid Andrea’s steely gaze. “Roy will drop me off at seven-thirty, and —”

“Will pick you both up at eight-fifteen,” Andrea snapped. “I know the routine by now.”

“Don’t be petulant, Andrea.”

The sound that came from Andrea was clearly meant to be a laugh, but it came out cold and grating. “Petulant. That’s rich.” She placed her hands on the back of a bar stool, staring into the distance with a furrowed brow, her clenched jaw flexing back and forth.

“I don't understand why you’re acting this way,” Miranda said coolly, reaching into her bag for lipstick that she knew was actually in Andrea’s clutch. 

“Acting?” Andrea cried, standing up straight to round on Miranda. “I’m acting this way because I’m tired of you fucking me on the same day that you won’t let us be seen in public together. I’m tired of goddamn Colin, and I’m tired of having to constantly convince myself that whatever we’re doing isn’t… isn’t ruining my life.” She took a deep breath and gestured at the ceiling briefly. “You take me to bed,” she continued, her voice rising with every word. “You touch me and call me yours and then you sit in the back seat of that car with that man and —”

“Stop it.”

“You’re a coward,” Andrea spat. “Using me, using Colin, all because you’re too scared to —”

“Get out.” Miranda said the words before she could think them through, but all she knew was that she could barely breathe with Andrea standing there looking at her like that. She couldn’t face her knowing that the situation wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

Andrea dropped her hand at her side, tilting her head slightly. Her cheeks were splotched red and pink, chest heaving. “Miranda, I —”

“I won’t repeat myself.” Miranda left Andrea alone in the kitchen, walking aimlessly down the hall and into her office, standing in the middle of the room until she heard the front door click shut. Only then did she allow herself to collapse onto the couch, sinking into the cushions with the realization of what she’d just done.

Chapter Text

Summer 2010

The first few nights that Caroline and Cassidy were away at camp, they played it safe. Andy began to wonder how long it would take to break Miranda’s resolve. 

The twins’ absence afforded them what they hadn’t had since Andy’s days at Runway: time. For years, their encounters had been determined mostly by event invitations and soccer schedules and Torrisi’s hours of operation. And that was part of the thrill of it all: Andy always left wanting more, wishing that they had unfettered time to do whatever they wanted. To stop glancing at the clock because every minute felt like a precious opportunity to be something, rather than to simply be.

It turned out that being was as much of a challenge when living under the unspoken rules of Miranda Priestly, who seemed determined to send Andy home squirming night after night. 

Andy wouldn’t call herself a patient person by nature, a thought that had found its way into her head more often than not recently. But she reminded herself that Miranda, and whatever they were doing together, was worth it.

The Reformation sundress the first night didn’t work, though it got Miranda’s hands in a new place. Andy counted that as a win. 

The almost-too-short-for-work skirt and wool top she wore two days later got a raised eyebrow, but third base still eluded her. She did find out that there was a certain spot on Miranda’s neck that elicited a gasp that Andy suddenly wanted to hear as much as possible. 

Even the little Versace that she had worn to her Friday night work event didn’t do the trick. It did, however, secure Andy her first consecutive invitation when Miranda followed up her good night kiss with a “Tomorrow?”

It ended up being Saturday’s outfit — floral-print J.Crew shorts and a simple white popover shirt — that did it. 

Andy arrived at Miranda’s with promises of a caprese salad: three tomatoes and a bundle of basil that she had successfully grown at her community garden and mozzarella from the overpriced market near the townhouse. She had never cooked at Miranda’s house before — she wasn’t even sure if Miranda owned a cutting board — but it was something she enjoyed doing, and a good way to keep her hands busy to channel her nerves. Saturday with Miranda held none of the excuses that a weeknight afforded: no early work commitments, no late meetings, no after-school events or cocktail hours to attend. The freedom felt both daunting and exhilarating, and Andy found herself more nervous than usual when Miranda opened the door. 

She was met with the typical appraising look as she walked inside and slid off her sandals, and laughed when she saw Miranda purse her lips in the direction of her shorts. Miranda’s eyes flicked up to hers, but she said nothing as she took the tote bag off of Andy’s shoulder and led her into the kitchen. 

Miranda, for her part, was in a half-buttoned cashmere vest and loose slacks that sat lower on her hips than anything Andy had ever seen on her. It seemed that two could play at this game.

Andy picked up the knife that Miranda had already set out for her, part of a careful arrangement of cutting boards, bowls, and various oils and seasonings. 

“Did you already have all of this, or was Melissa tasked with some early-morning shopping?” Andy asked, grinning at Miranda as she joined her at the kitchen island. 

Miranda bit her lip as she pivoted towards the fridge. “I might have had some… assistance.”

The look on her face as she placed a glass of lemonade next to her was one that Andy was still getting used to: amusement laced with something startlingly close to affection. Unlike most of Miranda’s signature expressions, it wasn’t something that Andy had ever encountered at Runway, and ten times more disarming. 

“You’re lucky that you have your very own Julia Child, then,” Andy said, slicing into a tomato to hide her blush. 

“Ah, yes,” Miranda said dryly. “Tall, brazen, chatty, went to France. How could anyone tell you two apart?”

Andy looked up. “The fashion?”

Miranda was halfway to taking a sip of her Pellegrino, and paused to laugh, a musical chuckle with her hand over her heart. “If only,” she said warmly, eyeing Andy over her glass.

Miranda ended up on top that night, pressing kisses into Andy’s neck with the same confidence and precision that Andy had seen her use to edit The Book. She bucked her hips up off the couch cushion after a particularly forceful bite, and Miranda pulled back slightly to look down.

“I don’t like these shorts,” she said. 

Andy rolled her eyes. “Like I couldn’t tell.” She waited until Miranda was looking at her to continue. “Bet you won’t do anything about it.”

“I don’t bet.”

“Right.”

As had become their ritual, Andy tried for bravado; Miranda tried for steely calm. This time, though, Miranda didn’t pull away or look at her watch. She caressed Andy’s cheek, raking her eyes over her face, and kissed her slowly, teasing her lips with her teeth and tongue, refusing to deepen it no matter how much Andy tried. She let out a grunt of frustration and heard Miranda laugh against her cheek; in retaliation, Andy slid her hand under Miranda’s blouse, landing on the smooth skin along the seam of her pants.

Miranda’s lips continued to wander along her jaw as Andy moved her hand higher. She ran it over the silk bra Miranda was wearing, slowly adding pressure until she felt Miranda lean into her touch with a shaky inhale. That sound — the small intake of breath, its immediate betrayal of Miranda’s composure — was Andy’s ultimate undoing. 

Tossing a La Perla on the floor without a second glance was probably some sort of violation of fashion law, but whatever punishment it might incur was the feeling of a shirtless Miranda Priestly keening into her touch. 

Andy had never been with another woman like this before, and was vaguely aware that in the grand scheme of things, she had no idea what she was doing. She could feel Miranda watching her closely as she caressed the underside of her breasts with her thumbs. Miranda’s back arched towards Andy when she finally brushed her thumbs over her nipples, already stiff and peaked against the pads of her fingers. 

Buoyed by an approving hum, Andy spread her fingers across Miranda’s lower ribs, holding her steady as she brought her mouth to the swell of her breasts. The skin was impossibly soft against her lips, and she kissed it gently, carefully, interrupted only by hands in her hair that tugged her closer.

“Impatient,” Andy murmured against Miranda’s skin, close enough that her breath ghosted over her nipple. She heard a familiar huff of annoyance, followed by another tug on her hair as Miranda rolled her hips forward. 

Andy opened her mouth and placed it over Miranda’s nipple, grazing it lightly with her bottom teeth before looking up.

Miranda was staring down at her, lips parted, blue eyes almost grey in the shadows that their bodies made together. She licked her lips slowly, eyes narrowing when they met Andy’s. Just when she was sure that Miranda was about to say something, Andy leaned forward and ran her tongue over Miranda’s nipple before sucking it into her mouth.

She was rewarded with a choked moan and manicured nails digging into her scalp. Andy felt powerful in this position, pulling sighs and whines out of Miranda that she’d never heard before as she kissed her away across her chest. She tasted like summer, warm and human, most traces of her work-week perfumes and lotions having faded on this day of zero obligations. 

“Are you gonna do anything about the shorts,” Andy whispered against her skin, letting her own impatience speak up, “Or…”

Miranda laughed, low and throaty, and Andy was so caught off-guard by the sound that she wasn’t prepared to be pressed backwards onto the couch, legs pulled across its length as Miranda manipulated her against the arm. 

“You know,” Miranda said, kissing behind Andy’s ear as she undid the buttons of her top, “I had pictured all of this happening in the bedroom. Other places, too, of course, though later on. But” — her hand landed on Andy’s shorts, which she unclasped easily — “clearly someone can’t wait.”

She pulled Andy’s top off easily, unclasping the strapless bra underneath and wrapping her lips around Andy’s nipple without preamble.

“Oh,” Andy said, her back arching towards Miranda instinctively. She felt Miranda hum against her, and the vibration went directly to her core. Hands tugged at the much-maligned shorts, and she lifted her hips as Miranda stripped her. The leather cushions were cool against her skin, and Andy became extremely aware of the wetness that had pooled between her legs. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Miranda said, climbing up Andy’s body until their foreheads were almost touching. 

“Yes,” Andy whispered, and then Miranda touched her. She gasped against Miranda’s mouth, legs drifting open wider as Miranda slid her finger through her wetness slowly. 

“All for me?” she asked, and Andy nodded, already feeling too turned up, too close.

“Please,” she whispered, and Miranda smirked before pushing a single finger into her, closely followed by a second as Andy whined into her mouth. 

“Fuck,” she breathed, her hips chasing Miranda’s fingers as she picked up the pace. “More. Please.”

Miranda inhaled as she added a third finger, her thumb pressing against Andy’s clit as she curled her fingers deep inside. Andy was panting now, curses spilling from her lips in such naked desperation that she might have felt embarrassed if it were anyone else.

She quickly and loudly, her nails digging into Miranda’s ass as her back arched off of the couch, legs stiff and lungs full to burst. Miranda kissed her cheek as she caught her breath. 

“One more,” she murmured. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

“Yeah,” Andy stammered, squirming as Miranda started moving her fingers again, slow against her tender flesh. “Oh my god. Fuck.”

“The play-by-play was… unexpected,” Miranda said a few minutes later, wiping her hand against Andy’s thigh and sitting up slightly. Andy covered her eyes, sure that her face was already too pink to blush any further. Miranda removed her hand slowly, a cheeky smile on her face. “I should have known, though, based on how loud those shorts were.”

It felt good to laugh, a familiar sound in new territory, and she wrapped her hand around Miranda’s neck to pull her into a kiss. “Enough about the goddamn shorts,” she muttered, and bit down on Miranda’s lower lip just hard enough to buy herself time to unfasten the pants that Miranda was somehow still wearing. 

Andy was markedly more clumsy and uncoordinated than Miranda, who had mercifully begun to tolerate it over the years, and whose confidence seemed to wane as she settled over Andy once again, her cheekbones turning pink as Andy raked her eyes down her body. 

“You’re beautiful,” Andy whispered. 

Miranda rolled her eyes. Andy stuck her tongue out, but Miranda’s shocked expression was quickly replaced with something else once Andy pressed her hand between her legs. She was slick and swollen against Andy’s finger, hips jerking forward as her mouth dropped open slightly. 

“Holy shit,” Andy said under her breath.

“Andrea,” Miranda breathed, but what seemed meant to be a warning came out far too strangled for Andy to believe it. 

Miranda pressed her hips towards Andy again, eyes narrowing with urgency, and Andy finally obeyed, sliding one finger into her easily, then two, biting her lip as she felt Miranda tighten around her. Miranda folded at the waist, one hand finding Andy’s shoulder, the other grasping her side, and white hair tickled Andy’s forehead as Miranda gasped above her. 

As always, Miranda was graceful in her movements, riding Andy’s fingers easily at first, letting herself be kissed until her breathing was too unsteady. Andy mimicked what Miranda had done earlier, sliding her thumb up against Miranda’s clit, and was rewarded with something close to a whimper. Soon Miranda was shuddering over her, a ragged cry falling from her lips as she came. She tapped the inside of Andy’s wrist soon after, and lowered herself onto Andy’s hips as she caught her breath. 

“Holy cow,” Andy said.

Miranda flicked a rogue strand of hair out of her face, her lips pressed together in an almost-smile. “Well, yes.”

“That was — I mean, it was my first time doing that, so… was it okay? For you, I mean. It was great for me, but… well, you know, I —”

Miranda ran a thumb along Andy’s jaw. “Andrea. Do be quiet, for god’s sake.”

“It’ll take more than that to shut me up,” Andy said. 

That’s how she ended up with Miranda sitting on her face, whispering instructions as Andy ran her tongue from her entrance up to her clit, gripping her ass until Miranda’s thighs were clenched against her ears and the fingers in her hair were going limp. 

“Holy cow.”

“I’m banning that expression.”

—

Summer 2013

“So it’s all… professional,” Andy said slowly. 

“Yes.”

She’d never had an out-of-body experience, but Andy wondered if this was as close as she would get: sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair in front of Miranda’s desk, a crisply-printed NDA laid out in front of her, Miranda’s ivory Montblanc pen sitting expectantly on the final page. 

“Elias-Clarke has no interest in a ‘spinster’ running their most popular magazine, and they’d like for me to be more… intriguing to the public,” Miranda had told her. She had her professional voice on, the one Andy hated most, and she’d struggled not to interrupt with a litany of protests as she listened to Miranda break down this “arrangement”: a rotating cast of plus-ones, photographs in Page Six, public socializing to generate interest in Runway’s editor. “It’s bad enough that Nina Garcia is doing that braindead reality show,” Miranda said huffily. “Now Graydon Carter’s producing movies and getting Emmys, of all things.”

“And your solution —”

“Their solution,” Miranda corrected.

Andy rolled her eyes. “Is to date… someone?”

“Among other activities, yes,” Miranda said evenly, as if they were discussing something as simple as tomorrow’s errands.

“And I’m not good enough to date.”

Miranda stood up so quickly that Andy jumped. “This is a business agreement, nothing more. And you are very much not… business.” She said the word like a curse, staring directly into Andy’s eyes as if daring her to disagree. 

And she wanted to. She wanted to rip up the NDA and call up Elias-Clarke and tell them that Miranda was the most intriguing person that she’d ever met. She wanted to grab Miranda by the shoulders and shake her until she was convinced that it could be enough just for them to be together — hell, Ellen was married, court cases were being won, and practically no one had even batted an eye when Lindsay Lohan was dating that DJ. Things are different now, she wanted to tell Miranda, but the irony was that as some things got better, it always felt like it got harder for Miranda to stay on top. 

Andy tried not to think too much about how Miranda might always want Runway more than she wanted her as she picked up the pen.

It was heavy. 

She was always surprised by how heavy the Montblancs were.

—

Fall 2016

The initial adrenaline from arriving unannounced at Miranda’s townhouse had worn off, and every other emotion tied up in the gesture seemed to announce itself at the same time, replacing the static feeling in Andy’s skin with something more akin to what she thought it might feel like to sit on top of a Boeing 747. 

She wanted to kiss Miranda again.

“I’m sorry that I kissed you,” Andy said instead. 

Miranda’s mouth stayed in its perfect, practiced straight line, but Andy didn’t miss how Miranda’s eyes flicked to her mouth briefly. “Then why did you do it?”

It was a familiar tactic when Miranda was on the defense: ask questions, act aloof, feign near-boredom. Andy almost smiled at the sickening nostalgia of it. 

Miranda had led them to the kitchen, citing the need to continue their conversation in a less absurd location than the foyer. They stood on opposite sides of the room now, Miranda fussing with her bracelet next to the kitchen island, Andy leaning against the fridge. 

(She had noticed that a Berkeley magnet had been added, and her chest tightened at the thought of Miranda procuring it and placing it in the neat row next to the Dalton logo and, by some miracle, the Northwestern Wildcats magnet that Andy had purchased for her as a joke years earlier. She knew better than to say anything, but was still foolish enough to place some hope in the fact that Miranda hadn’t trashed it.)

“Because I wanted to,” Andy said, thinking of the magnet.

Miranda flexed her jaw slowly, staring absently at the cabinets over Andy’s right shoulder. “And do you just go around doing things because you want to, Andrea?”

“I didn’t come here to play twenty questions, Miranda.”

“This is ridiculous,” Miranda snapped. “I realize now that the interview was a mistake, and —”

Panic joined the chaos of emotions crowding Andrea’s insides at the thought of pushing Miranda too far for the second time in as many years. “I meant what I said at dinner,” she said, aware of and unashamed by how her voice had begun to break. “I want to start over. I screwed up, but so did you. I’m not the same person, and I don’t think you are, either.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows slightly. “Aren’t we sure of ourselves.”

“I’m not the assistant who left you in Paris anymore,” Andy said, registering the way Miranda stiffened slightly. “I haven’t been for a long time. And for the last two years, I-I mean, do you even know what it’s like to pretend that you haven’t just had your heart broken?”

Miranda had taken a seat on one of the bar stools as Andy spoke, and watched silently as Andy worked herself up further. 

“I mean, I can’t even call you my ex. Because we were never together! Do you even know what that feels like?” 

Miranda smiled, eyes on her fingers as she twirled the many rings there. “I never thought that you or all people would consider me so unfeeling.”

A chill ran down Andy’s spine. “I didn’t mean…”

“Yes, you did.” Miranda’s tone was removed, matter-of-fact. “You think I don’t care. You think I… go through life, working and breathing and giving nothing and no one a second thought.”

“I don’t think that,” Andy whispered.

“You just questioned it, didn’t you?” Miranda said, tilting her head slightly. “If I cared. Care.”

Andy placed her hands on the edge of the island opposite Miranda, fingers digging in to put her frustration somewhere. “Don’t I have a right to? You froze me out, you —”

“You walked out.”

“You told me to leave!”

“I — I thought that you would come back.” Miranda’s eyes went wide, like she’d surprised herself with the admission, and she looked away from Andy as she adjusted her necklace. 

“You had Colin,” Andy said to the ground.  

Miranda’s voice was small and low. “I thought you were smart enough, Andrea, to understand.”

“I did understand. I just got tired of playing pretend.”

—

Winter 2011

“The twins asked about you the other day,” Miranda said as Roy started driving down Lexington.

Andy turned in her seat. “What? Why?”

To her surprise, Miranda was smiling as she pulled out a thin book from her bag that Andy immediately recognized. “You left this in the den.”

“Shit.” 

“Ha. Yes, a reasonable reaction.”

“What did you tell them?” Andy asked quietly, turning over the Mary Oliver anthology in her lap, like if the If Lost, Return to Andy Sachs! sticker on the cover wasn’t visible, it didn’t exist.

“Well, naturally, they were very curious about why something of yours would be in their home so many years after leaving my employ. It turned out that they have seen you getting out of the car and coming in a… considerable number of times.”

Andy felt herself flushing. “Oh, Miranda, I’m…”

Miranda was still staring straight ahead, but she held up her hand. “Don’t apologize. It’s… I should have been more careful.”

Andy bit her lip. “What did you say?”

“Well, they’re not idiots. They’re a little too smart for their own good, in fact.” There was as much pride in Miranda’s voice as there was frustration.

“Oh god.”

“Cassidy told me that she won’t ever call you 'mom,' and Caroline asked if I could get her tickets to the Ellen Show, since we’re probably friends by now.”

Andy was torn between laughing and throwing up. She settled for silence, watching Miranda closely until she began to speak again.

“I’m not ready for…” Miranda twirled her hand directionlessly, as if she were trying to summon the words. Andy knew all too well that she had no intention of using them. “But I… I enjoy spending time with you.”

“I do too.”

“And I’m not spending time with anyone else.”

Miranda’s sunglasses were still on, but Andy could see the high blush in her cheeks when she turned to look at Andy straight-on. The movement of a single eyebrow reminded her that she was supposed to answer. “Oh, right — me neither.”

Miranda pressed her lips together. “Well then.”

When they got out of the car thirty blocks later, Andy felt lighter than she had in years.

Chapter Text

Fall 2016

Her body quickly remembered what it felt like to argue with Andrea. Miranda felt the instinctual tug to run, to bury whatever had them looking at each other like this and distract herself with something else. 

For years, Andrea had always come running after her. Miranda told herself that it meant that Andrea understood her in ways that no one else did, and that it meant that maybe this thing between them could last. She’d never considered that Andrea would reach a limit. That her patience would run out. 

She hid her shaking hands from Andrea as she poured them each a glass of water. What she really wanted was whisky — maybe later, she told herself. Hope bubbled to the surface by accident, as it often did when she was around Andrea. An unwanted reflex honed after ten years around this woman who chose to dream instead of doubt, who wished for the best instead of anticipating the worst. It hadn’t changed Miranda, exactly, but the weight of Andrea’s convictions hung in the air with startling familiarity as she took a seat across from her in the sitting room. 

Unsurprisingly, Andrea picked right back up from where Miranda had interrupted her when she’d asked to relocate from the kitchen. 

“You requested me for the interview without even asking me first. I had to learn about it from an email forward. I thought it was a practical joke.”

Miranda blanched at her accusatory tone. “I — I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

Andrea set her glass down on the table with a force that was only partially muted by the coaster. “That’s the thing. I did. And… sometimes I didn’t, I guess. But…” She sighed and rubbed her palms over her knees before looking up at Miranda with a sad smile. “It feels like we’ve both been playing the same game.”

“I am not an arcade, Andrea. I don’t play games,” Miranda snapped. 

“You know what I mean. Acting casual. Dinner at Torrisi, pretending to argue over wine and dinner like we didn’t have the menu memorized three years ago. This whole… ugh.” Andrea waved her arms abstractly as she slumped back into the couch. Miranda felt her legs twitch, her cursed body wanting nothing more than to join Andrea on the couch and comfort her.

Miranda hadn’t been blind to any of it, of course, but hearing it said aloud formed a lump in her throat that she couldn’t swallow back. Fearful that speaking would unravel her completely, she held Andrea’s gaze in silence. 

Andrea leaned forward, fingers flexing slightly as if she were reaching for Miranda, but she curled them into loose fists before she spoke. “I said yes to that panel for a reason. And yes to that walkthrough, and that unnecessary” — air quotes appeared briefly — “‘pre-interview.’ Because for the first time in years, I felt like you wanted me.” Her voice grew higher, though it remained steady and slow. “It felt like a second chance. Even though we really hurt each other, I didn’t want to let it pass me by. And I thought you were in it too, but then you leave and you… ” Andrea’s voice finally broke, her eyes now glassy. “And you freeze me out again, and it feels like nothing has changed. I… I don’t like that I had to come chasing after you, but I just needed you to know how I felt.” She let out a shaky breath. “I can leave if you want me to.”

Miranda blinked quickly, flicking away the moisture gathering on her eyelashes. She looked up at the ceiling as she spun the diamond ring on her middle finger like it was the only thing tethering her to earth. 

“No, Andrea. I don’t want you to leave. I never wanted you to leave in the first place.”

When she finally looked back down, Andrea was leaning forward in her seat, watching Miranda closely. Miranda breathed in slowly, steeling herself, but the words poured out of her before she could hold them in.

“I kept everything, Andrea. Your notes and gifts and the godforsaken fortune cookie slips, that awful sweater and every piece of scrap paper that you left behind. The last thing I ever wanted to do was let you go from my life but I… I lost…” 

Miranda placed her hand over her eyes, aware of how quickly she’d been talking and desperate to stay calm. “I lost sight of what was important. I took — I took you for granted. I took our… love for granted.”

“Oh,” Andrea sighed. Miranda heard her stand up, and a warm hand landed on her shoulder, its weight assertive and grounding. She closed her eyes and finally let herself feel the wetness on her cheeks. 

—

Summer 2011

For fifteen days in July, Miranda escaped. 

She’d won the house in Sagaponack in the divorce from her first husband, and she and the twins had an annual tradition of vacationing there in the brief moment of peace before the chaos of fall fashion events began. A private staff joined them, providing activities for the girls and daily meals that meant that Miranda could still get work done while giving her daughters more attention than she could typically afford back in the city. They would get in the car without looking back, the girls bouncing in their seats with glee and asking endless questions that they already knew would all be answered with a resounding Yes.

Can we make s’mores on the beach?

Will Julian make us cheeseburgers? 

Can we stay up late and watch Lassie?

Will you let us go to the cotton candy place?

This year, Miranda found herself looking at the Manhattan skyline in the rearview mirror and wondering if there would be a day when Andrea would be in the car, too.

She’d kept Andrea at a distance from her daughters, restricting their time at the townhouse together to nights and weekends when the girls were gone. After years living with a stepfather that they never liked, the girls didn’t ask after Miranda’s dating life, seeming to enjoy her undivided attention, and as teenagers, they were more caught up in their own personal lives than their mother’s. While Miranda had also valued that time alone with her daughters and the absence of a resentful partner to share a bed with, she had also begun to reach for Andrea in the night, or wonder what her mornings would feel like if they could share a mug of coffee before leaving for work. This thing between them still had so much left unsaid, however, and she tried to push thoughts of an introduction to the back of her mind. 

But the first night of their trip to the Hamptons, Miranda found herself calling Andrea. She waited until the girls were asleep and stood out on the back porch overlooking the beach as the phone rang. Hardly ten minutes of conversation had passed before she was inviting Andrea to join her. 

“With the… with Cassidy and Caroline there?” Andrea asked nervously. 

Miranda rattled off the details like she was running a board meeting. “No. They’ll go home as planned, and you’ll join me for two more days. I’ll have Roy drive you in from the city.”

There was enough of a pause that Miranda was close to rescinding her offer from humiliation at the prospect of being told no. But she could hear the smile in Andrea’s voice when she accepted by asking if she should bring a swimsuit.

Miranda tingled with anticipation for the next two weeks, forcing herself to limit her communication with Andrea should she betray her poorly-controlled excitement and ever-growing list of plans that she’d imagined for them: the Wölffer Estate, Tuto Il Giorno, Almond. She pictured them driving down Montauk Highway in the Porsche and walking through the sculpture field, sharing a pastry from Levain or a drink from Tutto.

But then Andrea climbed out of the black sedan in tiny linen shorts and a strapless top, and Miranda’s plans shrunk to far more local activities. 

The shorts were off before Roy had even turned off of the main road. Andrea moaned into her mouth as they maneuvered towards the bedroom, stumbling over discarded clothes and bare feet. Miranda took her up against the dresser, the waves of the Atlantic reflected in her brown eyes as she whined Miranda’s name. 

“The view is really nice,” Andrea panted, looking towards the floor-to-ceiling windows as Miranda stroked her slowly, helping her ride out her orgasm. Miranda hummed, not interested in the ocean when there was something far nicer right before her eyes. 

Andrea kissed her soundly, then pulled away to look around the room, her mouth curling into a wicked smile as she maneuvered Miranda towards the edge of the bed. She pushed her up against it gently, kissing across her jaw, behind her ear, and down her throat. Miranda ran her hands up and down her torso blindly, too keyed up to focus with Andrea’s lips on her body. 

Andrea bent over to lick and suck her way across Miranda’s chest until she was nearly breathless, desperate for friction of some kind. She dug her nails into Andrea’s shoulders and heard a light chuckle against her breast. 

“Hold this for me?”

When Miranda opened her eyes, Andrea was on her knees, shaking her long brown hair over her shoulders. She leaned forward to brush Andrea’s hair out of her face, taken by how soft Andrea’s gaze was as she raked her eyes over Miranda’s face. The only sound in the room was the muffled crashing of the waves on the other side of the glass, and time seemed to move more slowly as they touched each other. Andrea sighed as Miranda ran her nails across her scalp, gathering her hair on top of her head in a single long ponytail, which Miranda then wrapped around her wrist. 

“Thank you,” Andrea said quietly, looking up at Miranda through her thick eyelashes. Despite the throbbing between Miranda’s legs, she couldn’t help but let them linger like that for a moment more: a quiet, sunny room and solitude not only in this house but away from a city that knew too much about her. After years of closed doors and dark corners, they were finally in a private place that she could control. They were finally completely alone, together. 

Miranda tugged on Andrea’s hair lightly, and caught the faintest smile as she nudged Miranda’s knees apart. She took her time, marking Miranda’s thighs with her teeth, nipping at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, kissing the occasional freckle or mole. As much as Miranda wanted to savor the moment, it didn’t take long before she was pulling Andrea closer by her hair, those shiny brown locks tangled around her hand. 

“Do you need something?” Andrea whispered against her skin. Miranda briefly wondered if anyone had ever come from someone’s breath between their legs. 

She hissed Andrea’s name, clenching her hair in her fist, but despite Miranda’s grip, Andrea managed to shake her head slightly. “Tell me what you need.”

“Andrea, I — you. Please.”

“Good girl.”

Miranda nearly cried out when Andrea finally slid her tongue between her legs, circling her entrance slowly before licking her way up to her clit. With her other hand, Miranda gripped the edge of the mattress, her legs already shaking with anticipation. 

Andrea knew what she liked by now, and she knew exactly how to almost give Miranda what she wanted. She teased her clit with her tongue, slowly and gently, retreating the moment that Miranda’s breath caught. She’d press her tongue into Miranda’s entrance, only to replace it with a finger a moment later, pulling out quickly before adding a second and moving them at an agonizingly slow pace. 

What she loved most was when Miranda watched, and Miranda couldn’t help but grant her that wish tonight. Still gripping Andrea’s hair in one hand, she lifted the other off the mattress and used it to brush the flyaways off of Andrea’s forehead and swipe her thumb against her damp hairline. It felt more intimate than anything they'd done yet: taking care of Andrea as she fucked her slowly, drawing desperate moans from Miranda as she got closer and closer to the edge. 

“Do you want me to make you come?” she asked Miranda, three fingers deep and looking up at her with all the innocence in the world. 

“Yes,” Miranda breathed, and Andrea smiled as she sucked her clit into her mouth, pulling an obscene sound from Miranda’s lips as she finally let her unravel above her. Her muscles tensed, back arching as she bucked into Andrea, feeling like a live wire as her orgasm coursed through her.

“You’re so good for me,” Andrea said as she licked Miranda clean. “So good. You did so, so good, baby.” 

Miranda nodded as she untangled her fingers from Andrea’s hair, brushing away the knots with her nails and smoothing it out, her still breathing high and uneven as she came down. Andrea’s face was shiny with her wetness when she looked up, grinning smugly when she pulled a final moan from Miranda by pulling her fingers out of her slowly.

Miranda lay back on the bed and pulled Andrea on top of her, suddenly desperate for their bodies to be touching, her chest tight with something far more terrifying than desire. She wrapped her hand around the back of Andrea’s neck as she kissed her deeply, sighing as Andrea settled on top of her thigh, rocking against it slowly. 

“You okay?” Andrea whispered against her mouth. 

Miranda nodded, so many words on her tongue but none that she knew how to use just yet. Andrea pressed more of her weight onto her leg, humming into their next kiss as she got herself off, her wetness slick on Miranda’s skin. 

They left the bedroom eventually, sharing a bottle of wine on the porch as the beach turned dark and the ocean could only be heard, not seen. Their bare limbs tangled on the wind-worn couch, its scratchy fabric barely noticeable to Miranda when Andrea’s warm skin was on hers. 

“Thank you for inviting me,” Andrea said softly, drawing shapes on Miranda’s shin with a single finger. “I missed you.”

Miranda nodded as she fixed the twisted strap of the slip that Andrea was wearing. “I didn’t want you to miss the ‘nice’ view,” she teased. 

“You try coming up with words after… you know,” Andrea huffed, but she was smiling as she leaned towards Miranda, hovering over her as she pressed kisses down her throat. 

“Try me,” Miranda murmured, letting her legs fall open slightly as Andrea groaned against her skin.

The two days passed too quickly. They only made it as far as the beach, fingers brushing as they walked through the shallows, Andrea laughing with abandon as she dove into the frigid water while Miranda watched. 

One day, she told herself, they’d stay for the entire two weeks. She’d get Andrea to the winery, and take her to the twins’ favorite beachside restaurant, and maybe on the drive back home she would hold her hand.

For now, this would have to be enough. 

— 

Winter 2013

“Miranda?”

Miranda didn’t look up until her assistant continued speaking. “Um, Miss Sachs called? She can’t make dinner tomorrow night. Do you want me to —”

“No.”

Miranda turned her chair towards the window, leaning back to assuage the anger flaring in her gut. She pressed her eyes together tightly. 

She hadn’t seen Andrea in over a week, entirely due to her own endless work commitments. Worst of all, two of them had involved Colin accompanying her as a plus-one. She hadn’t explicitly told Andrea about the dates, but she’d had access to Miranda’s calendar for years, and she wasn’t a complete idiot. 

Miranda had been anxiously awaiting the dinner that she had scheduled for them on Thursday at a place on the Upper West Side, carrying some futile hope that she could make it up to Andrea in a single evening. She couldn’t tell if she was more upset with Andrea or herself as her heart pounded in her chest while she played with the chain around her neck. Some combination of humiliation and rage, perhaps. Months of resentment and embarrassment at the situation she’d put them in. 

Even worse, the arrangement with Colin had been worth it. She’d gotten more publicity than she had in years by hanging on his arm, welcomed back into the echelons of high society now that she had a suitable date. She mingled with awful, wealthy men and secured their Elias-Clark investments in an evening. The board had never been happier. 

Ironically, Miranda had been wondering if she’d ever been more miserable. 

She was still fuming when she arrived home that night, hardly able to focus on The Book after its delivery. She shot off a text just before bedtime, directing her anger, as usual, towards the person who deserved it the least. 

I would have hoped that you’d tell me directly if you no longer wanted to see me instead of leaving it with my assistant.

Thursday found Miranda in a similarly foul mood, and she could tell that her assistants were near tears before noon. She banned them from her office for the rest of the day, incapable of seeing their upturned brows and worried lips, and buried herself in the piles of budget reports and project proposals until her eyes blurred from the 10-point font and the rest of the office went dark. She didn’t bother to look up when she heard the soft click of her door, prepared to tell off whatever custodian that dared to disturb her peace.

“What the hell, Miranda?”

Andrea appeared before her, circling Miranda’s desk quickly to stand beside her chair. She towered over her in heeled boots and an elegant knee-length peacoat that made her look even taller than usual. Her hair was speckled with snow, and she looked beautifully harried as she waved her hands around the room. 

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all day, but your cell phone is off, and your assistants aren’t answering the phones. And speaking of your assistants, I tried to call you yesterday, and told them to let you know that I was free on Friday, or Saturday, or —” 

Miranda pursed her lips. “The plans were cancelled, Andrea. I don’t see why you’re so upset —”

“Upset?” Andrea cried. “You’re the one sending me cryptic texts at midnight and ignoring my calls! I’m supposed to be covering a town hall meeting tonight because fucking Randall is sick or something. I couldn’t get out of it. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

“Oh,” Miranda said lightly, stacking a pile of papers on her desk. Her anger had ebbed slightly, but there was still something clawing at her that she couldn’t hold back. “I assumed that you would be…”

“Don’t you dare.” 

Andrea’s face was beet-red when Miranda looked up at her. “Don’t you dare,” she repeated. “I wasn’t on a date, and you know that.”

Miranda stood up slowly, just inches separating them now. Her heart was pounding in the way it always did when she careened towards self-sabotage. “Can you blame me?” she said serenely. 

“Yes, I can,” Andrea snapped, and then she pulled Miranda close by her chin and kissed her deeply. Miranda moaned into it, wrapping her hands around Andrea’s waist like a raft. 

Maybe the office was empty for the night, maybe it wasn’t. Miranda didn’t care about that, or about Colin, or about anything except for feeling Andrea’s skin against hers and doing whatever she could to show Andrea that she was sorry, only because she didn’t know how to say it aloud just yet. 

“This doesn’t make up for anything, you know,” Andrea said half an hour later, tugging her tights back on as Miranda wiped her chin and reapplied her lipstick. “We can’t just… I can’t just —” 

“Dinner, tomorrow night,” Miranda said abruptly, snapping her compact shut. 

Andrea blinked, wobbling slightly as she zipped a boot. “But you have that thing with Massimo.”

“No,” Miranda said sternly. “I have dinner with you.”

Andrea’s grin was small, but it was there, and Miranda hated that it made her chest tighten so much that her lungs might burst from it all.

— 

Fall 2006

Later, Miranda would look back and realize that her ultimate undoing might have been the day that Andrea accidentally wore her sweater.

She had returned after a morning of offsite meetings and was just opening her computer when Andrea appeared with her coffee. She looked up and saw a familiar gray wrap, one that she’d presumed had gone missing, maybe taken by one of the twins months before. It had been a gift from them the previous Christmas, and though it couldn’t have been further from Miranda’s taste, she hadn’t had the heart to exchange it. 

“What… what are you wearing?” Miranda asked, her voice softer than she’d meant. 

Andrea set down her coffee before looking down, plucking at the seam of the sweater. “This? Oh, I just got so cold and it’s been sitting in the back of the coat closet forever.” Her nose was scrunched in confusion as she regarded the sweater, clearly unaware that it was $2,000 Balmain cashmere, and her expression melted away Miranda’s usual instinct to tell her off or lob a crushing insult in her direction. 

Instead, something inside her chest fluttered at the sight of Andrea in her clothing, cheeks slightly pink under Miranda’s steely gaze, fingers wrapped around the ribbed cuffs that Miranda had touched so many times. 

“Sorry, is this okay, or…?”

Miranda blinked. She couldn’t tell how long she’d been staring. Embarrassed, she spun around in her chair with a final, “That’s all.”

She allowed herself one last glance as Andrea walked away, admiring the way that the waist of the cardigan fell on her hips. It looked better on Andrea, anyway. 

—

Winter 2012

A blessed weekend alone, snowed in at the townhouse, the girls at their father’s. Miranda had Andrea on her back — a rare feat for someone who so often was pressing Miranda into the mattress — and was teasing her into an orgasm, alternating between fast, deep thrusts and deliberately slow movements that had Andrea squirming underneath her. 

“Please, please, fuck,” she was gasping, her heel digging into the small of Miranda’s back as she gripped the sheets tightly. 

“So polite,” Miranda teased.

Andrea grunted, the sound turning into a low moan as Miranda moved her fingers up to her clit, flicking it softly, just the way she liked.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “Oh, fuck, I’m so close, I’m so… oh god fuck, fuckiloveyoufuck, fuckohmygod.”

By some stroke of luck, Andrea came just as Miranda froze, her brain shortwiring as it processed what she’d just heard.

Chapter Text

Spring 2012

“Hello, sweet girl. Yes, you’re so sweet. So sweet.”

Patricia’s tail wagged slowly as she slouched against the sofa, pressing the weight of her head into Miranda’s hand as she scratched behind the dog’s ear. 

Andy loved Miranda most in these quiet, private moments, the times when she allowed herself softness and rest. Miranda had her legs tucked under her on the couch, a book in her lap and a wine glass on the coffee table that she’d been nursing for an hour. 

The word had surprised Andy the first time it popped into her head. She had never been one for precise language — Miranda reminded her of that plenty of times — but she also didn’t say things lightly, especially something like love. If anything, she’d made a concerted effort not to let herself get carried away with whatever was happening between them. It still felt fragile and new, so many things left unsaid out of fear that they’d shatter this carefully-crafted presence in each other’s lives. Andy knew it wasn’t sustainable, but the fear of losing Miranda outweighed the many complications of their lives that had begun to weigh on her.

And Miranda wasn’t helping, even though she seemed unaware of it. Ever since her daughters had confessed their knowledge of her presence in their mother’s life, she’d slowly brought Andy into their orbit: inviting her to stop by the townhouse when the girls were home turned into the occasional dinner, and then dessert, and then suddenly Andy was playing card games with Caroline on random Tuesday nights or giving Cassidy advice about how to respond to a flirty Facebook message. 

It didn’t always happen — they were still teenagers, after all, prone to fickle attitudes and bouts of self-isolation — but Andy saw Miranda’s quiet hand in how twins treated her and their behavior in general. Her advice to her daughters was practical and simple, her castigation of them always rooted in a mantra of respect and kindness that Andy had practically committed to memory after hearing it in Miranda’s quiet, stern tone down hallways or up flights of stairs.

Andy started noticing how Miranda placed those expectations on herself, though they were invisible to nearly everyone else. Anonymous gifts were sent to former employees; recommendations and connections were passed on, all with the expectation that the benefactor wouldn’t know who might have told some high-powered figure that they’d be a fit for a job or an award. The recognition wasn’t important, it seemed; Miranda didn’t enjoy the fawning or thanks of nearly anyone. Just that she’d rewarded someone’s competence was enough.

Similar acts of kindness were also bestowed upon Andy, though she came to realize that unlike favors or gifts for others, what Miranda did for her was never orchestrated through assistants or by cashing in favors. Her suspicions were confirmed when she arrived at the townhouse early one night with plans to make dinner for Miranda, but walked inside to find it empty. Only minutes later, Miranda came through the door with a plastic Thank You shopping bag hanging off of her wrist, face obscured by large sunglasses and a handsome Hermes scarf. She froze when Andy caught her in the foyer, and Andy raised her eyebrows in question.

With a dramatic sigh, Miranda breezed past her before unpacking the contents of the bag on the kitchen counter, which Andy immediately recognized as items from Katagiri, a Japanese grocery store down the street from the townhouse that she had grown fond of since spending more time on the Upper East Side. Green tea ice cream, tamago tofu, and three of her favorite fresh baked goods were carefully placed on the counter, Miranda’s face growing a deeper shade of red with each subsequent item. 

Andy picked up a neatly-wrapped chocolate cornet, her chest tightening as she pieced together Miranda’s shopping trip. “They usually run out of these by noon,” she said quietly.

Miranda cleared her throat. “Well, they didn’t.”

“Not for Miranda Priestly?” Andy teased.

“No,” Miranda said thinly, “Just for… frequent customers.”

Andy thought of the specialty beer, the milk bread, the frozen gyoza, and other items from the store that often seemed to find their way into Miranda’s pantry — all items that she’d mentioned that she loved, and ones that she assumed Miranda had her assistants pick up and deliver with The Book. Watching Miranda slowly untie the scarf from under her chin, eyes shifting between Andy and various parts of the kitchen, she realized that Miranda had been running these errands on her own, possibly earning the shop’s goodwill not because of her reputation, but because she had become… a regular.

It was moments like those that made Andy realize that she was falling in love, or that perhaps she already had. Her realization happened in fits and starts, in car rides and at private dinners, early in the morning and late at night. The feeling was buoyant and unsettling, warm and terrifying. 

And she tried not to read into the increasing intimacy between them: Miranda’s hands stroking her hair, a chaste kiss on a cheek or a shoulder, a whispered thank you in unexpected moments. The shopping trips and small gifts, the quiet acts of kindness that Andy sometimes only caught onto after the fact. The softness that Andy had long suspected Miranda to be capable of, but wasn’t sure she would ever see, slowly came out of the shadows, illuminated in moments of Miranda unpacking groceries or reluctantly admitting that she had returned Andy’s library books to avoid a fine or secretly replaced a succulent that had withered under Andy’s care. 

She wouldn’t tell Miranda how she felt, not yet. For now, she would suffice to let their knees touch on the sofa, to bask in her role as a witness to Miranda’s private self, to let their actions speak for themselves until the words were ready to reach their tongues.

The following weekend, they attended a fundraiser. Not together — not openly, at least. But the recipient of the second ticket that Miranda had been given to the New York Botanical Garden’s annual gala seemed to be chosen before Andy even knew that the event existed.

“What are you doing on the night of the twenty-first?” Miranda had asked in the middle of one of their phone calls.

(Miranda had started calling her on her way home from work most nights if they weren’t able to see each other. Andy was trying not to read into that too much.)

“Nothing, as far as I know of,” she told Miranda, leaning back on her couch. 

“You’ll come to the Botanical Garden’s gala, then.”

Something about Miranda’s tone smarted, harkening back to her orders at Runway, the non-negotiable Paris offer and everything that happened after.

“If you… would like to, that is,” Miranda added after a beat, and Andy wondered if she had caught herself, too.

“Yeah,” she said, her chest loosening slightly. “Yes, I would like that.”

As had become an unspoken tradition, Miranda dressed her and had a car pick up Andy on the evening of the event. She made the rounds when she arrived, anticipating Miranda’s arrival but no longer on edge as she had once been at gatherings like these.

What she didn’t expect for Miranda to arrive in an outfit so complementary to Andy’s: her long-sleeved gown, draped elegantly with a layered bodice, carried accents of color and shape not dissimilar to Andy’s sleeveless, backless dress. It certainly wasn’t an accident — nothing Miranda did was by accident — and felt as close to matching a partner at an event that Andy had gotten to since her senior prom.

They came together eventually, and Andy’s compliment slipped out of her mouth before they even exchanged hellos. The lump in her throat when she saw Miranda’s matching jewelry wasn’t helping.

“You look really beautiful tonight,” she said quietly, looking pointedly at Miranda’s outfit. 

The corner of Miranda’s mouth curled slightly. “Well, I had quite the inspiration.” 

A booming voice called out Miranda’s name, and Andy cursed the approaching man for the interruption. As did many facts from her Runway days, her brain immediately recalled his name and profession — Colin Cachiad of Goldman Sachs had been one of the many that she had memorized from the guest list binder prior to an event. He kissed Miranda on the cheek before looking past her and flicking his eyes down Andy’s body. “Do I know you?”

Andy’s chest tightened, uncertain of how to navigate this conversation without prompting questions about the nature of her attendance at the gala. Saying that she was Miranda’s date was out of the question; linking them as former boss-and-assistant felt like a backwards step that she didn’t want to take.

“Hmm, you must be thinking of someone else,” she said cheerfully, painting a large smile on her face.

He rubbed his chin, squinting at her good-naturedly. “That can’t be right. I rarely forget a face.”

“She must be the exception,” Miranda said evenly. Her hand landed on Andy's lower back, just barely grazing the skin there, and with the smallest bit of pressure, she excused them and ushered Andy through the side door.

It was quieter outside, the chaos of the party reduced to a buzzing din. The air carried the spring scent of bloom and decay, last year’s dead plants finally revealing themselves from the snow as their replacements grew around them. 

Andy followed Miranda in silence towards signs pointing to the perennial garden, which was mostly deserted but for a few men at the entrance fiddling with cigars that they weren’t allowed to light. Tall hedge bushes surrounded the garden, blocking out the lights from the main building and casting the path in bluish shadows. The rustle of their gowns nearly drowned out the bass of the live band as they strayed further from the venue. 

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Miranda said quietly, slowing her pace as they reached the far boundary of the garden.

Andy wasn’t sure why her heart was beating so quickly. “It’s a beautiful party.” 

Miranda flexed her jaw, leaving a small smile in its wake. “Hmm. I haven’t been noticing the party so much as the company.”

“Miranda,” Andy whispered. 

“Yes?”

“We’re in public.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows, looking amused. “I’m aware.” 

Andy swallowed before letting herself take a step closer to Miranda, who, for once, didn’t flinch at the narrowing distance. She touched the diamond necklace that lay across Miranda’s exposed skin and watched Miranda’s chest expand as she ran her fingertip underneath the gemstones before dropping her hand back to her side.

“I used to dread these events,” Miranda said, looking around the garden slowly. “But then I” — her eyes snapped back to Andy’s — “suddenly had something to look forward to.” Her expression remained inscrutable as she reached up to brush strands of hair over Andy’s shoulder, exposing her neck and collarbone. Her fingers danced over the bare skin lightly, landing just below Andy’s jaw. 

“You’re welcome,” Andy said, though her attempt at a teasing tone fell flat as Miranda took a step closer, her skyscraper stilettos bringing her to eye level with Andy. There was no hint of the hawkish glare that was usually present in Miranda’s eyes at an event like this, always watching out for an onlooker or a person she wanted to avoid. She held Andy’s gaze, seeming more at ease than usual with every passing moment.

Then Miranda cupped her cheek and brought them together, and Andy kissed her as softly as she knew how. They parted a moment later, a silent understanding that anything further couldn’t happen there. But it burned a light of hope so bright in Andy that she hoped it didn’t crack her open.

— 

Winter 2008

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Andrea,” Miranda huffed, but her eyes were twinkling as she stared at the restaurant’s host stand.

“You said you were bored. I’m just trying to help.”

They had found themselves at Smith & Wollensky’s, a restaurant forever burned into Andy’s brain from her time as Miranda’s assistant, but it had been the closest restaurant still open after the event that they had just happened to be attending at the same time. The disappointing canapes gave Andy an easy excuse to suggest dinner after Miranda’s requisite thirty-minute appearance.

“I cannot and will not pick one color.”

“Fine. Top five.”

Miranda squinted at her, but Andy could tell that she was thinking about it. She leaned against the wall, her coat wrapped around her arm, and grinned at Miranda expectantly. 

“Can I guess?”

“I suspect that you will, even if I say no,” Miranda said, crossing her arms slowly. 

“Red has to be one of them.”

Miranda tilted her head, flicking her eyes towards the dining room. “Predictable,” she muttered, not unkindly. 

Andy leaned in closer. “I’m not wrong.”

“It’s not just red, it’s…” Miranda closed her mouth quickly, seeming to realize that she’d gotten caught up in Andy’s game. 

“I’m listening,” Andy said, abandoning her teasing tone for something more serious — she didn’t want to embarrass Miranda, and was genuinely intrigued now. 

Miranda looked away. “I prefer blue undertones to yellow.”

“So crimson, not scarlet?”

“Sometimes,” Miranda said thoughtfully. 

“Pink over orange?”

“Depends on the —”

Andy had to laugh, and was relieved to see that Miranda’s posture seemed to relax at the sound. “Okay, we’re getting even further from narrowing it down.”

“Ms. Priestly? Your table is ready,” the host said, gesturing with thick menus. 

The conversation carried on for most of dinner, light and spirited, easy topics that seemed to loosen something in Miranda that Andy had never seen before. They walked out together, wrapping their coats around them tightly to fend off the cold winter air. 

“That was nice,” Miranda said, so softly that Andy wondered if she hadn’t meant for her to hear. There wasn’t time to ask; Roy was already pulling up, and Miranda only offered her silent nod of goodbye as she slid into the backseat. 

Andy unbuttoned her coat as she walked to the subway, feeling oddly warm. 

— 

Fall 2013

The front door opened sooner than Andy expected, and she checked her watch before walking into the foyer. She was baking cookies for her coworker’s birthday, and the house smelled of warm vanilla, accompanied by Patsy Cline on the kitchen Bose. 

Miranda strode through the entryway first, her eyebrows knotted tightly as she pulled off her elbow-length gloves finger-by-finger. Colin followed close behind with a distant smile still painted on his face, an expression that Andy had quickly grown tired of, and rubbed his palms together. 

“Smells great in here, Andy,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Food tonight was horrible, so I hope you’re sharing.”

“I’m not,” Andy said flatly. Miranda froze in the process of taking off her second glove, the empty silk fingers drooping from her hand. Andy felt her inquisitive glare and promptly turned on her heel to go back to the kitchen. She leaned against the stove, staring daggers at the blinking oven timer as if she could make the numbers move faster.

She turned up the stereo slightly, letting Patsy drown out the voices down the hall as she rushed to clean the kitchen and pull out cooling racks to expedite her departure. Miranda hadn’t said anything about Colin coming back home with her; typically Roy dropped him off first, or Andy made herself scarce if Colin planned to return for a nightcap or… whatever they did together when Andy wasn’t around. 

She did her best to distract her racing thoughts with Patsy’s midnight weeping willows. Her back was turned when she finally heard Miranda say her name. 

“I’ll be out of here soon,” Andy said stiffly, wiping down the sink. “Timer’s about to go off.”

“Don’t be like this,” Miranda said brusquely. 

Andy clenched the sponge in her fist, watching the soap suds cover her knuckles before plunging her hand into the scalding water filling the mixing bowl. The song had changed, and Patsy’s voice floated between them like cool night air.

I knew

You'd love me as long as you wanted

And then some day

You'd leave me for somebody new

Andy ran the sponge along the edge of the bowl. “I’m not being like anything.”

She could practically hear Miranda’s frown before she responded. “He’s gone. There’s nothing more to say.”

Andy whipped around, suds flying across the countertop. She didn’t miss Miranda’s flinch, though she couldn’t tell if it was because of the mess or because of the wild-eyed expression that Andy felt herself making. “Is it that easy for you?” she said darkly. “He closes the door and doesn’t exist? The night didn’t happen, and you get to come home to happy Andy?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Miranda said, crossing her arms tightly.

“You’re telling me to get over it!”

Miranda laughed, though the sound was hollow. “Should I not? There’s no other way to do this, Andrea, not until we can…”

Andy shook her head, mirroring Miranda’s crossed arms and looking down at her feet, now covered in drops of soapy water.

Why do I let myself worry?

Wondering

What in the world did I do?

“Don’t pretend like you’ll ever let this be real for you in the way that it is for me.”

“What do you…” Miranda said slowly. The edge in her voice had softened, replaced by something far more fragile, and when Andy looked up her lips were parted slightly.

Andy clenched her jaw, chewing on her words like gravel. “I love you, and you’re standing in front of me smelling like men’s cologne and a party that I didn’t get invited to. Because you won’t be seen with me anymore.”

Miranda’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Andrea —”

“I hope that all the People features are working out for you two,” Andy said. She hated herself for how shaky her voice was becoming. “You seem really happy together.”

Miranda repeated her name, but Andy was already brushing past her, unwilling to let her see the tears gathering along her eyelashes. 

Crazy

For thinking that my love could hold you

I'm crazy for trying

And crazy for crying

“I — take the cookies. Give them to the twins or something. Throw them out, I don’t care. I… I need some time.” She swung the closet door open and grabbed her coat, shoving her feet into her shoes as quickly as she could.

“Andrea.”

She could barely choke out her final words before she slammed the door behind her. “Don’t call me.”

But Andy got a call three days later from a contact that she didn’t expect to see. She took a deep breath and walked away from her desk, answering in a low voice as she stole away to the alcove at the far end of the office.

“Andy? It’s Caroline.”

“Hey,” Andy said, already feeling unsettled by the girl’s flat affect.

“Um, so, Patricia is…” Caroline cleared her throat, and her voice turned thick when she continued speaking. “Well, we have to say goodbye to her soon, I think.”

Andy’s stomach dropped, and she clutched it subconsciously. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah,” Caroline said shakily. “She has some sort of bone thing, I guess? The vet said there was — I dunno, really, but Mom is…”

“Is she okay?”

Andy heard sniffling at the other end of the phone and started walking back to her desk as she waited for Caroline’s answer.

“Can you just come over, please? She told me not to call you, but I know that she needs you.”

Andy was in a cab five minutes later, and she didn’t bother to knock when she got to the townhouse. She found the twins and Miranda in the office, gathered around Patricia’s favorite spot: a large, elegant bed next to Miranda’s desk. Cassidy lay on the ground, staring at the giant dog, her nose just inches from Patricia’s. She was the first to look up, and gave Andy a small smile despite her red eyes. Miranda followed her daughter’s eyeline and turned around.

She was sitting as elegantly as ever, legs tucked underneath her and posture ramrod straight as she stroked Patricia’s stomach. She took a deep breath when her eyes met Andy’s, and Andy was relieved to receive a small nod, that odd version of a greeting that she’d been familiar with since her Runway days. Miranda’s free hand was splayed on the rug, and though she broke eye contact quickly, she tapped on the ground with her pointer finger, and Andy joined her at her side, kneeling between her and Cassidy. Caroline sat on the other side of Patricia, scratching her ear, and she mirrored her mother’s nod as Andy took her spot.

The dog breathed slowly, her eyes open but glassy. 

“She couldn’t get up this morning,” Cassidy said quietly, not taking her eyes off of Patricia. “Like, her legs didn’t work at all. So the vet came over and…” She sniffed and touched Patricia’s large, wet nose. “She’s lived a really good life.”

Andy knew most of this, of course; Patricia had far exceeded the usual lifespan for Saint Bernards, partially with the help of a large cocktail of various medications for her heart and bones. She touched Miranda’s outstretched hand, lacing their fingers together. They’d had a conversation not long ago about Patricia’s health, though Miranda’s sole concern had been directed towards her twins; as usual, she’d been reticent to admit any of her own feelings. She maintained the same careful composure as they waited for the vet, alternating between comforting her daughters and entertaining their increasingly silly recollections of their childhoods with Patricia. Eighteen now, the girls’ earliest memories of their dog went back to kindergarten.

The process was swift and peaceful; the twins buried their hands in the dog’s thick fur, Cassidy’s head tucked into Caroline’s neck as Patricia’s breathing turned labored. Miranda chose to stand, her razor-sharp focus turned to the logistics of the procedure, the details of transport and cremation and turnaround times. She didn’t look at Andy once, but she also didn’t let go of her hand.

Though it felt like a cliche, Andy thought that the house felt even quieter than usual once the vet had departed with promises to return the dog’s memories — the urn, the pawprint molding — the next day. 

“Excuse me,” Miranda said thinly, departing for the second-floor bathroom.

Caroline’s narrowing eyes followed, her inquisitive gaze startlingly close to her mother’s. Once they heard the soft click of the lock, she turned to Andy slowly, her expression softening slightly. “I’m glad my mom has you, even if she never says it.”

Andy wrapped her hands around her midsection and shrugged. “Thanks for calling me.”

Caroline nodded, her eyes drifting towards the bathroom again. “I hope that…” She looked down, then back at Andy. “Well, I just like having you around.”

Cassidy joined her sister’s side with a sniffle. “This sucks,” she said, pressing their shoulders together.

“You wanna watch Sound of Music?” Caroline asked her. 

Miranda rejoined them then, her face carefully set in a neutral expression. She brushed Cassidy’s hair out of her eyes as she tipped her head towards Caroline. 

Andy looked between the twins. “I can put some cookies in the —”

“Yes, please,” Cassidy said. “Mom, you’ll watch the movie too?”

“Yes, Bobbsey,” Miranda said. Her mouth twitched when Cassidy didn’t bristle at the nickname like she typically did at this age. The girls departed for the living room, bodies bumping against each other, and Andy felt Miranda following her as she went down the stairs to preheat the oven.

Miranda lingered at the corner of the kitchen island, fingers pressed into the quartz countertop. Andy bit her lip as she pulled the mixer out of its cabinet and glanced at Miranda. 

“Can I stay the night?” she asked quietly. 

Miranda exhaled, and Andy watched her grip on the countertop loosen. “Please.”

Later, curled in bed at Miranda’s side — after she’d kissed the tears from Miranda’s eyelashes and waited for her breathing to steady — Andy lay awake well past midnight, doing her best to convince herself that things could get better. Colin hadn’t been there tonight, anyway.

— 

Winter 2012

Miranda didn’t say it back.

Andy only registered what she’d said a moment later, the surprise of her words competing with the aftershocks of her orgasm. It didn’t help that Miranda was still pressing her fingers into Andy, curling them just so until Andy’s back was arching and the coiling heat in her core was returning. She whined at the sensation as her heart pounded wildly, and she stared at the ceiling to avoid looking at Miranda. Her silence was all Andy needed to know that her surprise confession wasn’t going to be reciprocated. 

She still couldn’t help moaning Miranda’s name as she felt herself approaching the edge again. Miranda fucked her relentlessly, hard and deep and mind-numbingly quickly, and folded her body over Andy as she came again, biting Andy’s earlobe before she pulled her fingers out slowly. 

“Touch me,” she whispered, her breath hot on Andy’s ear, and moments later she was sinking onto Andy’s fingers easily, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted. She surrendered herself to Andy moments later, her body shuddering as she exhaled sharply, and Andy prayed that maybe she hadn’t heard.

Chapter Text

Present Day 2016

They stood like that for a while, Andrea’s hand on her shoulder, Miranda with one hand over her face and the other in the pocket of her slacks, fiddling with a paperclip that she’d dropped in there hours earlier while tidying her desk. 

Slipping in and out of her racing thoughts were memories of the times she and Andrea had stood in this kitchen together. After so many years, there was no shortage of them, but a few stood out. Notably, the morning after Andrea had stayed the night for the first time, and how even the light above the stove had felt blinding when Miranda found her there, staring at the espresso maker. 

They hadn’t planned for her to stay; mercifully, the twins were at a sleepover of their own and not due home until noon. But Andrea had slipped out of bed before sunrise nonetheless, slipping on clothing that had been strewn around the room the night before. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t act like you’re escaping some sort of hostage situation,” Miranda said as she leaned against the archway leading into the kitchen. Andrea spun around, looking equal parts surprised and embarrassed, but Miranda saw her grip on the countertop loosen slightly before she picked up her hand to motion to the espresso machine. 

“Does a hostage stop to make coffee?” Andrea asked with a weak laugh. 

“I suppose not.” For all her posturing, Miranda couldn’t shake her own nerves. The sight of Andrea in her kitchen at this hour felt oddly domestic, and she didn’t dislike it. In fact, she wanted more of it, and the thought alone made her stomach flip.

It didn’t help that she had chosen to come down in nothing but her robe, and Andrea wasn’t bothering to hide her wandering gaze down the length of Miranda’s legs. 

She ended up pressing Andrea against the fridge, the coffee long-forgotten, and hoping that the kisses she placed upon her skin confessed the truth that she wasn’t ready to say aloud.

Miranda remembered this as Andrea’s thumb slowly traced the seam of her shirt, her other hand warm where it rested on her upper back. With a deep breath, Miranda straightened and finally looked at Andrea, whose fingers ran down Miranda’s arm before letting go of her completely. She missed the warmth, but knew that she didn’t deserve the comfort. 

“There are some things,” she began slowly, “That I should have told you. It wouldn’t have made it easier, and it doesn’t change where we are now. But you deserve the truth.”

Andrea took a deep breath, her eyes shifting between Miranda’s. “The truth,” she echoed — not quite a question, but her voice wavered all the same. The anger and sadness that she’d worn so openly since arriving faded quickly into something that looked more like fear. Miranda closed her eyes briefly, summoning the courage to press forward, to push aside the constant instinct to protect Andrea. It hadn’t done any good for her, anyway.

“They knew,” Miranda said. “The board. About us. To this day, I’m not sure how, but it was brought to me after we came back from Sardegna.” Andrea’s eyes went wide, and Miranda held up her hand. “Please, I… just let me finish.

“In other circumstances, it may have resulted in a slap on the wrist. Perhaps a more creative bunch could have twisted it to get us famous; I don’t know. But it coincided with Mercedes-Benz pulling out as the presenting sponsor of Fashion Week, and they blamed me. Told me that I’d been distracted. ‘Off my game.’” Miranda rolled her eyes at the recollection of how those haughty men had spoken to her. As if they’d known a single thing about fashion or how anything was done back then.

“They didn’t trust that I could secure a new sponsor, even though I’d orchestrated the Mercedes sponsorship in the first place. And then there was the matter of Lincoln Center, under construction that fall, and the CFDA was floundering looking for a new space.”

“I remember that,” Andrea said, fidgeting slightly. “But what does that have to do with —”

Miranda sighed. “Andrea, please.”

“Okay, sorry,” Andrea said, but her tone was short. Impatient. Miranda tried not to rankle at it, convinced that every last detail was important to explaining to Andrea the decisions she’d made.

“Colin” — Miranda didn’t miss how Andrea’s face darkened immediately at his name — “was, as you know, the president of MoMA’s board at the time and in senior leadership at KLM. I used my… connection with him to secure the museum as the venue for that year’s fashion week. My board suggested that his employer at the time might consider sponsoring the event as well.” She pulled the paper clip out of her pocket, twisting the cheap metal to unfurl its curves. “There was a suggestion that my failure to secure this could bring an end to my career, so I approached Colin privately to see if he would agree to it. As you can imagine, it was not a request made lightly, but he did carry influence. I was surprised when he agreed… but naturally, there were strings attached.

“He wanted to be connected to me, publicly. He’d been divorced for years, and rumors had been swirling regarding his sexuality, his supposed penchant for younger… men.” Miranda watched the seam of the paperclip snap as Andrea inhaled sharply. “This wouldn’t do, of course. He was a prominent figure in his field, which wasn’t — isn’t, really — friendly to other lifestyles at the time. He was convinced that his career may be threatened by any suspicion of his behavior outside of the workplace. He dangled this… charade of a relationship in front of me, unaware that my own board was breathing down my neck as well about my own… inappropriate behavior.”

Andrea made a sound that might have been a protest, but it seemed to die in her throat before she could continue.

Miranda took a deep breath, looking up from the paperclip, which now lay in pieces in her palm. Andrea’s face was scrunched slightly, reminiscent of all the times Miranda had watched her editing an article or reading a new recipe. 

“It was foolish,” Miranda said after a beat. “Foolish and… selfish. I had grown so used to hiding you away that this hardly felt different. Or at least that’s what I told myself at first, but really, I was probably too consumed with guilt to tell you the truth about why we’d entered this arrangement.”

“You made it sound like…” Andrea’s voice was small, hesitant. “I dunno, so much more casual. Just a way to hide… us, I guess.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Would it have helped to know that my decision was entirely motivated by protecting my career? By securing an event sponsorship?” She nearly spat the final words, her skin burning with shame.

Andrea flexed her jaw, a humorless puff of laughter escaping her mouth. “I guess not.”

“Colin didn’t know about us,” Miranda said, returning her focus to the scraps of metal in her hand. “We never…”

A scoff from Andrea made her look up. “Great,” she said dryly. “Glad to know you didn’t cheat on me on top of everything else.”

Miranda inhaled slowly to ease the anger flaring in her gut. It would be easy to lash out now, toss out some biting retort to send Andrea running off. Anger was a far more comfortable emotion, easier to soothe and lock away. This — the sadness, the guilt, the shame — this she could not push aside. She froze instead, and was surprised when Andrea reached towards her and pulled the paper clip from her hand, replacing it with her own and squeezing gently. 

“Just…” she sighed, closing her eyes briefly before looking at Miranda. “The rest. Tell me the rest?”

Miranda shrugged one shoulder. “It all went to plan, didn’t it?” she said softly. “Colin has moved up in the world of luxury airlines, and I outlasted the board that tried to end my career once again. The CFDA is practically indebted to me.”

Andrea was watching her closely, expectantly, arms crossed tightly. Miranda sighed once more.

“And I…” She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling her face flush. “I believe I had convinced myself that you would leave me, even before Colin. That you’d realized that I was too cruel, too selfish. Maybe this was just a way to make your decision easier.”

Andrea’s mouth dropped open as she shook her head slowly. “I can’t believe you,” she said, her voice dropping. “It’s like we’re going in circles. You told me to leave. And now you’re, what? Blaming me for your decision to get a beard just to save your career? That’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.” The final words came out choked, and Andrea took a shaky breath as her eyes filled with tears. “I love you. Why can’t that be enough? Why hasn’t it ever been enough?”

— 

Spring 2013

It was a horrible cliche, really. Worlds away from New York, in a private suite on the coast of a sunny island, drinking an espresso, looking out on the sea, and in love. 

It had been two months since Andrea’s confession in bed, and they hadn’t spoken of it once. All Miranda had wanted, of course, was for Andrea to repeat it — sometime, somewhere, just to give her an opening. A chance to return it, to let her know that Miranda felt it too. Had felt it for far longer than Andrea might have realized.

Ever stubborn, however, Andrea didn’t say a thing. Her behavior towards Miranda hardly changed, though she was markedly more careful with her language.

Miranda had brought her to Sardegna following a business trip to Milan. Their vacations had been limited to the Hamptons thus far, restricted by work and her daughters, but with the twins off to college and Andrea’s more flexible schedule, they could finally find the time to go elsewhere. Alone.

She had only been to the island once before, back in her student years when she’d spent a summer at Alghero’s university learning about local weaving techniques and ancient looms. The coastal town, with its cobblestone streets and high walls, was the furthest that Miranda had ever been from home. In the decades following, she often dreamt of the sea breeze and sand-filled shoes, and she finally had found someone to share it with.

She arrived a few hours before Andrea and spent the early afternoon pacing the hotel room, feeling oddly nervous in anticipation of their lengthy week of solitude.

Andrea’s confession still weighed heavy on her heart, a stone tugging more and more firmly as time passed. She knew that what she felt for Andrea was far beyond friendship or companionship; hell, it was beyond anything she’d ever harbored for the men she’d dated or married. No one else had ever looked at her, or kissed her, held her like Andrea did. No one had ever dedicated so much time trying to figure Miranda out, dusting themselves off again each time they stumbled, only to give her a second and third and hundredth chance.

Miranda knew how she felt, and she had no idea how to say it.

The girl in question breezed into their suite just as Miranda had begun to spiral, a dazzling smile on her face. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly three weeks, contact reduced to sporadic texts and late-night phone sex that had surprised them both.

“What are you wearing?” Andrea had asked one night. She was in D.C. on business, and had just finished telling Miranda a story about the gaggles of Congressional interns in identical seersucker outfits. 

Miranda glanced down. “That Akris suit from the collaboration with Tom Ford. I had a meeting with their —”

“And under it?”

“Under what?” Miranda snapped, not expecting the interruption. 

“The suit. What shirt are you wearing?”

Andrea’s voice had dropped a little lower, and Miranda fidgeted in her office chair at the distinct shift in tone. “The, um… silk Armani tunic.”

“Buttoned up?”

Miranda inhaled slowly as she realized where this may be going. “Yes.”

“Take it off?” Andrea asked quietly. Miranda’s fingers were already on the buttons as she shifted the phone to her other hand.

“Did you do it?”

“Yes,” Miranda said thinly. Her top was open now, the air cool on her bare torso that was just barely covered by her lace La Perla. “Are you…?”

“I’m wearing a dress. That green one you hate, from —”

“Banana Republic,” Miranda finished with a groan.

A quiet laugh from the other end, though it was slightly muffled. Andrea’s voice returned a moment later. “It’s off now. On the floor.”

“Oh,” Miranda breathed. 

“I still have my bra on, unless…”

“No, you can…” Miranda ran her hand through her hair, pushing her bangs away from her increasingly-warm face. “Take it off.”

“Yours, too.”

Heart pounding, Miranda obeyed, stripping before holding the phone up to her ear again.

“I wish you were here to touch me right now,” Andrea whispered. “You would feel so good.”

Miranda felt like a woman possessed. Closing her eyes, she ran her hand across her chest, dragging her fingers over her nipples lightly. 

“You always make me feel so good,” Andrea repeated.

Miranda nodded before remembering that Andrea couldn’t see her. “I know,” she said, though her voice was a little too breathy to be smug. Andrea laughed quietly. 

“I’m in the hotel room you booked for me,” she said. “It’s nice, really nice. There’s this detachable showerhead… I thought of you when I used it on myself this morning.”

“Andrea,” Miranda whispered, clenching her jaw briefly as she felt Andrea’s words travel directly between her legs. 

“It was nothing compared to you, though. Nothing.” Then Andrea whined softly, lowering her voice once more. “I need to hear you. Please.”

“Oh,” Miranda choked, fiddling impatiently with the clasp on her slacks until she was able to pull them off. They pooled at her ankles as she slouched in her office chair, fingers poised at the waistband of her panties.

“Touch yourself,” Andrea said. “Tell me how wet you are for me.”

Miranda gasped when she finally slid one finger between her legs, but faltered when she tried to summon a response, never one for dirty talk. 

“It’s okay. You can tell me. It’s just us.”

“I’m… god, yes, I’m wet.”

“Fuck,” Andrea breathed. “How does it feel?”

“You feel… good. So good.” Miranda was moving faster now, pressing her finger against her swollen folds, eyes squeezed shut as she thought of Andrea. 

Andrea whimpered quietly. “You’re so beautiful. I love watching you like this. So perfect.”

Miranda’s breathing grew ragged as she worked herself up, her movements growing sloppy as she felt herself drawing closer to the edge. 

“Wait,” Andrea gasped, “Don’t come yet. I want to… together. Tell me when you’re close?”

“Andrea,” Miranda groaned, practically writhing under her frozen hand. To her horror, Andrea giggled. 

“Close, then,” she teased. “I’ve hardly even touched myself.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t —”

Miranda was interrupted by a breathy whine that she could feel between her legs. 

“God,” Andrea said quietly. “No one — no one else does t-this to me.” She cut herself off with another moan, and Miranda took this as permission to touch herself again, inhaling sharply at the renewed intensity. 

Andrea got her wish moments later, drowning out Miranda’s sharp inhale with her own deep, muffled moan. Miranda practically writhed in her chair at the image of Andrea with her hand between her legs, only realizing how hard she was breathing when she heard a gentle laugh. 

“I can’t wait to see you,” Andrea said warmly.

“Yes,” Miranda breathed, the closest she could get to I miss you, too. 

So it was no surprise that no more than ten minutes after Andrea’s arrival in Sardegna, they were horizontal on the expansive hotel bed, Andrea pressing Miranda into the mattress with unbridled hunger. They shed their clothing unceremoniously, the weeks of tension rendering Miranda incapable of taking it slow. There would be time for that later. 

Andrea soon had Miranda on all fours, her elbows shaking as she tried to hold herself up while Andrea fucked her from behind. She was all precision and strength, attuned to exactly what Miranda needed in these moments. 

She rarely handed over her trust so easily, and never to this extent with past partners. But something about the way Andrea touched her made Miranda feel like she could surrender without question. The first time they’d tried this, it had taken her longer than usual to come, preoccupied with the mechanics and performance. Andrea sensed this, of course, slowing the tempo of her movements and brushing Miranda’s hair out of her face as she kissed her gently. Miranda finally let herself get lost in the softness of Andrea’s lips on hers, the teasing nips of her teeth and tongue. She inhaled deeply as Andrea started moving again, slow pulses of the strapon until she finally pulled a whine from Miranda that she didn’t know she had in her. She’d come harder that night than she ever had with anyone else.

Andrea smiled at her as she came down, lips parted in something like awe. “Was that good?” she asked. 

Miranda nodded as she brought a shaky hand to her forehead, feeling the sweat along her hairline. 

“Yeah? You liked that?”

“Andrea,” Miranda said thinly. “Don’t press your luck — oh.”

Andrea had pulled out slowly, and a jolt of pleasure accompanied the sensation. Miranda’s hips lifted slightly as she gasped once more. 

“Okay, so you definitely liked that.”

She sought revenge moments later, shutting Andrea up with the slowest possible release she could muster until Miranda had her begging. 

Needless to say, when Andrea had proposed bringing the toy to Italy with her, Miranda couldn’t agree quickly enough. 

Giving herself to Andrea this way — it felt right. Terrifying and safe and exhilarating, granting her control and power that she was often robbed of by Miranda anywhere else. In matters of the public eye, of whatever they were doing together, Miranda called the shots. Andrea followed, though lately she’d been prickling at it more noticeably. But in their private moments, on beds and couches, against walls and counters, Miranda let herself submit to Andrea. She answered her requests, took pleasure in giving herself away to this woman who had asked so little of her. 

“Yeah, you’re doing so well,” Andrea panted as she practically fucked Miranda into the mattress. “Just like that.” Her thighs smacked against Miranda’s ass with each thrust, nails digging into her hips possessively. Miranda sank further into the bed, letting Andrea hold her up once her elbows finally gave out, and didn’t hold back the ragged whine that escaped her lips when fingers slid between her legs and touched her exactly where she needed it. She heard Andrea whimper behind her, sounding almost tortured when she whispered Miranda’s name.

She loved the way that Andrea said her name, how she always drew out the second syllable, the vowel flat on her tongue. In moments like this, she’d over-emphasize the ending, the d hard and the a coming out lower than usual. 

Miranda felt herself growing tight against the silicone, and Andrea repeated her name like a prayer as she brought Miranda to her peak, every muscle going stiff under Andrea’s touch as she shuddered through her orgasm. Her movements grew sloppy as she continued to slide the dildo into Miranda, groaning as she chased her own release and begging Miranda to come for her again.

Miranda obliged moments later, gasping as Andrea collapsed against her back while still buried inside of her, choking out an orgasm of her own. She shivered at the gentle kisses that were pressed down her shoulderblade as they both caught their breath. 

“Should we check out the beach?” Andrea asked an hour later, and Miranda had to laugh at the youthful enthusiasm that came so easily from someone who had been groaning profanities into her ear just minutes before.

Laughter came to Miranda more easily now, too. Alone with Andrea, she’d found herself no longer holding back a smile or swallowing a chuckle. She would never be as effusive or chatty, of course, and had no interest in wearing her heart on her sleeve as Andrea did. But she allowed her a glimpse at it every now and again.

And she found it hard to conceal her excitement as she led Andrea down the narrow streets of Alghero, narrating her past travels and reveling in landmarks that still stood decades later: a miniscule osteria, a church that she’d passed on her daily commute, an odd mural down a cobblestone-lined alley. Andrea listened with rapt attention, peppering Miranda with questions and reveling in the ancient architecture and unfamiliar landscape. She gasped when they finally reached a street overlooking the sea, wrapping her fingers around Miranda’s forearm as if to anchor them in place.

Miranda watched her as she stared at the sparkling turquoise water, strands of brown hair coming loose from her high bun that was no match for the sea breeze. Their eyes met a moment later, and Andrea tipped her head as her teeth raked over her bottom lip.

“I’m really happy to be here with you,” she said. It wasn’t soft or nervous or cautious; it was confident, calm, like she knew that she belonged at Miranda’s side in that moment. Miranda couldn’t help but bring her hand to Andrea’s cheek, resting her thumb at the corner of her mouth in a makeshift kiss. Andrea inhaled slowly, her eyes flicking between Miranda’s in question. 

“I’m happy to… share it with you,” Miranda began. She pressed her free hand to her own heart, as if to steady it as it pounded beneath her fingers. “I wanted to.”

Andrea stood up a little straighter, clearly sensing a shift in Miranda. “I know.”

“And —” Miranda swallowed, shifting her gaze to the sea as she collected her thoughts. “You have to know how I… how I feel about you.”

She could see Andrea’s chest rise and fall, though the deep breath she took was muffled by the wind. She was watching Miranda closely, and her fingers drifted down Miranda’s forearm to stroke the top of her hand. 

“You have to know,” Miranda repeated thickly, returning her eyes to Andrea’s. The confidence she’d seen in her moments hadn’t faded, but was joined by something else — determination, maybe. Impatience.

“Tell me, then,” Andrea finally said, her brow creasing as it lifted slightly. 

Miranda closed her eyes and brought her lips to Andrea’s ear. For some reason, it felt impossible to look at her as she said it, impossible to watch whatever expression the confession might elicit.

But then she felt Andrea’s shoulders relax against hers, and their fingers intertwined briefly. “I love you too,” Andrea said, and her sigh of relief was just barely audible over the gust of salty air.

— 

Winter 2015

She saw her, of all places, at fucking Whole Foods.

Miranda didn’t make a habit of grocery shopping, but it was ten p.m. on a Saturday and she couldn’t handle Caroline’s incessant hacking any longer. The walk to the store was faster than summoning Roy or one of her ditzy assistants, and she’d donned a scarf and sunglasses for what she hoped was a brief trip. She cursed the germy student body as she perused the aisle of cold remedies, tossing boxes and bottles into the basket at random. One of them had to work, even just long enough to help Caroline fall asleep and stop Cassidy from complaining loudly. 

She’d just turned the corner towards the registers when she nearly collided into a black peacoat. 

“Sorry, ma’am,” said its owner, a tall, scruffy man whose smile was brief but friendly. 

“Oh.”

The familiar voice made Miranda’s stomach sink, and she turned to see the woman hanging off of Peacoat’s arm.

Andrea was as beautiful as ever, though she’d let her bangs grow out slightly, and they were parted to either side of her face. She had on a black peacoat like the man she was practically fused with, and her expression was not unlike the one she’d worn during her first few weeks at Runway. A deer in headlights, boldly-worn fear. She pulled her arm out from where the man was grasping it, and he looked down in confusion. 

Miranda took the opportunity to slide past them, managing to catch a “Who was that?” from the man as she sped through self-checkout.

Cassidy was in the living room when Miranda returned to the townhouse, and looked at her with concern. “You’re sniffling now, too?” she said, taking a few steps back. “I can’t get sick — it’s winter break!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miranda snapped, pushing her dark sunglasses up. “Bring this to your sister.”

She woke up with a sore throat, and found herself thankful for a convenient excuse about her red eyes and hoarse voice when her daughters checked on her in the morning. 

—

Fall 2011

She questioned herself the second she knocked on the door. 

Miranda had visited Andrea very little, and had never seen the latest apartment that she’d moved into months earlier. She felt distinctly out of place in the third-floor walkup, and started to walk away when she heard the rattle of the chain and the click of a bolt. 

Andrea’s brow creased in surprise, her mouth opening briefly before she curled it into a smile. “Hi,” she said, then peered into the hallway. 

“Are you expecting someone else?” Miranda said, perhaps more harshly than she meant to.

“No,” Andrea said slowly. “I just… what are you doing here?”

Miranda shifted her weight impatiently, and thankfully Andrea got the message. She stepped back and opened the door to let her inside, closing it behind them softly. 

“The Mizrahi shoot ended early. It was on the High Line, so…”

“You were in the neighborhood,” Andrea finished, sounding amused. 

Miranda ignored the satisfaction in her voice as she looked around the apartment. It was small but mostly tidy, an open floor plan with a single bedroom to her left. Crowded bookshelves lined the living room wall, bracketing a small TV and a record player. Patsy Cline was playing softly, and a faint sizzling sound accompanied the smell of garlic and onions. 

“You’re cooking,” she said quickly, pivoting towards the door. “I’ve interrupted.”

Andrea took a step between Miranda and the door, and pressed her hands to Miranda’s shoulders before slowly slipping off the jacket she was wearing. “You’re right,” she said lightly, heaving the trench over one arm and Miranda’s purse over the other. “So you should stay. I heard the catering for the shoot was a disaster.”

Miranda blinked as she watched Andrea hang up her coat and purse, an act that was far too familiar, even years after Miranda had practically thrown them at her on a daily basis. But Andrea was smiling when she turned back towards Miranda, ushering her towards the kitchen with gentle pressure on her lower back. 

“I thought you had dinner with Isaac’s team tonight?” she asked as she opened the fridge.

Miranda hovered near the small island, fiddling with her bracelets. “I… did.”

Andrea shut the fridge door and slid a half-open bottle of rosé towards Miranda. “Did it get cancelled or something?”

“No,” Miranda said tightly. 

Placing two stemless glasses between them, Andrea regarded her skeptically. “Are you on the lam or something? This is especially cryptic, even for you.”

“I didn’t realize that you required a minute-by-minute update of my schedule,” Miranda said, busying herself with filling their glasses to avoid making eye contact. Andrea’s hand landed on hers as she set the wine bottle down.

“Miranda,” she said, drawing out her name with visible impatience.

Miranda rotated her glass slowly. It had been nearly a week since they’d seen each other, and she’d had the uncomfortable realization that phone calls here and there weren’t enough. She hadn’t yet figured out how to articulate this beyond solving the problem with an impromptu visit.

Worse, the last time they had seen each other, she’d felt a distinct pang in her chest when they’d said goodbye. Andrea had smiled at her as she slid out of the towncar so softly that it took everything in Miranda not to tug her back inside and hold her closely, defying every instinct that she’d ever had in past relationships. The memory of the feeling came rushing back under Andrea’s inquisitive stare. 

“I’m not on the lam,” she said slowly, “so don’t make this an interrogation.”

Andrea sighed, pulling her hand away from Miranda to grab her own wine glass. “I’m sorry. But you’re okay, right? I mean, it’s good to see you — I don’t want you to think that I’m not happy to. I just… well, it’s unexpected. Not bad, just —”

Miranda narrowed her eyes, effectively cutting her off her rambling. “I’m fine,” she said, taking a small sip of wine. “I… we haven’t seen each other this week. That’s all.”

Andrea blinked, her wine glass midair as she stared at Miranda. “Oh.”

Before Miranda could say anything, Andrea was coming around to the other side of the kitchen island and kissing her. It was chaste but firm, and they both seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as they separated.

The oven timer went off, and Andrea rushed to the kitchen to turn it off. Miranda felt that same pang as she watched her, realizing that of all people, this was the person who deserved to know how Miranda really felt.

She’d tell her one day. But not tonight.