Archive of Our Own ^beta

Paris Fashion Week was nearing its breathless close, and the city pulsed with overworked stylists, swollen egos, and espresso. Andrea Sachs, assistant-turned-savior of the impossible Miranda Priestly, hadn’t slept in what felt like forty-eight years.

She stood outside Miranda’s suite in the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, gripping a Garment District bag full of samples like it was the Ark of the Covenant. Her hair was a mess, her phone was at 3%, and her feet were crying in their overpriced heels. All was right in hell.

She knocked.

Miranda opened the suite door looking effortlessly impeccable in cream silk billowing pants and a black blouse, her silver hair swept back like she’d just stepped off a set in Saint Laurent’s fever dream. Her face, as always, was a frozen sculpture of mild irritation.

“You’re late.”

“I’m five minutes early,” Andy said, trying to smile through her eye twitch.

Miranda shot her a look with a single raised brow. Andy swallowed and stepped inside. The suite was stupidly gorgeous, the kind of room where even the champagne flutes looked judgmental. She placed the samples on the chaise.

“I also brought the lookbook from Givenchy,” Andy said, handing it over like it was a peace offering to a couture war goddess.

Miranda gave her a long, unreadable look. “You look…destroyed.”

“I’m thriving, actually.”

“You’re sweating through Chanel.”

“I’ve been running around in Louboutin’s,” Andrea remarked dryly, causing a muscle in Miranda’s cheek to twitch.

“You may as well sit,” she instructed with a sweep of one hand before opening the book and flipping through the pages. “Pour us some wine, would you?”

Andy blinked. “Like… wine wine?”

Miranda didn’t look up from the book. “Do you see grape juice on that bar cart, Andrea?”

Andrea shrugged and tucked her chin, making her way to the cart and finding a bottle of white wine standing in a cooler. She uncorked it, aware of Miranda moving to sit on the couch, still flipping through pages. She poured a glass then hesitated for a moment and looked sideways at Miranda’s profile. She did say ‘us’, she thought, and reached under the cart for another glass, filling it with the pale liquid.

Andrea walked over to the couch and silently held one glass out to Miranda, the older woman reaching up without lifting her gaze, their fingers brushing as she took the glass with a murmured, “thank you”. Andrea let out a slight hum and took a sip of from her own glass, suddenly feeling awkward just standing there. Unsure if she was being utterly moronic, she shook her head and moved to sit beside Miranda on the couch, breathing out a silent sigh of relief when Miranda didn’t react in fury.

Minutes passed as Andrea took tentative sips of her wine, her eyes moving around the room in a failed attempt to stay away from Miranda’s profile. Giving in to temptation and, believing that the Editor’s attention was fully on the book in her lap, Andrea let her eyes trace over the curve of Miranda’s cheekbones, the elegant arc of her aquiline nose. Her eyes settled on the slight pout of Miranda’s lips, light mauve in colour, and Andrea pulled in her own bottom lip to bite it slightly, lost in thought.

With a decisive flick of the wrist, Miranda closed the book and turned her head suddenly to look directly at Andrea, the assistant’s eyes darting up from Miranda’s lips to her meet her eyes while she tried to keep a blush from staining her cheeks. Was it her imagination, or did she see a slight smirk lift Miranda’s mouth?

“To the end of Fashion Week,” Miranda said, holding out her still full glass towards Andrea.

“Oh!” Andrea stumbled, unsure whether to be embarrassed that her own wine was almost half gone already. She touched the rim of her glass to Miranda’s lightly. “To another Priestly success,” she said with a small smile.

Miranda took a sip of wine, her gaze remaining on Andrea for a long moment. “No phones in fountains this year.”

Andrea felt a jolt in her stomach. They never talked about last year’s Paris Fashion Week disaster. Never acknowledged that Andrea had almost cut and run at the worst possible time for Miranda. Even back then, it was never talked about. Andrea had simply returned to the hotel with her tail between her legs and the next day had received a delivery of a new phone and a list of errands to run before the Runway team’s flight back to New York. Sure, the first few weeks were awkward, but they had moved past it and come to some sort of common ground with one another. Their working relationship had never been better. And they had managed to avoid all mention of it for almost an entire year. Until now.

“My phone remains safely in my bag,” Andrea said, suddenly feeling a little choked.

Miranda looked at her for a beat. “Let’s make sure it stays that way, hmm?” Finally, she looked away and Andrea took a deep breath. “You’ve excelled in this past year,” Miranda said. “When we get back to New York, I’d like to discuss your options. A small article for the March issue perhaps.”

Andrea’s eyes widened and she almost choked on her tongue. “Are you serious?”

Miranda looked at her again with a tilt of her head. “Am I known for my love of pranks?” she asked sardonically.

Andrea chuckled. “No. But something tells me you’d actually be really good at that.”

“Naturally”.

Andrea laughed then took a moment. “I’d be really grateful for that, Miranda.”

“Of course,” Miranda said, standing and moving past Andrea to pluck the wine bottle from the drinks cart. She retraced her steps and refilled Andrea’s glass before topping off her own, bringing the bottle back with her and setting it down next to the couch before retaking her seat. Tipping back her head to rest it against the back of the couch, Miranda let out a sign. Andrea’s eyes went straight to Miranda’s throat, and she swallowed, gripping her glass a little tighter in her hand.

“No divorce to contend with this time,” Miranda said quietly, almost to herself. Andrea lifted her eyes to Miranda’s face, trying to read where this was going. “No husband either, of course”, Miranda continued. She shrugged and quirked her lips then turned to angle her body to face Andrea, one foot lifting from the floor to tuck underneath her, one arm laying across the top of the couch while her other hand held the glass in her lap.

“What about you?” she asked, surprising Andrea. Their relationship may have become better over the past year, but personal questions and confessions were certainly not usual.

“Me?” Andrea asked, internally cringing when it came out a little high pitched.

“Do you have anyone?”

Andrea snorted loudly, making Miranda raise an eyebrow. “No!” she laughed. “Gosh, no!”

Tilting her head, Miranda regarded her quietly. “Why is that funny?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Andrea started, uncertain. “Where would I even find the time for one? And I’m not exactly looking. And even if I was, which I’m not, where do you even meet people? And I don’t even know if I want that kind of commitment, you know? The whole getting to know them, and making time for them, and …” she stopped abruptly, feeling a light tap on her shoulder. She looked over at Miranda whose arm was still outstretched along the back of the couch, her fingertips pressing gently to Andrea’s shoulder.

“You’re rambling,” she said softly with a lift of the lips.

“Sorry,” Andrea mumbled, aware of the heat from Miranda’s fingers on her bare shoulder.

Those fingers tapped again, twice, as Miranda looked deep in thought for a moment, an almost unconscious gesture. “You’re right,” she decided out loud. “Far too much effort”.

They soon finished the bottle of wine and then, against their better judgement, opened another one. Andy was now standing facing the window, staring out over one of the most beautiful hotel views she had ever seen.

Miranda approached from her left and handed over her topped up glass. “Careful,” Miranda mock-warned. “I’ve heard your boss has a penchant for throwing her assistants out of hotel windows.”

“You know,” Andrea said around a snort, “you’re not as scary when you’re half-drunk and barefoot.”

“And yet you manage to be even more impertinent when half-drunk.”

Andy shrugged her shoulders. “I’m off the clock, right?”

“If you choose,” Miranda smirked. She leaned over to place her glass down on the side table just as Andrea turned her head and opened her mouth to say something. The motion brought them closer than expected and they both stopped short. They were so close, Andy could see the tiny freckles on Miranda’s cheeks hidden under her makeup. Andrea’s breath stuttered out, her eyes flicking up.

And then Miranda leaned in.

Andy didn’t pull away. She didn’t even blink. The kiss was soft, unexpected, like stepping into warm water. Then teeth, then tongues, then hands fumbling at zippers and silk falling like petals to the floor.

It was a blur. The bed. Miranda’s body. Andy’s laugh turning into a gasp. Miranda’s hand in her hair, pulling. The whispered curses. The taste of wine and lip gloss and something that felt dangerously like longing.

When it was over, they lay tangled in thousand-thread-count sheets, breathless and flushed. Miranda stared at the ceiling like it had personally offended her.

Andy opened her mouth. Closed it again. Finally said, “…So, that happened.”

Miranda turned to her with a look of near shock. “No, it didn’t.”

Andy blinked. “I’m literally in your bed.”

Miranda lifted a hand to her forehead, already feeling the hangover kicking in. “Then you dreamt it. You have a vivid imagination.”

“Miranda.”

“Yes, Andrea?”

Andy groaned and flopped back onto the bed. “Oh shit, we’re going to pretend this didn’t happen, aren’t we?”

“Absolutely.”

Andy stared at the ceiling now. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Miranda murmured. “But by tomorrow, you might.”

---------------

The flight from Paris to New York was eight hours and forty-two minutes long.

Andy felt every second crawl across her skin like static.

They boarded the private jet just past noon, Miranda striding ahead in an ivory coat that screamed Old Money and Unholy Power. Andy followed two paces behind, clutching her laptop bag like it was a talisman against the deeply inappropriate memories of Miranda’s mouth on her inner thigh.

She took her seat across from Miranda, her knees brushing the sleek leather, pretending to check her phone while definitely not thinking about last night’s sounds. Sounds like Miranda moaning her name. Miranda cursing under her breath. Miranda telling her...

Nope.

Andy pulled out her laptop and opened a spreadsheet like it was a life raft.

Miranda, for her part, was reading Le Monde, sunglasses perched imperially on the bridge of her nose, legs crossed with surgical precision. Her face was carved from cool marble. Untouchable. Unbothered.

Except for when Andy looked up—and found Miranda already looking at her. A flicker. A half-second. Then Miranda’s gaze darted back to the paper.

Andy stared at her water glass and reminded herself how breathing worked.

Three hours in, Andy tried to focus on drafting emails, but her brain kept short-circuiting.

Because Miranda had taken off her coat. And was now lounging in a silk blouse that revealed just enough collarbone to ruin lives.

Andy shifted in her seat. “Do you want coffee? Or tea?”

Miranda didn’t look up. “Are you offering or begging for a distraction?”

Andy froze. “What?”

“I said tea would be fine. Jasmine, if they have it.”

She went to the galley immediately, needing something—anything—to do that didn’t involve imagining what Miranda’s silk blouse would look like on the floor. Again.

When she returned, Miranda accepted the tea with a casual “Thank you, Andrea.” Her fingers brushed Andy’s for half a second.

Electric.

Andy dropped her notebook ten minutes later.

“I—sorry—just—turbulence?” she mumbled, trying not to visibly short-circuit while crawling under the table for it.

Above her, Miranda exhaled sharply. Possibly laughing. Possibly plotting murder. Possibly both. Andy resurfaced with pink cheeks and a shaky hand. Miranda was sipping her tea like everything was just as it should be.

By hour six, the tension was thicker than the cloud cover outside.

Andy closed her laptop. “Do you want me to prep the schedule for tomorrow morning? You have a 9:00 with Nigel, then the accessories team at ten—”

Miranda interrupted without looking up. “It’s already been handled.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

Silence.

The kind that pressed into your skin. The kind that made you feel like the air was shrinking around you.

Then:

“Do you regret it?” Andy asked, too fast, too quiet.

Miranda looked up slowly. “Pardon me?”

Andy swallowed. “Last night. The…wine. The…other stuff.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “Keep your voice down!” she whispered violently. “This is not the time or the place.”

Andy turned scarlet. “Right. Okay. That’s—that’s fair.”

Miranda didn’t answer the question.

Instead, she adjusted her scarf and turned to the window. “We’ll be landing soon.”

Andy nodded, trying not to bite her lip. “Right. Yes. Great.”

As they landed, both women stared out opposite windows. Both quiet. Both clearly thinking about the same thing, yet neither saying it. The car was waiting on the tarmac. Miranda’s driver stood stiffly by the door, pretending he didn’t notice the way both women avoided eye contact.

Andy opened her mouth. Closed it. “So… I’ll see you at work.”

“8am.”

They stood there too long. Andy didn’t move. Neither did Miranda. Then Miranda’s gaze flicked down—just for a second—to Andy’s lips.

Andy’s breath caught.

Then Miranda was gone, sliding into the car like nothing had happened, like nothing had happened at all.

The door shut with a click that felt like a slap and Andy stood in the exhaust haze, dazed.

And by the look Miranda had given her when the plane hit turbulence?

She wasn’t the only one.

---------------

Miranda Priestly did not pine.

Pining was for the weak, the inexperienced, or people in Hallmark movies who wore flannel and drank hot cocoa unironically. And yet, for the past forty-eight hours, she had caught herself doing things…unbecoming. Things like staring too long at the empty assistant’s chair. Or catching a whiff of cheap vanilla lotion and having the gall to feel something that could only be described as longing.

Unacceptable.

She’d convinced herself that Paris was an anomaly. A momentary lapse brought on by stress, wine, and Andrea Sachs’ distracting mouth. But then Andrea started walking into meetings like nothing had happened—looking all flushed and fidgety and wearing that ridiculous knockoff bag like she was immune to consequence, and Miranda’s carefully constructed façade of indifference began to crack.

Today, she’d had it.

Nigel had asked her something about editorial layouts and all she could think about was how Andrea had looked sprawled across her hotel sheets, saying yes like a prayer.

This was untenable.

She had to do something.

That evening, when Andy arrived at the townhouse to deliver The Book, she was met at the door by Miranda herself, standing in the foyer with a glass of wine and the kind of expression you might wear if you’d just signed a peace treaty with a war criminal.

“Oh,” Andy said, startled. “I thought...um...I didn’t expect you to be...”

“Try not to sound so disappointed,” Miranda said dryly, turning on her heel. “Come.”

Andy hesitated, clutching The Book like it might explode.

“You said to just...drop it off.”

“Yes,” Miranda said, disappearing into the living room. “But plans change.”

Andy followed, wary. Miranda stood beside the fireplace, swirling her wine.

“I assume,” Miranda began, “you are capable of handling a conversation like an adult.”

Andy blinked. “Is this about the time I accidentally forwarded the Valentino invite to that dog-grooming influencer?”

Miranda gave her a look. “No. This is about sex.”

Andy dropped The Book.

Miranda arched an eyebrow. “Graceful.”

“I...um...what?”

Miranda took a sip of wine. “You and I are in a…situation. One which has proven inconvenient. Distracting.”

Andy was still crouched on the floor like she’d been shot.

“Distracting?”

“You keep looking at me like you’re two seconds from crawling under my desk. I keep having to pretend I don’t notice.

Andy’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“This is a joke, right?”

Miranda exhaled. “Andrea. Would you like to continue having sex with me?”

Andy stood slowly. Her jaw, however, was still on the floor. “Are you asking or ordering?”

“I’m proposing.”

Andy stood. “Like…a proposal proposal?”

Miranda looked genuinely offended. “Please. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m suggesting a contractual understanding. No strings. No expectations. Just sex. Clean, efficient, cathartic. Like Pilates. But louder.”

Andy was speechless. Which Miranda took as permission to continue.

“You’ll arrive at designated times. We’ll engage in agreed-upon activities. You’ll leave when instructed. You’ll not develop feelings. And I will not tolerate emotional unravelling.”

Andy blinked. “…You want to have scheduled sex?"

Miranda tilted her head. “Would you prefer chaotic, spontaneous sex? You don’t strike me as logistically adventurous."

Andy gaped. “Miranda, I’m not built for casual sex with…you.”

Miranda approached her slowly, wine glass in hand, voice silky and sharp.

“Then don’t think of it as casual. Think of it as mutually beneficial release. Think of it as stress management. Think of it as…obedience training.”

Andy’s spine snapped ramrod straight. “I—are you seriously trying to negotiate me into a kink contract with zero eye contact?”

Miranda smiled and met her eyes. “There’d be eye contact. Eventually.”

Andy just stared at her. “I can’t tell if this is the sexiest or scariest moment of my life.”

Miranda stepped in closer.

“Let me be perfectly clear, Andrea. I want you. Repeatedly. Frequently. I simply don’t want the…emotional noise that typically accompanies such things. You’ve already proven useful in multiple capacities. Why not add pleasure to the list?"

Andy made a strangled noise that might’ve been English.

Miranda leaned in. “And if you say no…I’ll survive. I’ll simply go back to pretending your flushed cheeks and bitten lips don’t make my meetings with Nigel insufferable.”

Andy exhaled. “…You do know how to make a girl feel special.”

“So?” Miranda’s voice dropped. “Yes or no.”

Andy was trembling. And maybe a little turned on.

“…Can I request breaks for hydration and occasional emotional spiral?”

Miranda’s mouth twitched. “Negotiable.”

Andy looked at her—really looked at her.

The woman was a glacier with legs. And underneath the chill, something molten and dangerous wanted her. God help her, she wanted it too.

She took a breath. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s do it. Let’s be sex robots with a user agreement.”

Miranda held out her hand. “To efficient depravity."

Andy lightly grasped the slender hand and shook it once.

“Do I get a copy of the contract?”

“No. But you’ll know if you’ve violated it when you find yourself working for TV Guide.”

Andy grinned, only half sure Miranda was joking. “So…is now one of the scheduled sessions or…?”

“Your first visit will be tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock.”

Andy swallowed. “Do I bring anything?”

Miranda walked to the door, opening it with polite finality. “Just yourself,” she hummed.=

Andy lingered in the doorway, pulse thudding in her throat. “See you at seven.”

Miranda’s gaze flicked down to her lips. “Don’t be late.”

-----------------

At precisely 6:59 p.m., Andy stood on Miranda's doorstep clutching a tote bag and wondering what the hell she was doing with her life. Her hair was curled but not too curled, her makeup carefully toeing the line between “effortlessly sultry” and “please rail me on a grand piano.” She’d changed outfits three times, finally settling on something inky black and slinky enough to look intentional, but not desperate. Sexy, but efficient. The Miranda Priestly way. She’d even shaved her legs. With care. She hadn’t shaved her legs for a date in months. Hell, this wasn’t even a date. This was…what? A mutually beneficial exercise in high-functioning repression? Corporate stress relief? A power play with mutual orgasms?

She knocked once.

The door opened instantly, as if Miranda had been standing just behind it, checking her Rolex.

“You’re on time,” Miranda said.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Just surprised,” she said coolly, turning on her heel. “Come in."

Andy stepped inside, heart hammering, pulse betraying the carefully casual look she’d practiced in the elevator mirror.

Miranda was barefoot. Which felt illegal. She wore tailored black pants and a simple cashmere sweater in charcoal grey. Her hair was, as ever, sleek and sharp, like she was about to host a TED Talk on How to Emotionally Disengage from Sexual Encounters.

“Would you like something to drink?” Miranda asked, gliding toward the kitchen.

“Sure,” Andy said. “Whatever you’re having.”

“That would be water,” Miranda replied, handing her a minimalist glass like they were about to discuss quarterly earnings.

Andy raised an eyebrow. “No wine?”

Miranda gave her a look. “We agreed that this arrangement should remain clear-headed. Alcohol impairs judgment.”

Andy sipped. “Right. Wouldn’t want to accidentally cross boundaries.”

Miranda didn’t respond.

Instead, she gestured down the hallway. “The bedroom is this way.”

Andy followed, glass in hand, and whispered under her breath, “So romantic.”

The bedroom was, of course, immaculate. Minimalist. Expensively cold. Crisp white sheets, tasteful lighting, a candle burning that smelled faintly of vetiver and intimidation.

Miranda turned to her. “I propose we begin with physical contact,” she said, voice steady. “You may undress to your comfort level. I’ll do the same. We’ll proceed with mutual awareness of limits. Communication is paramount.”

Andy stared. “…Are you reading a sex ed pamphlet from 1998?”

Miranda’s jaw tightened. “Do you have a better opening suggestion?"

Andy bit her lip. “I mean...we could kiss?”

A beat.

Miranda blinked, clearly thrown off. “Yes. That seems…reasonable.”

Andy set her glass down and stepped closer. Miranda stood like she was awaiting a medical examination—chin lifted, posture perfect, arms at her sides.

Andy paused. “You’re standing like you’re being knighted. You know that, right?”

Miranda sighed through her nose. “Do you want this to proceed, or shall we reschedule with a mood board?”

=That was it. Andy reached out and gently, gently, placed her hands on Miranda’s waist. The muscles under her sweater jumped.

“I do want this,” Andy murmured. “I just don’t want to feel like I’m signing a waiver for CPR training.”

Something in Miranda’s posture shifted, just slightly. A loosening at the shoulders.

Andy smiled. “Relax.”

She leaned in and kissed her softly. No games. No tongue yet. Just pressure and breath and the quiet, cautious hum of two people trying.

Miranda didn’t move for the first few seconds. And then, finally, she responded. Her hands slid around Andy’s waist with clinical precision, like she was learning the exact geography of her body.

“You’re overthinking it,” Andy whispered, lips brushing against hers.

“I don’t overthink,” Miranda murmured.

“You’re absolutely overthinking,” Andy said, slipping her hands beneath the hem of Miranda’s sweater. “This isn’t a boardroom.”

Miranda arched one elegant brow. “You’d be surprised how similar the skill sets are.”

Andy laughed against her mouth, and that finally cracked something open.

They kissed again, deeper this time, messy, teeth clinking slightly, both of them stumbling sideways. Andy tugged Miranda’s sweater up and off, and Miranda returned the favor, tugging at her blouse like it had personally offended her.

It was awkward. Clumsy, even. At one point, Miranda stepped on her own pants. Andy bumped her head on the edge of the headboard. Their limbs tangled like this was a corporate trust exercise gone very wrong.

“Oof,” Andy muttered, “we’re so bad at this.”

“Speak for yourself,” Miranda snapped, breathless.

Andy looked down at her. Miranda’s hair was mussed, her bra slightly crooked. Her cheeks flushed. Her chest rising and falling a little faster than she probably intended.

“You look flustered,” Andy whispered.

“I’m warmed up.”

Andy smiled and leaned in to kiss her neck. “You’re cute when you lie.”

Miranda growled low in her throat, and suddenly, they found rhythm.

Somewhere between a particularly sharp bite on Andy’s shoulder and the slide of fingers where they belonged, the awkwardness bled away. What replaced it was heat. Precision. A kind of devastating chemistry that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the way Miranda cursed under her breath in French when Andy touched her just right.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t romantic.

But it was good.

It was very good.

Miranda moved like she was conducting an orchestra, focused, intense, exacting. Andy responded with low moans and soft laughter, the kind that melted Miranda’s veneer one breath at a time.

And when it was over, when they lay tangled in damp sheets, limbs splayed and pulses still trying to regulate, neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Then: “That was a solid B+,” Andy murmured.

Miranda turned her head, one perfect silver brow lifting. “Excuse me?"

Andy grinned up at the ceiling. “We were at a C- until the second round.”

“There was no grading curve,” Miranda snapped.

“Right, of course. You believe in merit-based orgasms.”

Miranda didn’t dignify that with a response. But she didn’t deny it either.

Andy finally rolled onto her side, propped up on one elbow, eyes softening. “So… what now?”

Miranda looked at her. Still composed, still the dragon queen in her lair, but her voice was quiet. “We’ll reconvene next week. Same time.”

Andy blinked. “You are scheduling me like a Pilates class?”

Miranda’s lips curled ever so slightly. “Don’t be late.”

They shook hands again, naked, sweaty, grinning now.

And it was ridiculous.

And kind of perfect.

----------------------

It was 6:59 p.m. again.

Andy stood in front of Miranda's townhouse door for the second week in a row, wondering how it was possible to be nervous for a sexual appointment she had technically scheduled like a flu shot. She had thought, naively, that it would get easier.

It hadn't

The memory of Miranda’s voice growling in French was still scorched behind her eyes like a branding iron. Her body had spent the last six days recalling it involuntarily; during elevator rides, in editorial meetings, and worst of all, in the Runway cafeteria line while selecting a muffin.

She knocked. The door opened immediately. Miranda looked as stunningly composed as ever, this time in a slate blue silk robe, her slightly waved. She looked like she’d been painted in soft light and danger.

Andy blinked. “Is it your goal to open the door every time before I finish knocking?”

“I like to be prepared,” Miranda said, already turning on her heel. “Punctuality is the least a person can offer when arrangements are this…structured.”

“Structured,” Andy repeated, stepping inside. “That’s one word for it.”

“I hope you’ve eaten.”

“I had a protein bar in a cab.”

Miranda didn’t respond, but the tight press of her lips said, ‘how provincial’. She walked up the stairs, her robe swaying around her legs like it had been custom designed to ruin Andy's sense of balance. Andy followed, heart hammering with anticipation, dread, and something like arousal. In the bedroom, the atmosphere was eerily similar to the week before; clean sheets, dim lights, an air of pristine detachment that made Andy want to mess it all up. She could practically hear Miranda’s mental checklist ticking behind her eyes.

“Do we do the handshake again, or…?” Andy joked, setting her purse down.

Miranda gave her a look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

They undressed with the quiet efficiency of a surgical team. Andy, halfway out of her top, glanced over at Miranda, who was stepping out of her robe with clinical grace.

“Okay, wow. You’re really good at that.”

“At undressing?” Miranda asked, dry.

“At making it look like art. I look like I’m losing a wrestling match with my own bra.”

Miranda didn’t smile. But she didn’t not smile, either.

Andy approached her slowly, arms bare, body tingling with nerves.

“So…are there any updates to the user agreement before we start? Addendums? New policies?”

Miranda inhaled through her nose. “Andrea.”

“Kidding. Mostly.”

They kissed again, soft at first, searching. Andrea trailed her hands up Miranda’s sides, trying to remember where she’d touched her last time that made her shiver. She tried Miranda’s neck. The curve of her hip. The inside of her thigh.

Miranda let out a small breath, barely audible.

“Good?” Andy whispered. “You like that?”

Miranda shifted. “It’s fine.”

Andy pulled back slightly, eyes narrowed. “That’s not a sexy answer, Miranda. That’s an answer you give when someone asks if you want their leftover salad.”

Miranda sighed. “Then what exactly would you like me to say?”

“I don’t know...‘yes,’ or maybe just a noise that sounds vaguely like enthusiasm?”

Miranda raised a brow. “So now we’re conducting a survey mid-coitus?”

Andy flopped backward onto the bed with a groan. “Wow. You’re the only woman on Earth who could make sex feel like a brand strategy meeting.”

Miranda remained standing, cool and unbothered, except for the faintest pink hue touching her cheekbones.

“This is meant to be uncomplicated,” she said evenly. “Not some drawn-out therapy session where we narrate our every impulse.”

Andy sat up on her elbows, suddenly serious. “I’m not trying to narrate. I just…I want to know what you like. I want to make you feel good. Is that really so threatening?”

Miranda didn’t answer. The silence hung heavy.

And then, after a pause, Miranda stepped forward, climbed onto the bed, and straddled Andy's hips with the kind of slow, precise authority that short-circuited her brain.

“If you want to know what I like,” she said softly, “stop asking, and find out.”

Andy swallowed. “…See, that’s sexy. Say more of that."

Miranda rolled her eyes, but her hands were already sliding down Andy’s stomach, and just like that, things shifted. Andy pushed Miranda down against the pillows and finally listened. She let her mouth linger on Miranda’s sternum, the edge of her ribs, the inside of her wrist. She watched for signs; breath catching, fingers tightening in the sheets, the faintest stutter in Miranda’s carefully regulated voice.

“Tell me if you want more,” Andy murmured, sliding her hand down, fingers teasing just below the waistband of Miranda’s silk panties.

Miranda arched slightly, her voice low. “Don’t stop.”

That was all Andy needed. She slid her fingers in and Miranda gasped, head tipping back, thighs parting with a sound that might have been a groan swallowed into the pillow. Andy kept her movements slow, careful, watching Miranda’s face.

“This good?” she whispered.

Miranda didn’t respond with words. She just grabbed the back of Andy’s neck and pulled her into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. Andy moaned into her mouth, adjusting her rhythm, her wrist straining, the wet slick heat between Miranda’s thighs making her dizzy with want.

Then Miranda’s hips bucked up, unexpectedly. Andy’s hand slipped.

She blinked. “Wait, too much?”

“No,” Miranda said breathlessly, then growled: “Just...adjust your wrist...angle down...not like that...like this...”

“Huh,” Andy muttered, adjusting. “This is literally more demanding than the Marc Jacobs meeting.”

But Miranda’s breath hitched again, and then again, and finally—finally—her body started to shake, legs tightening, fingers gripping Andy's shoulder hard enough to bruise.

When she came, it wasn’t loud. But it was deep. A slow, broken exhale. Her forehead pressed into Andy’s neck. A trembling hand curling into the sheet like it was the only stable thing in the world. Andy held her there, still stroking soft, murmuring things she didn’t think Miranda even registered. And then they collapsed into the pillows, both panting, hearts racing, skin sticky and flushed.

“Well,” Andy said after a beat. “I think we’ve moved from a B+ to an A-minus.”

Miranda didn’t respond. She just reached out blindly and tugged a blanket over both of them, still catching her breath.

Andy smiled against her shoulder. “You know, I think we’re finally getting the hang of this.”

Miranda, voice muffled into the pillow: “Stop talking.”

Andy laughed and kissed her temple. “Yes, ma’am.”

---------------

The bedroom was quiet again, filled with the sound of slow, steady breathing and the soft rustle of sheets as Miranda lay back, hair slightly tousled, robe discarded, and pride slightly dented after having just unraveled beneath Andrea Sachs’ mouth.

Andy, for her part, looked both pleased and dangerous, half-sitting beside Miranda, propped on one elbow, her fingertips lazily stroking Miranda’s thigh.

“You’re quiet,” Andy said with a sly smile.

“I’ve just been thoroughly interrogated,” Miranda replied dryly, turning her head slightly on the pillow. “I’m taking a moment to recover.”

“Mm.” Andy leaned in and kissed the corner of Miranda’s mouth. “You took the questioning well.”

Miranda gave her a look. “I was not interviewed. I was…observed. There’s a difference.”

“You were ravished. With care,” Andy teased, her lips brushing Miranda’s jaw.

Miranda didn’t argue. But after a beat, she shifted, slowly rolling onto her side, her fingers brushing over Andy’s stomach, then lower, testing, grazing the waistband of her underwear.

“Now,” Miranda murmured, voice like silk pulled taut, “I believe in reciprocation.”

Andy exhaled sharply, pulse spiking. “Oh, uh...right. Sure. I mean, yes. Definitely.”

“You don’t have to sound so prepared,” Miranda said, her fingers slipping just beneath the fabric, stroking lightly.

“I just…” Andy bit her lip as her breath caught. “I didn’t want to assume.”

Miranda kissed the hollow of her throat. “Assume I intend to return the favor.”

Andy’s breath hitched again as Miranda’s hand pressed further down, her fingers finding heat and slickness with no trouble at all.

Miranda paused. “You’re already wet.”

Andy’s cheeks flushed. “I’ve been wet since I arrived.”

Miranda hummed, amused, and moved to settle between Andy's legs with that same impossibly graceful poise, as if this, too, was an art form she intended to conquer. Andy watched her with wide eyes and twitching anticipation. Then Miranda kissed along her thighs, deliberately slow, her mouth pressing hot and open to skin that had been aching for attention for far too long.

Andy exhaled shakily. “Okay. Yes. That’s…that’s good. Really good. A little to the left...yeah, right there.”

Miranda paused, lifting her head slightly. “Are you planning to narrate the entire experience?”

Andy blinked. “What? No...I mean...sorry, it’s just...feedback.”

“This isn’t a podcast, Andrea.”

Andy snorted, covering her face. “Okay, fair. I’m just trying to be helpful."

Miranda gave her a long-suffering look. “If I want notes, I’ll schedule a debrief.”

Andy dropped her hands from her face, still laughing. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“Please do,” Miranda said, already ducking back down with deadly precision.

And when her tongue found exactly the right place, Andy’s laughter cut off with a choked moan. Miranda worked slowly at first, careful, exploratory, learning Andy’s body with precision. Andy whimpered, hips twitching, her fingers tangling in the sheets, then in Miranda’s hair. The warmth of Miranda’s mouth. The glide of her tongue. The teasing flick that made Andy’s thighs tremble. She bit her lip hard. Then Miranda added her fingers. Two, smooth and steady, pressing in while her mouth continued its devastating rhythm.

“Oh my…Miranda! Yes, yes, don’t stop…just like that…oh! Just like that…”

Miranda didn’t stop. She moved deeper, faster, until Andy’s hips were rising to meet her, until Andy was moaning openly now, every sound ragged and breathless, nothing held back. It was overwhelming. Andy looked down once, just once, and saw Miranda’s silver hair between her thighs, her eyes closed, focused, fully immersed in the task of unravelling her.

That image seared itself into her forever.

Andy came with a cry, arching into Miranda’s mouth, her hands gripping the sheets hard enough to tear seams. Her whole body tightened, then broke apart, trembling, her breath catching in her chest as waves rolled through her. Miranda didn’t stop until Andy gasped and tugged at her gently.

“Too much,” she whispered, still panting. “You’re going to short-circuit me.”

Miranda pulled back slowly, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, expression maddeningly composed. Andy collapsed into the pillow beside her, still dazed.

After a long, thudding silence, she whispered, “Okay, that was…actually unfair.”

“Unfair?” Miranda asked.

“That was ruthless. I think I forgot my name somewhere in the middle of that.”

Miranda smirked and adjusted the blanket over them both, slipping beside her.

Andy turned her head, dazed and flushed. “So…was that part of the ‘structured’ agreement?”

"I consider a value-added service," Miranda stated

Andy reached over and laced their fingers together. Miranda didn’t pull away. Not right away. They lay like that for a moment, breath mingling, the quiet between them unusually gentle.

Then Miranda said softly, almost begrudgingly, “You’re very…responsive.”

Andy smiled lazily. “I could say the same about you.”

“You’re still narrating.”

Andy chuckled. “Habit. Want me to stop?”

Miranda was quiet. Then, without looking at her: “No.”

---------------

Thirty minutes later, Andy lay flat on her back in Miranda's bed, one leg flopped dramatically over the duvet, her body boneless from orgasm, her stomach growling like it was trying to be heard across state lines.

She groaned into a pillow. “Okay. I have needs.”

Miranda, sitting upright against a bank of pillows in her robe, arched an eyebrow without looking up from the tablet in her hands. “You just had multiple of them.”

“I’m talking about the edible kind now.”

“You should’ve eaten before you came.”

“I was afraid to be late. And I figured I’d be full on adrenaline and tension.”

Miranda side-eyed her. “Well, congratulations. Now you’re sweaty, smug, and starving.”

Andy rolled onto her stomach and made a pathetic noise. “You’re the one who dragged me across the mattress like a woman possessed.”

“That was twenty minutes ago.”

“That was a lifetime in post-orgasm metabolism.” She turned her head, blinking at Miranda. “You’re my hostess. You have responsibilities.”

Miranda sighed and set the tablet aside. “You are exhausting.”

“Mm, you’ve said that before. But here I am. Hungry and naked in your home. That makes this your problem.”

Miranda threw off the covers and stood with practiced elegance. “If I take you to the kitchen, will you stop speaking?”

Andy grinned. “I’ll consider it.”

The kitchen was dimly lit, hushed. All dark counters and immaculate marble, sleek appliances that looked like they’d been installed that morning. Andy padded in behind Miranda, a short robe loosely hanging from her shoulders, unashamed. She leaned against the counter with casual ease while Miranda glided over to the fridge with the resigned grace of someone who never, ever, made her own snacks past 9 p.m.

“Do you have anything with substance?” Andy asked, peering over her shoulder.

“I have smoked salmon. Kalamata olives. Two ripe avocados. There may be a very expensive cheese hidden in the back.”

“That is not food. That’s the beginning of a charcuterie board for the emotionally unavailable."

Miranda turned with a cutting look. “Would you like to go back to being unfed?”

Andy smirked. “I’d like to not pass out before next week’s scheduled session.”

Miranda retrieved the cheese. “You’re insufferable.”

Andy opened a drawer. “Is this where you keep the good knives or the emergency vodka?”

“I do not have emergency vodka.”

“You seem like you’d have it hidden behind the rare saffron.”

Miranda set the cheese down on the cutting board, then turned. Andy was sitting on the edge of the island, bare, legs swinging slightly, entirely too casual for the temple of minimalist design around her.

“Get. Off. The counter,” Miranda said.

“Come make me.”

Miranda didn’t move right away. Just stared. Her gaze moved from Andy's lazy grin to the curve of her thighs to the way her hand was resting on her inner thigh—close, suggestive.

“Don’t test me,” Miranda murmured.

Andy spread her knees a little wider. “I think we’re past the testing phase.”

Miranda stepped forward. One breath. Two. And then she grabbed Andy by the hips and pulled her roughly to the edge of the island, pinning her thighs open with her body. Andy gasped, startled and thrilled.

“This is unsanitary,” Miranda said low against her throat.

“Then don’t eat off the counter,” Andy whispered, breath catching.

Miranda’s hand slid down, fingers gliding over slick, ready skin.

Andy arched immediately. “Oh! How are your fingers already...?”

“I have skills,” Miranda snapped, slipping two fingers in and curling them just right.

Andy cried out, clinging to Miranda’s shoulders as her body jerked forward from the force of it. Miranda’s mouth crashed into hers, rough, messy, biting, all teeth and demand. Her other hand gripped Andy’s thigh, holding her exactly where she wanted her.

Andy moaned into her mouth, hips bucking up helplessly. “Harder,” she gasped. “Come on, harder—”

Miranda obliged. She pumped faster, deeper, her mouth dragging down Andy’s neck, lips sucking a bruise into her collarbone as Andy’s head fell back with a broken sound. The sharp edge of the island dug into her back, but she didn’t care. The rhythm was too perfect, the heat too intense, Miranda’s mouth too devastating. She felt like her entire body had been lit from the inside.

“I’m close,” Andy whimpered. “Don’t stop, Miranda, please—”

Miranda didn’t stop. She pressed harder, kissed deeper, until Andy cried out again, louder this time, clenching tight around her fingers, her whole body going taut like a bow before collapsing into Miranda’s arms.

Her breathing was ragged. Her hands trembled against Miranda’s shoulders.

They stayed like that for a long beat, Miranda holding her up, Andy half-drunk on endorphins, sweat clinging to her skin.

Then, breathless: “That was…a very aggressive approach to hospitality.”

Miranda eased her back onto the cool marble. “You provoked me.”

“I was hungry.”

“And now you’re satisfied.”

Andy grinned, lazy and flushed. “I still want cheese.”

Miranda sighed, brushing a kiss over her forehead. “Stay off my counters. And I’ll bring it to you.”

Andy closed her eyes, smile still curling her lips. “Deal.”

------------------------

The text came unexpectedly. Not at seven. Not on their usual day.

Are you awake?

Andy was half-asleep, slouched on her couch in an old but soft T-shirt and worn leggings, halfway through an indie film she wasn’t even watching. She stared at the message. Then smiled.

Always. Want me to come over?

Andy watched the little dots on the screen oscillate, indicating Miranda was typing.

You know the door code.

Andrea was up, dressed, and out the door in six minutes flat.

By the time she stepped into Miranda’s townhouse, the place was dimly lit, silent, and as pristine as ever. Miranda stood at the foot of the stairs in a long black satin robe, her hair softer than at work, a hairbrush no doubt having loosened the spray that held it in place, silver forelock curling over her brow just so. Andy paused in the doorway, slowly shutting it behind her, eyes dragging up Miranda’s body like she had every intention of devouring her with her coat still on.

“No appointment tonight,” Andy murmured, shrugging out of her jacket. “Is this an emergency session?”

Miranda didn’t smile. But her eyes warmed. “Something like that.”

Andy toed off her boots and crossed the hallway. She didn’t hesitate, just reached up and tucked the forelock hair behind Miranda’s ear, fingers grazing her jaw lightly. Miranda inhaled, sharply, but didn’t move away. Andy’s eyes lingered. Right there, on the bridge of Miranda’s nose, across the apples of her cheek, just a dusting of warm-toned freckles that barely showed beneath the golden light.

“I like these,” Andy said softly, her voice unguarded. Then with a cheeky smile “the ones on your face.”

Miranda rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched like they wanted to betray her. “If this is some strategic compliment to manipulate me into bed then I’d like to remind you that I invited you over.”

Andy kissed her. No ceremony. No teasing. Just mouth on mouth, deep and immediate and aching. Miranda melted into her instantly. Andy’s hands tugged at the sash of the robe, parting the dark fabric to reveal nothing but creamy skin underneath. She let her hands skim Miranda’s hips, bare in the half-light, and groaned into her mouth. Miranda turned them with force, pressing Andy against the wall, kissing her hard. Her mouth was demanding now, sharp with need, her hands already sliding beneath Andrea’s shirt, nails scraping lightly over her skin.

“You showed up quickly,” she breathed, between kisses.

Andy gasped as Miranda bit her bottom lip. “You texted late. I knew it meant you wanted something immediate. I was just being a good assistant.”

Miranda’s fingers found the waistband of Andy's jeans without preamble. She yanked the button open, dragged the zipper down, and Andrea kicked them off blindly, letting them crumple on the floor beside her boots.

“I’m going to take you right here,” Miranda whispered, her voice a command, her breath hot against Andy's ear. “Up against this wall. You’re not going anywhere.”

Andy let her head fall back against the plaster. “Oh, I wasn’t planning to.”

Miranda dropped to her knees. She looked up once, eyes dark, one hand slipping Andy's underwear aside, the other anchoring her thigh. Andy opened her mouth to say something teasing but the moment Miranda’s tongue touched her, the words dissolved into a strangled moan. The wall was cool against her back. Miranda’s mouth was anything but. She licked with purpose, no drawn-out build-up this time. Just filthy, skilled precision, her tongue flicking and circling, her lips tugging softly.

Andy gasped, hips bucking forward. “Oh fuck, yes…Miranda…”

Miranda pulled her leg higher, forcing Andy open wider, deeper. Andy's fingers scrambled to hold onto the moulding along the wall, her thighs trembling as Miranda devoured her. Andy came hard, fast, biting her lip to muffle the cry as her legs buckled. Miranda stood smoothly, mouth wet, eyes sharp. She caught Andy’s hips and held her up.

“Bedroom,” Miranda said into her ear. “Now.”

The bed hadn’t even been turned down. Miranda shoved Andy back onto it, climbed on top, and straddled her in one motion, her robe still clinging from her shoulders like a cape. Andy grinned up at her, still breathless, hair messy, shirt twisted around her ribs. “Off-schedule and bossy. I like this version of you.”

Miranda leaned down and kissed her hard, then whispered against her lips, “Shut up and touch me.”

Andy obliged, slipping the silk robe down and off Miranda’s arms to throw somewhere to the side of the bed. Her hands found Miranda’s breasts, cupping them, teasing with slow circles of her thumbs. Miranda gasped softly, rocking forward. Andy sucked one nipple into her mouth, flicking her tongue over it until Miranda was panting above her. Then she flipped them, grabbing Miranda by the hips and rolling until she was on top, pinning her against the pillows. Miranda gasped, breathless and wide-eyed, but didn’t resist.

Andy kissed down her stomach, teeth scraping over her hipbone. “I’ve wanted to do this all week.”

“Then stop talking,” Miranda growled.

Andy did. She licked between Miranda’s legs, slow at first, tasting, learning again. Miranda whimpered, hips lifting off the bed as Andy’s mouth got bolder, tongue sliding in deep, hands gripping her thighs. Andy let one hand slide up, two fingers teasing Miranda open, pressing in. The moan that tore out of Miranda’s throat was filthy. Andy fucked her with her fingers while her tongue worked her clit, fast, deep, unforgiving.

Miranda came hard, with a cry that tore the silence like glass breaking, her thighs squeezing Andy’s head, her body curling upward as she shuddered and gasped through it. Andy didn’t stop. Not until Miranda finally pushed her away, panting, legs shaking, flushed from chest to forehead.

They lay there in silence. Andy eventually crawled up beside her, pulling the sheets over their bodies. Miranda turned her head slowly, cheeks still flushed.

Andy propped herself up on one elbow. “You never invite me on a Tuesday.”

Miranda didn’t answer immediately. She just studied her face for a moment, thoughtful, unreadable.

Then: “So, you like my freckles.”

Andrea smiled. “I do.”

Miranda exhaled, rolled her eyes faintly, and then pulled Andy into another slow, deep kiss.

------------

Morning light filtered softly through the gauzy curtains of Miranda’s bedroom, pale and golden, casting long shadows over crisp sheets and tangled limbs. Andy woke slowly, spooning close behind Miranda, their bodies pressed together under the weight of sleep and whatever unspoken thing had kept them in the same bed last night. Not that they’d talked about it. Not that either of them had acknowledged it. Andy didn’t remember drifting off. She just remembered the warmth of Miranda’s skin, the haze of exhaustion, and the impossible comfort of staying close. Her arm was draped over Miranda’s waist, bare thighs tangled with hers, her face tucked against a shoulder that smelled like Chanel and something deeper yet softer. Miranda hadn’t moved, her breathing steady and soft.

Andy blinked once, twice. Then smiled.

She adjusted slightly, shifting her hand along Miranda’s stomach in a lazy, unhurried stroke. Just light, soft circles. Her fingers dipped slightly lower, teasing along the curve of Miranda’s hip. Miranda inhaled slowly. Not quite awake. But not asleep, either. Andy pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder. Then, miraculously, Miranda’s hips circled back, slow and languid, brushing firmly against Andy’s pelvis.

Andy exhaled against her skin. “Mm. Morning.”

Miranda didn’t respond with words, but rolled her hips again, deliberate now.

Andy chuckled low in her throat. “That’s a nice way to say, ‘good morning.’”

Still silent, Miranda lifted her hand and touched Andy’s thigh, fingers ghosting there for only a moment. Andy slid closer, her hips grinding gently into Miranda’s backside, letting her hand cup Miranda’s breast, stroking the soft skin until Miranda exhaled shakily, her body arching just a little into the touch.

She kissed the back of Miranda’s neck, lips brushing along the short strands of hair there. “Is this okay?” she murmured.

Miranda nodded. Barely. Just enough. Andy’s fingers grazed over her nipple, soft at first, then firmer, teasing it to a tight peak. Miranda responded with the faintest sound, something like a sigh swallowed into the pillow.

Andy smiled again, her voice a whisper now. “I like these freckles too,” her nose tracing the tiny dots on the Editor’s shoulder. That made Miranda freeze, just for a second, then she made a small noise that might’ve been a scoff, or maybe something dangerously close to affection.

Andy shifted her hand down Miranda’s stomach, lower now, fingers moving with a more familiar rhythm. Miranda’s legs parted slightly. Andy’s breath hitched as she circled her fingers slowly through Miranda’s slickness, warm and wet and ready. She let her mouth brush the side of Miranda’s neck as she worked her, one hand still cupping her breast, thumb brushing her nipple in time with her fingers.

Miranda let out a quiet moan. “Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Andy pressed soft, wet kisses to Miranda’s neck and shoulder as she moved her fingers deeper, curling just right. Miranda’s hips rocked back into her with more urgency, her body seeking more, grinding into the rhythm with a low hum of pleasure.

Andy couldn’t take it anymore. She gently eased Miranda onto her back, her hand never leaving her. Miranda blinked up at her, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes still heavy with sleep and arousal. Andy climbed between her legs, leaned down, and kissed her, slow and full, tongue teasing, lips pulling soft sighs from Miranda’s mouth.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frenzied. It was slower than usual. More languid. Andy kissed her as if she had time. As if Miranda wasn’t her boss, or a ticking clock, or a rule she wasn’t supposed to break.

Their hips met again, Andy's body slotting against Miranda’s with a practiced ease now. She rolled her hips in deep, slow strokes, their bodies brushing in just the right places. Miranda gasped, her hands curling around Andy’s shoulders, pulling her closer, anchoring her there.

Andy kissed down her neck, murmuring into her skin, “You feel so good.”

Miranda arched into her, breath coming faster now, one leg wrapped tightly around Andy’s waist as the friction built. Andy’s hips moved steadily, the hand between them circling Miranda’s clit as their bodies moved together. Miranda moaned, low and real and unguarded. Andy felt her pulse pounding everywhere, in her throat, in her hands, between her legs as the heat spread and peaked, and...

Miranda clenched around her, her back arching, a soft cry falling from her lips as she came. Andy held her through it, still grinding, chasing her own release until she dropped against her with a shaking breath, her own body coming undone seconds later, hips twitching in the aftershock.

They lay there in a tangle of limbs and covers and heat, the silence thick and quiet except for the sound of their slowing breath. Andy rested her cheek on Miranda’s chest, brushing lazy fingers along her side. Miranda didn’t say anything. But her hand slid up to thread into Andy’s hair. Light. Just enough to stay connected.

Andy smiled against her skin. “I still think I win the ‘best wake-up’ award.”

Miranda snorted faintly. “Your arrogance is astounding.”

“And yet you’re not pushing me away.”

Miranda didn’t respond. But her fingers didn’t stop stroking her hair either.

---------------------

The Runway offices thrummed with activity as the upcoming Gala dominated every conversation, email thread, and passive-aggressive interdepartmental memo. The event was less than a week away, and Miranda Priestly’s name had already appeared in half a dozen society columns, all speculating, with vague desperation, who she might deign to appear with.

The answer, as far as Miranda was concerned, was always the same: no one. She didn’t bring dates. She brought presence. Her entrance was the spectacle.

Andy, standing two paces behind her boss, certainly assumed the same. She followed Miranda through the corridor as they returned from a meeting, Andy juggling her tablet and mental list of edits, Miranda untouched and composed in an immaculate navy coat, and killer heels.

That was when he appeared. Tall. Tailored. All teeth and cologne.

He stepped smoothly into their path just outside the accessories department, flashing a smile that had probably gotten him past velvet ropes since 1997.

“Miranda.” His voice was warm, his grin charming in the way that set Andy’s molars grinding.

Miranda blinked, then allowed a polite smile. “Richard. How…inevitable.”

Richard laughed. “Still as sharp as ever. Are you looking forward to the Gala Saturday?”

Miranda nodded. “Naturally.”

Andy felt herself stiffen beside her. She didn’t like the way this man looked at Miranda, as though she were something to be acquired.

“I thought,” Richard said smoothly, stepping a little closer, “since we’ll both be there, we might arrive together. Turn a few heads.”

He said it lightly, with just enough innuendo to make Andy’s stomach twist. Her breath caught. What this guy serious?

Miranda tilted her head. She didn’t shut him down immediately. No frozen glare. No withering dismissal.

Instead, she smiled.

Softly.

Just enough to be read as pleasant. Approachable.

Andy’s pulse kicked up.

“Oh, I imagine heads will turn whether I arrive alone or accompanied,” Miranda said, her voice warm but laced with something cool underneath.

Richard chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “True. But we do photograph well together. You in silver, me in black tie – very balanced.”

Andy’s grip on her tablet tightened.

Miranda laughed. Laughed. Quiet. Graceful. Performed.

“Well,” she said, eyes glinting, “you do wear a tuxedo with some conviction. That’s rare in your industry.”

Andy stared at her. Miranda’s voice was flirtatious. Light. Playful.

She wanted to scream. Or throw her tablet. Or both.

“You’re far too generous,” Richard replied smoothly. “But I’ll take that as a maybe.”

Miranda gave the smallest nod. “It’s a consideration.”

Andy blinked. A consideration? What the hell?

She felt something irrational swell in her chest. Anger. Possessiveness. Jealousy so sharp it almost startled her. She had no right, she knew that. But it didn’t matter.

Richard glanced at her, barely acknowledging her presence. Just another assistant. A shadow at Miranda’s heel.

“I’ll let you get back to running the world,” he said with a wink.

Miranda’s smile stayed poised. “Lovely seeing you, Richard.”

He walked off with a confident stride, as though he’d accomplished something.

Andy watched him go with silent fury. When she looked back at Miranda, the smile was already gone. Replaced with a vague tightness around her mouth as she resumed walking toward her office. Andy followed. Stiff. Quiet. Her heart pounding and her thoughts racing.

They reached Miranda’s office. The door shut behind them. The silence between them buzzed. Andy stood by the desk, still clutching the tablet, lips pressed into a thin line.

Miranda sat slowly, her gaze flicking upward. “You’re awfully quiet,” she said.

Andy gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just waiting for the next item on the list.”

“Mm,” Miranda murmured, her thumb and finger coming to rest at her chin, eyes sharp. “You looked positively carved from stone out there.”

Andy didn’t meet her eyes. “Just doing my job.”

“You mean silently loathing him.”

Andy's mouth twitched. “I barely registered him.”

Miranda raised a brow. “You cracked the tablet case.”

Andy looked down. The corner had bent.

“Well,” she said, tone flat. “It’s old.”

Miranda stood. Andy didn’t move.

Miranda stepped in slowly, heels clicking across the floor. She stopped directly in front of her, close enough to feel the heat between them, and reached up, gently taking Andy's chin between her thumb and forefinger.

Andy met her gaze finally. Miranda’s voice was low. Certain.

“Saturday night,” she said, “you’ll be the only one touching me.”

Andy stared at her agape. Her breath hitched.

Miranda tilted her head, thumb brushing along Andy's jaw.

“You understand me?” she murmured.

Andy nodded, once.

Miranda smiled for second, then turned away to make her way back to her desk.

“Now,” she said, resettling in her chair, all back to business. “Let’s go over the seating chart. I do not want Tyra and Naomi anywhere near one another.”

Andy sat, silent, heart pounding, hiding a smile she would never let Miranda see.

--------------

She arrived at the Gala alone, of course.

Wrapped in silver satin that hugged her waist and spilled into a soft pool behind her, her hair swept back, diamonds dusting her ears and collarbone. She moved through the crowd like a blade, polished, luminous, cool.

Andy arrived twenty minutes later, technically “working,” clipboard in hand, headset curled around one ear. But her real job?

Watching Miranda.

From across the room, from behind pillars, beside linen-draped bars, in every reflection and glinting glass, Andy watched her. And Miranda knew it.

She felt it.

Andy's gaze was heavy. Possessive. And Miranda, with decades of poise at her fingertips, decided to do what she did best: control the room. And the girl watching her.

It began subtly. A lingering hand on a French photographer’s arm during a laugh. A soft smile aimed at a charming actor who leaned just a bit too close. A perfectly timed chuckle at something clearly unfunny, delivered over a glass of champagne to a man Andy instinctively disliked. Each gesture was precise. Measured. Infuriatingly elegant.

Andy caught it all. And with each passing minute, her posture stiffened, her smile grew thinner, and the clipboard in her hands became something to grip. She wasn’t going to make a scene. Of course not. But her eyes were dark fire, and Miranda drank it in.

The worst of it came when Miranda leaned in to speak to Richard, the same smug hedge fund parasite from earlier in the week, placing one hand lightly on his chest as she whispered something in his ear.

Andy nearly dropped the clipboard. She spun away and walked briskly down the side hall behind the ballroom, breath short. Her heart pounded in her chest, every step echoing in her ribs like rage, rage, rage.

She wasn’t supposed to care. This wasn’t supposed to matter.

But it did. It mattered too much.

An hour later, the gala had wound into its final lull, champagne half-drunk, dessert ignored, guests easing into their goodbyes. Andy waited by the service elevator, alone. Tense. Furious. Confused by how much she felt.

Then heels clicked behind her.

She turned, already knowing. Miranda. Still devastating. Still composed. She didn’t speak. Just stepped into the elevator with Andy, the doors sliding shut behind them. Andy stood stiffly on the opposite side. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Miranda looked at her through the reflection in the elevator’s gold trim.

“You sulk elegantly,” she said, voice quiet.

Andy didn’t respond.

Miranda turned her head slightly. “I assume you have something to say.”

Andy’s jaw flexed. “You enjoyed it.”

“A bit.”

“Making me watch you flirt with half the room?”

“I wasn’t flirting. I was managing expectations.”

Andy’s eyes flared. “You touched his chest.”

Miranda stepped closer. “You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You’re jealous.”

Andy turned her head, chin high. “I don’t get jealous.”

Miranda stepped into her space, so close now that the tension snapped taut between them. She reached up, fingertips tracing Andy’s wrist where it crossed over her chest.

Then, softly, firmly: “You’ll be the one in my bed tonight.”

Andy looked at her, breathing shallow. “Then stop performing like you want someone else there.”

Miranda leaned in, lips nearly brushing her ear. “Don’t punish me for knowing exactly where your eyes were all night.”

-----------------------

Miranda’s townhouse. Door locked. Coats discarded. Heels kicked away.

Andy didn’t wait. She shoved Miranda’s back against the nearest wall, kissing her like a reprimand, a claim, a warning. Miranda gasped against her mouth but didn’t pull back, her arms wrapped around Andy’s shoulders, pulling her closer, letting her take control.

Andy’s mouth was fierce, biting at Miranda’s jaw, her collarbone, tugging down the zipper of her gown with impatient hands. Miranda moaned as it slid down, silk pooling at her feet. Andy yanked her own dress over her head, tugged down her underwear, and pushed Miranda backward against the large table that usually held two vases of flowers and The Book, her hands everywhere, claiming. Searing. Miranda turned, bracing herself against the edge of the heavy table, chest heaving, hair coming undone from its lacquered hold.

Andy stepped behind her, kissing the back of her neck, biting her shoulder lightly as her hands slid down Miranda’s thighs, spreading them just enough.

“You want me to remind you who you belong to?” Andy whispered hotly against her ear.

Miranda’s voice was breathless. “You’re possessive.”

“You made me watch.”

Andy’s fingers found her slick heat and Miranda gasped, arching hard. Andy pressed her against the wood and slid her fingers in, deep, sure, unrelenting. Miranda cried out, fingers clawing the tablet top, her body bucking into Andy’s hand, desperate and wet and furious with need. Andy pumped harder, mouth moving along her spine, her other hand sliding up to palm Miranda’s breast, pinching her nipple just enough to make her shudder.

“You don’t get to pretend you don’t like this,” Andy said, voice tight. “You want to be mine.”

Miranda moaned helplessly. “I never said I didn’t.”

Andy didn’t stop. She pushed her faster, deeper, fingers curling, thumb flicking Miranda’s clit until she broke, loud, breathless, shaking apart. Miranda collapsed against the table, panting, legs trembling as Andy kissed her spine, slow now, grounding and gentle.

Then Miranda turned, grabbed her face, and kissed her hard, with tongue, teeth, want. She shoved Andy against the opposite wall and dropped to her knees. Andy barely had time to process before Miranda’s mouth was on her, hot, precise, vengeful. She licked and sucked like she was evening the score, like she wanted Andy sobbing against her fingers. Andy came with a strangled cry, thighs clamping around Miranda’s head, body trembling from the force of it. She sank to the floor beside her, both of them panting.

They didn’t speak for a moment.

Then Miranda, hair wild and lips swollen, said without looking at her, “Are we finished sulking?”

Andy let out a breathless laugh. “Maybe.”

Miranda turned her head slowly, eyes dark and knowing. “Good.”

---------------

The morning came slow. Gray light crawled across the windows of Miranda’s bedroom, softening the sharp edges of her high-thread-count sanctuary. The scent of last night still lingered in the air; sweat, perfume, heat. Andy was still asleep beside her. Bare. Tangled in the sheets, cheek pressed against Miranda’s shoulder, lips slightly parted. One hand draped lazily over Miranda’s stomach like it belonged there.

And maybe that was the problem.

Miranda lay still, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling with the sort of rigid control only she could summon after three orgasms and five hours of sleep.

She hadn’t moved to push Andy away. Not last night. Not now.

That alone told her something was wrong.

This wasn’t what they agreed to. Casual. Detached. Contained. And yet…

You want to be mine.
I never said I didn’t.

She hadn’t stopped it. Worse, she had felt it. That sharp, visceral jolt in her spine when Andy had growled in her ear and said she belonged to her. That wasn’t a casual response. That wasn’t lust. It was possession.

Miranda breathed slowly, trying to will herself back into cold clarity. She stared down at the girl curled against her, too comfortable, too close, and tried to figure out where the line had blurred. Not when Andy started showing up at her home with wind-tossed hair and eager hands. Not even when Miranda let her stay the night.

It was last night. At the Gala. When Miranda saw Andy watching her from across the room, jaw tight, cheeks flushed, biting her lip so hard it turned white, and liked it. She had played into it. Had flirted just enough to provoke a reaction. Had felt a pulse of power knowing Andy wanted to rip the glass from her hand and drag her out of that ballroom. And when Andy did, when she had her up against the wall, mouth hot, voice low, claiming her like something earned, Miranda hadn’t just allowed it.

She’d responded.

You’ll be the one in my bed tonight.

What had she been thinking? Wasn’t she the one who set the rules? Who demanded emotional boundaries, time limits, clean exits? This wasn’t supposed to be… tender. Or dangerous. It was supposed to be manageable.

Miranda looked down at the hand on her stomach. Andy’s fingers twitched lightly in sleep, her body warm and familiar.

Something inside her coiled.

This was too much.

It had to stop.

Didn’t it?

------------------------

Downstairs, coffee brewed in the silence. Miranda sat at the kitchen table, dressed, composed, reading the newspaper with her glasses low on her nose. Andy padded in barefoot, wearing one of Miranda’s robes like it belonged to her.

Miranda didn’t look up right away. But she felt it again, that flutter of something too close to domestic. The rustle of familiarity. The heat of Andy’s presence.

“Morning,” Andy said quietly, a touch sheepish.

Miranda kept her tone even. “Good morning.”

Andy hesitated. “Coffee smells amazing.”

“Help yourself.”

Andy poured herself a cup, then slid into the seat across from her, watching her a little too closely. And Miranda knew – she wasn’t the only one who’d felt the shift. Miranda turned the page in her paper, calm on the outside.

But inside, her walls were cracking.

And the question she hadn’t asked yet – do I want this to stop? – pressed at the back of her throat like a secret she wasn’t ready to say out loud.

-------------------

Andy couldn’t stop replaying it. That night. The Gala. The way Miranda had looked at her, wild and flushed and just a little ruined

“You want to be mine.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

Andy had felt it like a match struck across her ribs. Not just desire. Something heavier. Something dangerous. And now, three days later, it still lingered, like smoke on her skin. But Miranda hadn’t mentioned it. Not once. Not in the quiet morning that followed, when Andrea dressed in silence and left without being asked to. And not since.

She hadn’t invited Andy over. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called.

And Andy wasn’t sure if it meant something, or if she was just, once again, reading between lines that weren’t there. She sat at her desk in the Runway offices, absently typing something forgettable while watching Miranda through the glass wall of her office.

Poised. Perfect. Cold.

She hadn’t changed. But something had. Andy could feel it like a bruise pressed under fabric.

That afternoon, after a terse layout meeting, Miranda returned to her office with the same intense grace she always did. Andy followed with her tablet, waiting to go over final confirmations for next month’s editorial line-up.

Miranda moved behind her desk. “Brief me on the Marc Jacobs piece.”

Andy blinked. “We’ll have final proofs by Friday. Gisele is confirmed for the reshoot. Nigel says the cover is salvageable.”

“Salvageable,” Miranda murmured. “How hopeful.”

Andy hovered. Heart beating a little faster now. She waited for the moment when the work talk finished. When there was an opening. When it came, it was small. A breath between sentences. A pause in the tapping of keys.

She stepped closer. “I was thinking…” she said, a little too casually, “if you’re not too buried tonight, I could come by. Help you relax. Something simple.”

Miranda stilled. No sudden movement. No drama. Just a pause. Too long. Her eyes didn’t lift from her monitor right away.

Then, carefully, “I think… perhaps it would be best to take some space.”

Andy blinked. “Space?”

Miranda finally looked up. Her expression was composed, if a little…gentler than usual.

“We’ve blurred lines. That wasn’t the intention. And I think it’s gotten too…” she waved a hand vaguely, “…involved.”

Andy said nothing. She couldn’t. Not for a second.

Miranda continued, calmly. “This was meant to be simple. Clean. It may be wise to dial it back for a while.”

Andy swallowed. “Right. Of course.”

Her body stayed perfectly still. She didn’t show it, the sting, the way the floor tilted just a little beneath her. Miranda’s gaze flicked across her face. Looking for a reaction. Maybe bracing for one. Andy gave none.

Instead, she nodded, forced a polite smile, and tucked her tablet under one arm. “I’ll send the final layouts by noon tomorrow.”

She turned, walked to the door, and didn’t let herself look back. Only when she was out in the corridor, away from the glass walls, did she let her expression shift. Not crumple. Not quite. But something tight behind her ribs pulled hard.

Back at her desk, she opened her inbox and stared at a new email draft for ten minutes. She didn’t write it. She didn’t contact Miranda that night. But that empty space Miranda had created – Andy felt it more than any bruise. And she couldn’t stop wondering if she’d overstepped. If she’d made a claim she wasn’t allowed to. If she’d asked for more without knowing it.

And worst of all – if Miranda had felt it too…and gotten scared.

----------------------

The townhouse was quiet. The kind of silence that echoed not peace, but absence. Miranda stood by her bedroom window dressed in a navy cashmere robe, a glass of wine untouched on the nightstand. It was nearly midnight.

She hadn’t called Andy. Not tonight. Not since Tuesday, when she’d calmly, rationally, told her to take space. The words had come out easily; professional, detached, logical. And they’d stuck in her throat ever since. She had expected relief. Instead, her bedroom felt cold.

She moved slowly through the dim-lit room, sat on the edge of the bed, and let the robe slip off one shoulder. Her body still ached faintly. She could feel Andy’s mouth like a memory branded into her skin. She had been foolish. Reckless. Stupid to think that Andy could have ever been just a warm body.

That was the problem. From the beginning, she had touched Miranda like she knew her. Fingers sliding along the curve of her waist with reverence. Lips murmuring soft, nonsensical things against her skin, things Miranda never asked her to say, never wanted to ask about after. And her eyes…Andy always looked at her when she came, face flushed, gaze locked, as if each moan was something Miranda gave her.

And Miranda had liked it. Had wanted it.

Still wanted it.

Her hand drifted down between her legs, fingers sliding over warm, already-slick skin. She hadn’t touched herself in weeks. Andy had made it unnecessary. But she was alone tonight. Alone by choice, she reminded herself. And yet, as her fingers pressed lower, circled, dipped in, the memory came fast.

Andrea’s voice, low and playful: “Tell me when you want more.”
Miranda’s own response: “Don’t stop.”

She gasped softly, hips shifting on the mattress. Her hand moved in slow circles, her mind conjuring image after image; Andy straddling her in the kitchen, hands gripping her hips. Andy’s tongue tracing over the freckles on her shoulder. Andy’s fingers inside her, deep, sure, possessive.

Miranda bit her lip, her free hand gripping the sheets. Her thighs trembled.

She thought of Andy’s breath in her ear: “You want to be mine.”

Miranda moaned, low and sharp, her body responding to the thought like it was real. She circled her clit faster, chasing it now, the edge of it curling hot and wicked in her spine.

Andy’s laugh. Her stubborn mouth. The way she’d whispered, “You’re mine tonight”.

That did it.

Miranda came with a quiet cry, sharp and sudden, hips bucking against her own hand, mouth parted, body curling in on itself. She stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard, skin damp, flushed from neck to knees. The release only deepened the ache. Not the physical one. The one she’d tried to deny. She sank back against the pillows, robe gaping, heart still racing.

What the hell was she doing?

This was supposed to be casual. Sex, not sentiment.

And yet, she had memorized the sound Andy made when she gasped. Had kissed her neck like it meant something. Had caught herself watching the way Andy tucked her hair behind her ear when she was deep in thought. She knew how Andy liked her coffee. She knew about the faint crescent moon-shaped birthmark on her hip.

She had let her stay the night.

Again. And again. And somewhere in all of that, feelings had slipped in. Uninvited. Unplanned. And now, undeniable.

Miranda stared at the ceiling. She had drawn the line and then crossed it herself time and again. She wasn’t sure she could undo it - wasn’t even sure she wanted to. But she knew one thing: if she let Andy back in, fully, freely, there would be no going back.

And that frightened her more than anything.

-----------------------

Andy had rehearsed it a dozen times on the elevator ride up; how she’d keep it light, casual, let Miranda lead if she wanted to. She wasn’t going to make it mean anything. She just wanted to see where they stood. Because silence had filled the space between them since that night. Andy wasn’t naïve. She knew Miranda didn’t do “lingering.” She didn’t do vulnerability or messy conversations. But something had shifted. And the way Miranda had walked away from it, so cleanly, so simply, left something inside her aching.

She stepped into Miranda’s office just after 5:00 p.m., closing the door behind her. Miranda didn’t look up right away, her eyes tracing words on her laptop screen. Her robe-style blazer was impeccable, silver jewelry glinting at her wrist. Not a single thing out of place.

Andy crossed the room slowly and set a stack of photographs down on the edge of the desk. “Final proofs from art came in an hour ago,” she said. “They’re ready for your sign-off.”

Miranda tapped one finger against the laptop’s mousepad, eyes still on the screen. “Leave them. I’ll look at them tonight.”

Andy hesitated. Then stayed standing there.

Miranda finally looked up.

“Yes?”

Andy opened her mouth. Closed it. Then forced a lightness into her voice she didn’t feel.

“I wasn’t sure if…you wanted me to stop by tonight.”

Miranda blinked. Just once. Her expression didn’t change, but the pause was unmistakable.

Andy filled the silence. “I know things have been busy. I just thought…if you needed company. Or a distraction.”

Miranda sat back in her chair. Her eyes didn’t waver from Andy's, but her voice was neutral. “That won’t be necessary.”

Andy nodded, slow. “Right.”

Miranda added, after a beat, “I think it’s best we leave things where they are.”

There it was. Plain, controlled. Final.

Andy didn’t ask for clarification. She didn’t press. She just shifted her weight, arms crossed loosely.

“Okay.” The word came out calm. Measured. “Understood.”

Miranda looked at her for a long time. There was something unreadable in her eyes, something almost tired. But her voice remained level.

“I meant what I said. We let it go further than intended.”

Andy gave a tight smile. “Sure. Boundaries. I get it.”

Silence sat between them until Miranda glanced at the tablet again. “I’ll review this tonight. That’s all.”

Andy nodded stared at Miranda’s bowed head, stunned. That’s all?! She let out a slight huff, turning toward the door. “I’ll be at my desk if you need anything else.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

Back at her desk, Andy stared at her screen for ten minutes without registering a single word. She hadn’t been expecting a warm smile, or an invitation, or even an echo of what they’d shared. But she had hoped for something. Instead, Miranda had shut it down. She’d done it with control, with a cool elegance, like it never mattered.

And Andy couldn’t say what she felt because they had never agreed to feel. So instead, she went back to work and tried not to think about the cold space where Miranda used to let her touch.

----------------------

Behind the closed doors of her office, Miranda sat still.

She didn’t touch the neat stack of photographs, didn’t stare at her laptop screen. She stared instead at the place where Andy had just stood, and told herself, again, that this was the right call. That boundaries mattered. That control was better than chaos.

That this was better than inevitable failure.

-------------------

Andy hadn’t meant to say yes. It had slipped out, like an autopilot response, something polite – a reaction rather than a decision. It happened near the elevators, just past 4:00 p.m., when her brain had been fried from back-to-back meetings and having spent the entire day trying not to glance toward Miranda’s office.

Logan was attractive enough – smart, a fashion features intern, charming in that slightly awkward, endearing way. He’d brought her coffee once, had a habit of smiling too wide when she passed his desk.

“Would you want to grab dinner sometime?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, no pressure. Just, you know. Food.”

Andy blinked at him. Her first instinct was to say no. But something inside her, the part of her that still burned from Miranda’s cool, careful dismissal, the part that lay awake at night rethinking every touch, every look, tilted toward recklessness.

“Sure,” she said. “Yeah. Why not?”

Logan smiled. “Great. I’ll text you?”

Andy nodded, already regretting it.

Unbeknownst to her, Miranda had just stepped out of her office. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She wasn’t that petty. But the hallway had been quiet. And Andy’s voice was unmistakable, soft, edged with discomfort, but still laced with that easy charm she wore like perfume. Miranda’s gaze narrowed when she saw them: the boy’s too-friendly smile, the way he leaned slightly forward. Andy, blinking a bit too much, fingers tapping the back of her phone.

Then: “Sure. Yeah. Why not?”

The words hit Miranda square in the chest. She turned and walked away before they saw her. Back inside her office, Miranda closed the door a little too firmly. Her expression didn’t change, not on the surface. But her hands trembled faintly as she slid them into the pockets of her blazer. She exhaled once, slowly, as if to exhale the entire conversation from her lungs.

It wasn’t her business. Andy was free to go on dates. To flirt. To move on.

They’d ended things. She had ended it. She had drawn the boundary, not Andy. She’d insisted. Controlled. Preserved the distance. And yet…

Watching Andy agree to dinner with someone else had made something sharp twist behind her ribs. She told herself it was pride, that it had nothing to do with feelings. Nothing to do with the nights Miranda still remembered in full, heat and scent and sound burned into her like perfume on silk. Andy was supposed to be compartmentalized. Tidy. Replaceable.

But no one else had made Miranda arch into touch with a breathless sound. No one else had ever kissed the freckles on her shoulder and murmured, “I like this version of you.”

She sat at her desk and opened a spreadsheet she didn’t see. She was Miranda Priestly. She didn’t get jealous. Certainly not over assistants. Certainly not over Andy. And certainly not over some millennial named Logan of all things.

And yet…
That hollow ache in her chest said otherwise.

-------------------

Andy regretted saying yes within ten minutes. Logan was sweet, funny even, but he wasn’t sharp. He didn’t challenge her. He didn’t say her name like it was a secret. They sat in a trendy bar in SoHo with flickering candles and overpriced cocktails, and all Andy could think about was the way Miranda used to touch the inside of her wrist when guiding her upstairs. The way Miranda had once looked at her in the kitchen like Andy was both the danger and the relief.

By the time the entrées arrived, Andy knew she wasn’t really there. Not fully. And she hated herself for it. Because Logan deserved someone present, someone ready. Not someone still haunted by soft-spoken commands and sheets that smelled like expensive perfume and desire. When he asked if she wanted to get another drink somewhere else, she hesitated only a second before shaking her head.

“Thanks,” she said. “But I’ve got an early morning.”

He smiled, a little disappointed. “Rain check?”

She forced a small smile. “Maybe.”

She reached her building just after 10:00 p.m., tired and emotionally hollow. She fumbled for her keys in the dim glow of the streetlamp, mentally replaying every awkward silence over drinks, every moment where her thoughts had drifted to silver hair, tailored silk, and a voice that could cut or cradle depending on the hour.

As she fit the key into the lock, she heard the car door close behind her. Then footsteps; heels, precise. Andy turned.

Miranda was standing at the curb.

She wore a long black coat over what looked like evening clothes, something sleek and satin beneath, the kind of thing that glowed faintly under streetlight. Her expression was sharp with the tension of someone who hadn’t thought through the next step.

Andy blinked. “Miranda?”

“I was passing through,” Miranda said. “I saw you walking up.”

Andy arched a brow. “You were passing through the East Village at ten p.m.?”

Miranda didn’t answer. She stepped closer, stopping just at the edge of the stoop.

Andy tilted her head. “Did you want something?”

A pause. Miranda’s eyes flicked to the door, then back to her. Her voice dropped.

“May I come up?”

Andy didn’t move for a second. Her pulse stuttered. She opened the door slowly and stepped aside. Miranda brushed past her, controlled but not unaffected. Andy followed. Her apartment was clean but lived-in; an open book on the couch, a half-full water glass by the armrest. Miranda stood by the window as Andy tossed her keys into the dish and toed off her shoes.

Then Miranda turned. “Did you enjoy your evening?”

Andy blinked at her, startled by the directness. “You mean my date?”

Miranda’s expression was unreadable. “…Yes.”

Andy crossed her arms loosely. “It was…fine.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Fine?”

“Uneventful. Predictable. Slightly dull.”

“Charming review.”

Andy shrugged. “I didn’t say I’d do it again.”

Miranda stepped forward. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Andy stared at her. “Why?”

Miranda’s voice softened, her hands smoothing her coat unnecessarily. “Because I didn’t like the idea of it.”

Andy blinked, her breath catching. “The idea of what?”

“Of you on a date with someone.”

Andy's brows creased slightly. “Well, I’d say that’s not really up you”, she said, not unkindly.

“I know,” Miranda nodded, eyes scanning the apartment unseeing, voice uncertain.

Andy watched her for a beat, hope rising in her chest. “Miranda Priestly, are you admitting to jealousy?” she asked lightly.

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I’m admitting to displeasure.”

Andy smiled and took a step closer, teasing now. “Mm. Same thing.”

Miranda tilted her head slightly and studied Andy's face. Her voice, when it came, was measured but quieter. More vulnerable than Andy had ever heard her.

“I established the boundaries. I enforced them. And I’m now… hoping to amend them.”

“Amend them?”

Miranda inhaled slowly. “I may have been hasty, before. It has occurred to me that our…arrangement was serving a legitimate purpose. One which I would like to continue.”

Andy smiled. “I think I’d be open to that. So, are we to resume our agreement?”

Miranda nodded stiffly, licking her lips in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “With one change.” She took a breath, and the words came out in a rush. I don’t want to share you.”

Andy’s eyes widened.

Miranda continued, stumbled over her words slightly. “I don’t want you…being with other people. I don’t want to imagine anyone else touching you. I want—” She paused, steeling herself. “—I want exclusivity. Sex only between us. No one else.”

Andy blinked. “So, same arrangement. Just…no others?”

Miranda nodded. “Exactly.”

Andy stepped in, only a breath between them now, and reached out to touch the front of Miranda’s coat. Her voice dropped, warm and low. “You could’ve just said you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

Andy smirked. “Liar.”

Miranda didn’t deny it. Instead, she kissed her. It wasn’t tentative. It was deliberate. A claiming. A correction. Andy slid her hands up Miranda’s waist, pushing the coat from her shoulders, revealing black satin beneath.

“I like this,” Andy murmured. “Dramatic. Showing up at my door like a villain with feelings.”

Miranda nipped her lower lip. “Don’t ruin it with sentiment.”

Andy laughed softly and backed them toward the bedroom. Miranda let herself be pulled.

They undressed slowly this time. No frantic stripping. Just pressure and heat, fingers brushing skin, mouths finding old rhythms. Andy pushed Miranda down onto the bed, straddling her, palms sliding along her thighs.

Andy hovered there, eyes flicking over Miranda’s face. “You’re lucky I didn’t say no.”

Miranda smirked faintly, voice low, the backs of her fingers stroking over Andy’s ribs. “You wouldn’t have.”

Andy leaned down, kissing her jaw. “Confident are we?”

“Very,” Miranda sighed, slipping her hands into Andy’s hair and tilting her head to the side to grant her more access to her neck.

They moved together, slow but sure, reacquainting themselves. Memorizing again. And when Miranda came, she did so with Andy’s name on her lips, whispered like it didn’t belong to anyone else. Afterward, Miranda lay back against the sheets, breathing steadying, her hair a little messy, eyes softly closed.

Andy turned on her side, one arm across Miranda’s stomach, fingers brushing faintly at her hip. She let the silence stretch. Then, carefully: “So… I’m allowed to sleep with you again, but I can’t sleep with anyone else.”

Miranda turned her head, eyes sharp even in the low light. “Correct.”

Andy smiled softly, not pushing. “And you?”

Miranda didn’t blink. “I’m not interested in anyone else.”

Andy rested her head on Miranda’s shoulder. “Okay. Exclusivity, then.”

Miranda didn’t respond.

But when Andy reached down and pulled the blanket over both of them, Miranda didn’t stop her. And she didn’t leave.

-------------------

Three months ago, Andy had been quietly trying not to fall apart every time she left Miranda's townhouse. Now, she was quietly trying not to smile every time Miranda passed her desk. Their arrangement was still technically unnamed. Still exclusive. Still, supposedly, just about sex. But their rhythm had changed.

It lived in the glances now, the carefully chosen words, the faintest tilt of a smile that no one else noticed, but Andrea felt like an electrical current straight to the spine.

And they were good at it. Very good.

They moved through the glass-and-chrome halls At Runway with practiced restraint. No touching, no lingering in doorways. Andy still brought Miranda’s coffee. Miranda still never said thank you, but now, when she accepted it, her fingers brushed just barely over Andy’s, deliberate and light, a ghost of a promise.

Flirting had become an art form, a private language hidden in plain sight.

That Thursday, the editorial meeting ran long. Nigel had just delivered a biting monologue about “tragic pleated khakis” when Miranda cut in, her tone arctic.

“Unless someone here has an emergency involving actual taste, I believe we’re finished.”

People scattered like leaves.

Andy stayed behind, gathering files with the efficiency of someone who knew better than to fumble under Miranda’s gaze. Miranda lingered by the table, flipping slowly through the last pages of the editorial packet. She didn’t look up when she spoke.

“I’ll require you to put in some overtime this evening. When you bring the book, we’ll go over your recent accounting – your numbers are off.”

They both knew there was nothing wrong with the numbers. Andy paid meticulous attention to detail. Still, she smiled, a flutter deep in her belly. “Of course, Miranda.”

By 8:58 that evening, she was at Miranda’s townhouse. She wore jeans and a cardigan that could pass for cozy or suggestive, depending on the lighting. Miranda let her in without a word, a glass of wine already in hand.

They barely made it ten minutes into reviewing the book before Miranda reached out, tucked a lock of Andy’s hair behind her ear, and murmured, “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”

Andy smiled slowly. “And what, exactly, needs forgiving?”

Miranda’s answer came as she pulled her close by the hip. “That look you gave me in the conference room.”

Andy let herself be kissed—slow, deep, warm with want. “You liked that look.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You wanted to pull me into the stairwell and punish me for it.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re that irresistible?”

“I think you haven’t stopped looking at my mouth all week.”

Miranda kissed her again—this time firmer. “You’re obnoxious.”

“And you’re obsessed.”

Neither of them admitted how true it felt.

Miranda pulled back slightly, then murmured into Andy’s ear. “I have something for you.”

Andy blinked, fingers stroking the back of Miranda’s neck. “A gift? You’re not usually the surprise type.”

Miranda leaned back then stood. She crossed to a cabinet and crouched to open the low door, pulling out a slim black box. It was sleek, discreet, and unmistakably intentional.

Andy’s eyebrows rose. “Is this kind of gift I have to pretend not to open in front of you?”

Miranda handed it to her with unnerving composure. “I very much want you to open it in front of me.”

Andy raised a brow, then slowly unwrapped the satin ribbon and lifted the lid.

She stared. There, nestled in black velvet lining, was a harness. Leather. Quality. Clean lines. Thoughtfully chosen. And beneath it, the gleam of the attachment: sleek, curved, just enough weight to it that Andy swallowed.

Miranda spoke before Andy could find words. “I want you to wear it.”

Andy looked up. Miranda’s tone was calm. Even. But her fingers were curled tightly around the stem of her wine glass.

“I…” Andy blinked. “You…”

“I’ve given this thought,” Miranda said, clearly having rehearsed this speech in her mind. “I’m not embarrassed by what I want. And I don’t expect you to be either.”

Andy blinked again. Then let out a slow breath, her lips twitching. “Wow.”

“That’s not a reaction I can interpret,” Miranda deadpanned.

Andy laughed under her breath. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“I never have.”

Andy reached out, brushing her fingertips along the edge of the harness, eyes still wide. “This is…beautiful.”

Miranda nodded once. “It is.” She walked back towards Andy and leaned down to kiss her. She dropped her voice, holding Andy’s chin between her finger and thumb. “And I would like very much for you to put it on.”

Andy didn’t say anything for a long beat. She swallowed. “Is this something you think about a lot?”

Miranda’s lips parted. Her voice, when it came, was just above a whisper. “Yes.”

Andy stood up, closing the space between them, her hand slipping to Miranda’s waist, tugging her just slightly closer. “I don’t have the right words for how much that turns me on.”

Miranda let out the smallest exhale of relief, barely audible.

Andy leaned in and kissed her neck, just beneath her jaw. “You really thought I was going to freak out?”

“I thought you might make a joke.”

Andy smirked, lips brushing Miranda’s ear. “Oh, I am going to make a joke. Later. Probably while I’m inside you.”

Miranda huffed a laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re insatiable.”

They were both smiling now, real smiles, mischievous and sharp. Something between heat and trust sparking in the air. Andy stepped back, holding the box in one hand.

“Where do you want me?” she asked with sass.

Miranda blinked, caught off guard by the casual command in her voice.

“My bedroom,” she said.

Andy’s smirk widened. “I thought you’d never ask.”

-----------------

Andy set the box down reverently on Miranda’s bed, like she was unwrapping some ancient artifact from a museum wing labelled Highly Forbidden and Incredibly Hot. The bedroom lights were dim—low, ambient, with shadows climbing along the walls. Miranda stood in the doorway, arms folded, expression poised but not unreadable. Her robe had slipped down one shoulder, revealing the edge of black lace beneath.

Andy turned to her with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve really thought about this?”

Miranda gave her a look. “More than I care to admit.”

Andy grinned. “I think I should be offended that you’ve fantasized about me topping you before I even knew that was on the table.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Miranda said, walking forward with the kind of slow, predatory grace that made Andy's breath catch. “You fantasized about it long before tonight.”

Andy made a show of looking thoughtful. “Touché.”

She lifted the harness out of the box, letting the leather slide through her hands. It was elegant. Minimal. Just like Miranda. Andy held it up and looked over her shoulder.

“You’re sure?”

Miranda was already untying the sash of her robe. “Yes.”

Andy took a slow breath. “Okay. Then take off your clothes, Miranda.”

Miranda’s eyes glinted with something between heat and amusement. “Command suits you, Andrea.”

Andy smirked. “You have no idea.”

Miranda undressed slowly—because of course she did. Everything about her was deliberate, calculated, even the way she slid one lace strap down her shoulder before letting the robe fall to the floor with the softest whoosh.

Andy tried to look cool. She did. But she was pretty sure her pupils had blown wide. Miranda stood there naked except for her jewellery, one delicate bracelet, and that look on her face like she was already a little smug about how this night would end.

Andy cleared her throat, recovering. “Okay. Lie down.”

Miranda hesitated just for a moment, barely noticeable. Then she moved to the bed and settled onto her back, her legs folding elegantly at the knee.

Andy stepped into the bathroom to change. By the time she emerged, she was wearing nothing but the harness and the slow-growing grin of someone about to cross an item off her unspoken bucket list.

Miranda looked up and—

Oh.

Her composure cracked. Just slightly. Eyes widening, lips parting.

Andy noticed.

“You like it?”

Miranda’s voice was low, husky. “You look…very capable.”

Andy laughed. “That’s the most Miranda Priestly compliment I’ve ever received.”

She climbed onto the bed slowly, straddling Miranda’s hips, and bent low, her hands framing Miranda’s face.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow. “Just slightly.”

Andy kissed her. Soft at first, then deeper, her hands sliding down Miranda’s bare sides as she rocked forward. The base of the harness pressed against Andy in a way that made her sigh into Miranda’s mouth. Miranda’s legs parted instinctively.

Andy kissed her neck, her collarbone, the tops of her breasts, murmuring, “Tell me if anything’s too much.”

Miranda’s fingers tangled in Andy’s hair. “What’s too much is how long you’re taking.”

Andy laughed into her skin. “You are not in charge tonight.”

“I’m always in charge.”

Andy pressed the shaft against Miranda’s inner thigh, sliding it slowly upward, not entering, just teasing. Miranda inhaled sharply.

Andy whispered, “That’s what I thought.”

It started slow. Andy moved with care, teasing kisses, a slow press of her hips, one hand slipping between Miranda’s legs to slick her fingers through heat and wetness.

“So ready already?” she murmured.

Miranda didn’t answer with words, just arched her hips and let out a breathy sigh. Andy guided the toy forward, watching Miranda’s face the entire time. She eased in inch by inch, and Miranda’s jaw tightened with the stretch, her hands gripping the sheets.

She paused. “Still okay?”

“Yes,” Miranda hissed. “Keep going.”

Andy obeyed. She slid in fully, the harness snug against her own body, pleasure low and tight in her core even without direct friction. She started with slow thrusts, watching Miranda’s face twist in that beautiful, half-silent way she did when she was trying not to make noise.

Andy bent down, lips brushing Miranda’s ear. “Don’t hold back.”

Miranda grabbed her hip and rolled against her. “Then stop teasing me.”

Andy bit her lip. “So bossy.”

Miranda’s breath hitched as Andy snapped her hips forward. “Do it like you mean it.”

Andy fucked her harder then, slow and deep, then fast and sharp, alternating rhythm just enough to keep Miranda gasping, writhing under her. Her hands pressed Miranda’s thighs open wider. Her mouth claimed Miranda’s again, drinking down the moans that started escaping unchecked. Andy was flushed, hair sticking to her forehead, panting, completely gone in it.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

Miranda opened her eyes, dark, raw, burning.

Andy grinned, breathless. “There she is.”

It built slowly, then all at once. Miranda’s back arched, legs trembling, fingers clawing into Andy’s shoulders as her orgasm crested with a sound that was nearly a cry.

Andy didn’t stop until Miranda begged, soft, broken. “Andrea...”

She carefully withdrew then leaned down and kissed her shoulder, her throat, her jaw.

“You’re amazing,” Andy whispered. “So…breathtaking when you give in.”

Miranda, dazed and glowing, narrowed her eyes. “If you quote poetry at me, I’ll revoke your access to my bedroom.”

Andy laughed and collapsed beside her, flopping onto the pillows. They lay there, quiet and spent, the city humming faintly beyond the windows.

Then, after a long beat, Miranda turned her head. “You’re going to make a joke, aren’t you?”

Andy smirked at the ceiling. “I’m just wondering if I get a merit badge.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “You get nothing.”

Andy turned, eyes gleaming. “Except you.”

Miranda said nothing. But she didn’t correct her, either.

They were still catching their breath when Andy, half-sprawled and pleasantly wrecked, turned her head on the pillow with a lazy grin.

“So…how would you rate your first time being strapped?”

Miranda, flat on her back beside her, one thigh still draped over Andy’s, let out a low exhale that was almost a laugh.

“Excuse me?”

Andy’s grin widened. “I’m just looking for feedback. You know, notes, areas of improvement, overall performance scores. That sort of thing.”

Miranda turned her head, arched one finely shaped brow, and gave her a look that could have frozen oceans. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you just came hard enough to tear your sheets,” Andy said, grinning shamelessly. “So yes, I think it’s very funny.”

Miranda sat up slowly, the sheet sliding off her chest. Her hair was deliciously mussed, her skin flushed in places Andy had definitely kissed a little too long. There was a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“Come on, you can tell me,” Andy continued. “On a scale of one to ten, how thoroughly did I destroy you?”

Miranda just stared at her.

“Ten?” Andy offered. “Eleven? I’d take an eleven.”

Miranda sat up in one fluid motion, forelock falling over her brow, eyes narrowing with mock severity. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”

Andy grinned. “I’m a delight.”

Miranda straddled her hips without warning.

Andy’s breath caught.

Miranda’s hands rested lightly on Andy’s ribs, nails grazing the curves of her breasts, while her thighs bracketed Andy’s waist, the slick, flushed heat between her legs brushing against the base of the still-strapped toy.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to stop,” Miranda murmured, her voice velvet-wrapped steel.

Andy blinked. “Wait…are you…?”

“Yes,” Miranda breathed.

Andy’s jaw slackened as Miranda reached between them, fingers curling around the toy, still slick from earlier. She guided it beneath her, lifted her hips, and slowly, so agonizingly slowly, sank down onto it.

Andy gasped, her hands flying to Miranda’s hips. “Oh fuuuck…”

Miranda exhaled through her nose, sharp and controlled, mouth parted as she seated herself fully. The stretch was deep, almost too much, but she took it like she took everything: with elegance, defiance, and the barest flicker of surrender hidden behind her eyes.

Andy’s hands trembled on her hips. “You…you look…”

“Speechless?” Miranda said, voice tight as she adjusted herself, rocking her hips forward.

Andy swallowed hard. “That’s one word for it.”

Miranda fingers were splayed on Andy’s torso and she began to move, slow, rolling circles of her hips at first, just enough to tease. The strap-on shifted inside her perfectly, sending tremors up her spine.

Andy groaned, watching in awe. “You’re actually…riding me.”

“I told you I was in control,” Miranda breathed. “Consider this…a demonstration.”

She rocked forward again, firmer now, the toy pressing deep with each movement. Her head tilted back, lips parting with a soft gasp as she found the right angle. Her hips found a rhythm, graceful, powerful, almost hypnotic. Andy couldn’t stop watching her. Couldn’t look away.

Miranda, hair messy, breasts swaying with each thrust, cheeks flushed, riding her with complete control, was a vision. Dangerous and divine.

Andy slid her hands up Miranda’s waist, fingers digging into her ribs, then down to her hips, helping her ride it faster. “You are…insane. This is so hot I think I’ve transcended.”

Miranda gave a breathless laugh that broke into a moan as Andy bucked up slightly, increasing the pressure. “Less talking.”

“I talk when I’m overwhelmed.”

“Then you must be overwhelmed a lot.”

“I am currently overwhelmed, yes.”

Miranda moved faster now, panting softly, her head falling forward as her hands braced on Andy’s stomach. The harness kept her grounded, thick and perfect inside her as she fucked herself against Andy’s body. Andy moaned, her hands sliding up to cup Miranda’s breasts, thumbs grazing her nipples in tight, rhythmic strokes.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Let go for me.”

Miranda’s breath hitched. Her thighs trembled. Her movements faltered, but she didn’t stop. She rolled her hips hard, grinding deep, chasing the wave.

Andy locked eyes with her. “That’s it. Take what you need.”

Miranda’s mouth dropped open. Her body tensed, then broke.

She came with a sharp cry, her back arching, hands grasping hard at Andy’s skin as her orgasm tore through her. Andy held her steady, one hand on her hip, the other soothing over her stomach as she trembled and sank forward, collapsing onto Andy’s chest.

They stayed like that, Miranda draped over her, both of them panting, sweat-slicked and flushed and wrapped in silence. Andy brushed Miranda’s hair back from her face and kissed the crown of her head. Miranda didn’t speak. She just let herself rest there, her cheek against Andy’s shoulder, the harness still buried inside her, her pulse slowing under Andy’s palm.

And for the first time in weeks, Andy didn’t feel like just a guest in Miranda’s bed.

She felt like she belonged.

------------------------

The room was quiet now, save for the low hum of the city and their twin, uneven breaths.

Miranda slowly lifted herself off the harness, hips trembling slightly from aftershocks, her body slick with sweat and flushed with satisfaction. The motion made Andy shiver, too sensitive, too exposed, yet unwilling to stop the closeness.

Miranda sat back on her knees between Andy’s thighs, her eyes sweeping over the now-silent, sprawled woman below her. Andy’s arms were splayed above her head, face pink, chest rising and falling in slow waves. Her lips were parted, her pupils still blown wide. Miranda’s gaze lowered, and she noticed the faint, reddened lines the harness had left on Andy’s hips. She reached out, not abruptly, not apologetically, but carefully, fingertips grazing the raw edges of those marks.

Andy flinched just a little.

“Too much?” Miranda murmured.

“No,” Andy said softly, blinking up at her. “Just tender.”

Miranda leaned forward and began to rub gentle circles over each mark, thumbs brushing over the grooves with something very near reverence. The touch was oddly intimate, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t fixing it. She was acknowledging it.

Andy’s breath hitched. Miranda looked up, their eyes locking.

Then, without a word, Miranda unbuckled the harness and eased it from Andy’s body, letting it drop softly to the floor. She climbed back up, slow and deliberate, and draped herself half on top of Andy, her leg slipping between hers, her arm resting across her stomach. Her bare skin slid against Andy's in a slick, warm press. Andy’s hands instinctively came up to cradle Miranda’s body, one arm wrapping around her back, the other threading into the soft waves at the nape of her neck. Their faces were close, lips brushing but not kissing.

Miranda moved her hand lower. Over Andy’s abdomen, down her hip. Then further.

Andy gasped softly, arching into the touch as Miranda’s fingers slipped between her thighs, warm and wet from everything they’d already done. Miranda didn’t rush. She rubbed slow, soft circles over Andy’s clit, her fingers gentle but relentless. Andy’s entire body responded. She tightened her grip on Miranda’s back, pulling her closer. Miranda kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then hovered, lips brushing Andy’s as they both breathed in the same ragged rhythm.

Andy whimpered into her mouth. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” Miranda whispered, her voice hot against her lips.

Andy moaned, half in protest, half in surrender, as Miranda kept stroking her, faster now, her fingers slick and purposeful, pressing with just enough pressure to make her lose control. Their mouths didn’t part. They panted into each other, gasps slipping from lips as Miranda drove her higher, harder, never breaking eye contact.

Andy’s thighs trembled. Her hips lifted into Miranda’s palm.

And then, she shattered.

Her whole body arched off the bed, muscles locking, a sob of pleasure caught in her throat as Miranda held her through it, still stroking, slow and coaxing, until Andy dropped back onto the pillows, boneless, gasping.

Miranda slid her hand away, kissed Andy’s temple, and laid her head on her chest, their bodies slick and tangled.

Neither of them spoke.

Andy’s hand found Miranda’s hair again, curling into it.

And Miranda, who never lingered, didn’t move. She just rested there, breathing in time with the woman beneath her.

---------------

The day had been, quite unpredictably, normal.

Miranda wasn’t in silk or heels. Andy wasn’t in a rush to leave. They’d spent the morning on the townhouse balcony with coffee and the Arts & Leisure section, sunlight slipping over Miranda’s bare shoulders as she read aloud snarky paragraphs from a theatre review just to make Andy laugh.

They had no plans, no deadline, and strangely, no desire uphold the pretense of parting ways to observe an invisible boundary. Just a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge and a slow-burn flirtation stretching into something dangerously comfortable.

Andy was curled up on the sofa, Miranda beside her, their feet tangled beneath a throw blanket, a documentary on mute and forgotten. Miranda’s fingers were idly carding through Andy’s hair as she quietly reviewed The Book.

It was perfect.

And then the doorbell rang.

Miranda blinked, momentarily perplexed.

Andy sat up a little straighter. “You’re not expecting anyone?”

Miranda was already standing, smoothing her sweater, voice low with wariness. “Not until Monday. Unless…”

The doorbell rang again, longer this time. Familiar.

Miranda sighed. “Only one man rings a doorbell that impatiently.”

Andy laughed. “Your lawyer?”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Worse. Hunter.”

Andy’s spine straightened. “The Hunter?”

Miranda was already striding toward the door. “The very same. Pray for us.”

Hunter, as it turned out, was tall, affable, and deeply unfair in the “mid-fifties with perfect salt-and-pepper scruff and dad charm” kind of way.

He stood on the front steps with one hand resting on a sleek overnight bag and the other ruffling Caroline’s hair. Cassidy stood behind them, arms crossed and already scowling like a teenager despite being twelve.

“Surprise,” Hunter announced brightly. “I come bearing your progeny, twenty-four hours ahead of schedule.”

Miranda ignored him a moment and smiled at her daughters, “Bobsies!” She reached for them, bringing them into the house. Once they were sequestered behind her, she looked at her ex-husband, cool and unimpressed. “You’re early.”

“I knew you missed them!” he stated with a shit-eating grin. “I was just thinking of you! You remember what that is, yes?”

Miranda raised one brow. “Vaguely. Is this your version of a power move?”

He grinned. “It’s my version of calling in a favor. Something came up.”

Miranda huffed, turning and following the girls into the foyer. “Is that ‘something’ a blonde or a brunette?”

“Oh darling”, he crooned, following her into the house. “You know I much prefer redheads,” Miranda stumbled slightly and half turned to glare at him, being met with a grin and a wink. Hunter then looked over Miranda’s shoulder as Andy stepped out from the den. The girls, Hunter, and Miranda all stopped still and stared for a beat until Miranda took a breath, refusing to be flustered.

Miranda’s expression didn’t change. “Girls, you remember Andy?”

Caroline stopped rummaging in her backpack to look Andrea up and down. “Why are you here on a weekend?”

Andy blinked. “Oh, um…I was just…”

“Working,” Miranda cut in smoothly.

Cassidy chimed in, eyes sharp as they looked at Andy over the top of her phone. “Do you always work with no shoes on?”

Andy looked like she has been caught trying to pull off a heist. “Um…no?”

Cassidy squinted and rolled her eyes before retuning her attention to her phone. “Weird.”

Caroline took a step forward and looked Andy up and down for a moment. Andy leaned back slightly, holding her breath. Then. “Your hair’s really long. Can I braid it?”

Andy blinked. “I—um—”

“Yes, yes, you can braid anything you want,” Miranda said smoothly, already moving toward the girls. “Caroline, if you’re going to hijack Andrea’s head, at least bring her a brush.”

“Okay!” Caroline darted off cheerfully.

“Cassidy, upstairs. Unpack. Sort your laundry,” Miranda instructed.

Cassidy sighed but trudged up the stairs with exaggerated preteen drama.

Hunter had watched the whole interaction with silent interest. His eyes narrowed, curious, “Andy Sachs?”

Andy cleared her throat. “Hi. Yes. That’s me.”

He stepped forward and extended his hand, ignoring Miranda sending daggers into the back of his head “Nice to meet you in person. We’ve spoken on the phone far too many times. Now, why is my ex-wife keeping you here working on a Saturday?”

“She’s off the clock,” Miranda said evenly. “As am I.”

Hunter turned to hold her gaze a beat too long. Then turned back to Andy with a little smile. “Ah. I see.”

“You don’t,” Miranda replied dryly. “But that’s never stopped you from presuming.”

Hunter whistled, clearly amused, and whispered to Andy, “She’s always like this when she’s flustered. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

Miranda shot him a look that could have withered crops. “Don’t you have an insipid piece with a low IQ to get to?”

Hunter chuckled, his hand over his heart, mock wounded. “Ouch! No flippant comment on her potential young age though huh?”

“Goodbye, Hunter,” she stated, turning from him and guiding Andy back towards the den.

“Enjoy the rest of your weekend!” he called out, the sound of the door slamming shut behind him.

Andy crossed to the sofa and sat, her head in her hands for a moment. “That was…awkward. He always so cheerful?”

“The man’s an idiot and lives to infuriate me,” Miranda retorted.

Andy nodded. “I guess I should go.”

Miranda snapped her head up, “why?”

“Well…the girls are here and…”

“Andy, if you want to leave, I understand,” Miranda said carefully. “But I would very much like it if you stayed.”

Andy’s entire face lit up. “Yeah?”

Miranda hummed, a soft smile on her mouth.

Half an hour later, Andy was on the floor in the family room, legs crossed, while Caroline sat behind her braiding her hair with the hyper-focus that only Miranda Priestly’s child could muster.

Miranda watched from the chaise, utterly relaxed, swirling her wine and offering the occasional amused hum whenever Caroline tutted about a tangle.

Cassidy sat on the edge of the armchair, arms folded, scrolling her phone, and peeking up at Andy every ten seconds like she was an unsolvable riddle.

“So,” Caroline said thoughtfully, “do you ever brush your hair, or is this just how it lives?”

“I…sometimes. Not well, clearly.”

“Next time I’ll bring the detangler. And beads.”

Andy met Miranda’s gaze, wide-eyed.

Miranda merely sipped her wine. “You’ll survive.”

--------------------

Later, as the girls headed upstairs to get ready for bed, Caroline promising to “add ribbons next time”, Andy found herself standing in the kitchen, one hand holding a cool glass of white that Miranda had handed her without asking.

Miranda leaned against the counter across from her, one hip resting easily, watching her over the rim of her own glass.

“They’re fun,” Andy said with a soft laugh.

“They’re mine,” Miranda said simply, but there was affection hidden behind the coolness.

“They clearly adore you.”

“I do run a dictatorship with moments of indulgence.”

Andy grinned. “Cassidy looks like she’s one sarcastic comment away from launching a full-blown inquisition.”

“She takes after me.”

Andy tilted her head. “You handled all that with unnerving ease.”

Miranda’s mouth curved and she just smiled. Their eyes lingered on each other, soft, amused, still flush with the disarray of a nearly-exposed moment neither of them expected.

Then Miranda turned and placed her glass in the sink.

“Stay the night,” she said quietly, without turning around. “If you want.”

Andy smiled.

“I do.”

---------------------------

The event was tasteful and subdued, just the way Miranda preferred. An exclusive benefit held in a private gallery uptown, invitation-only, elegant catering, muted string quartet in the corner, and enough strategically dim lighting to keep the social climbing at a low murmur. She wasn’t working tonight. Not really. She was seen, as expected. She’d shaken the correct hands, offered three cool smiles, and raised her glass twice without drinking much of it. It should have been an uneventful evening.

Except that Andrea Sachs walked in looking like a problem.

Miranda had chosen the dress herself, silk, deep hunter green, with a plunging back and a high slit that played dangerous games with every step. She hadn’t mentioned it outright; it had simply arrived at Andy’s apartment two days ago, no note attached.

Andy had texted only, "You’re a menace."

And Miranda had said nothing.

And now, when Andy crossed the room, hips swaying, hair pinned up with deliberate mess, Miranda felt something in her ribcage clench so tightly she almost dropped her champaign flute.

Andy caught her staring. Of course she did.

She smiled as she approached, eyes sparkling, champagne in hand. “You’re going to wear a hole in my dress with that look.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “If I were the type to gawk perhaps. Obviously, I’m more discrete.”

“You’re not discreet,” Andy whispered, leaning in close. “You’re territorial.”

Miranda sipped her champaign, eyes narrowed. “Only when the merchandise is this…provocative.”

Andy chuckled. “You make it sound like I’m on auction.”

“You are, in that dress.”

They moved through the event like separate orbits that kept colliding, drifting apart for brief conversations with other attendees, then circling back with sly glances and not-so-accidental touches.

Miranda brushed Andy’s bare shoulder as she passed

Andy “helped” adjust a necklace that didn’t need adjusting.

At one point, Andy handed Miranda a new flute of champagne, fingers brushing hers, and murmured, “You’re lucky I’m on my best behavior.”

Miranda’s eyebrow twitched. “I’d hate to see your worst.”

Andy’s lips curved. “My worst is very good.”

Later, as the gallery began to empty out, Miranda found herself standing near the sculpture wing, one heel propped against the wall, half-finished champagne dangling from her fingers.

Andy sidled up beside her, quiet and loose-limbed, the champaign making her bold.

She leaned in, far too close for public, but Miranda didn’t move away. Andy’s lips brushed her ear, just barely, as she whispered, “I’ve been thinking about that night in your bed. When you let me use the harness.”

Miranda’s breath caught.

Andy smiled. “You made the most unbelievable sounds.”

Miranda turned her head, voice low. “You’re drunk.”

“Buzzed,” Andy corrected. “And wildly turned on.”

Miranda tried to blink that away. She failed. “You’re also in public.”

Andy leaned closer still, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I want to take you home tonight, bend you over the side of your own bed, and f—”

“Enough,” Miranda hissed, one hand clenching around her glass. “Do not finish that sentence unless you’re trying to cause a diplomatic incident.”

Andy smiled like she’d just won something. “Noted.”

By the time Miranda collected their coats, she was noticeably flushed. Andy, still in that infernal green dress, was standing near the door, pretending not to gloat, which only made it worse. They got into the car without speaking.

Miranda’s leg brushed against Andy’s in the backseat. Then her hand landed on Andy’s thigh.

Andy raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”

“Don’t give me orders,” Miranda said, voice quiet but sharp.

“Why not? You like it when I do.”

Miranda didn’t reply.

She just exhaled and crossed her legs tightly.

Miranda’s heels were off before the front door had even closed. Andy didn’t pounce. Not yet. She hung Miranda’s coat, stepped behind her, and kissed her neck.

Miranda let out the faintest sound, frustrated, breathless, a little tipsy. “You’re smug.”

Andy kissed just beneath her ear. “And I bet you are wet.”

Miranda spun around and grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her toward the stairs. “Upstairs. Now.”

Andy grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

-----------------

Upstairs, the townhouse was dim and quiet, save for the soft whisper of fabric against skin and the steady fall of footsteps as they crossed into Miranda’s bedroom. Andy followed close behind her, her eyes pinned to the zipper running down the back of Miranda’s silk dress. The fabric shimmered in the low light, slipping over her figure like poured water. The slicked back signature hair had loosened and waved slightly over the hours, giving her an almost dreamlike edge.

Andy stepped behind her and slid her hands over Miranda’s hips, palms flat, reverent. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the exposed curve of Miranda’s shoulder blade, inhaling her.

“You wore this for me,” Andy whispered.

“You’re sure of yourself,” Miranda replied, though her voice was already lower, softer, slightly undone.

Andy’s fingers reached the zipper and, slowly, deliberately, dragged it down. Inch by inch, the silk parted, revealing bare skin beneath, pale, warm, flushed. Andy kissed her spine as it was exposed, each vertebra marked with her mouth as the fabric pooled at Miranda’s waist.

Miranda let it fall, stepping out of the dress without hesitation, standing in her high-cut lace panties and nothing else. She didn’t turn around. She simply tilted her head as Andy sank to her knees behind her. She kissed the dip at the base of her spine. Then lower; her backside, her thighs. Small worshipful presses of lips and tongue.

Miranda let out a soft breath, barely audible.

Andy slid her hands around her hips, her fingers teasing just beneath the edge of the lace. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” Miranda said.

Andy stood slowly, kissing the back of Miranda’s neck, and helped her out of the last piece of clothing. She ran her hands up Miranda’s sides, slow and teasing, before backing away entirely.

Miranda turned slightly, one eyebrow raised. “Running away already?”

Andy shook her head, backing into the bathroom. “Don’t move.”

When she returned, she wore the harness. Strapped tight to her hips. Confident. Calm. And burning up from the inside.

Miranda was already on the bed, lying on her side at first, watching her like she was reading the final lines of a delicious secret. Her chest rose and fell steadily, but her cheeks were flushed, eyes dark with want. Andy stepped to the edge of the bed, one hand curling around the base of the toy as if testing it, her breath shallow.

Then Miranda shifted. Wordlessly, she rolled onto her front, propping herself up on her elbows. And then, slow, deliberate, she pushed up onto all fours.

Andy froze.

Miranda looked back over her shoulder, chin tilted, hair tumbling down one side of her face. Her voice was low, cool, threaded with something wicked.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Andy's throat dried. She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Miranda’s lips curved just slightly. “By all means, move at a glacial pace...”

Andy crawled onto the bed behind her, hands smoothing over the curve of Miranda’s hips, thumbs digging gently into the flesh. She leaned down and kissed the small of her back, dragging her tongue along Miranda’s spine before positioning herself. She pressed the tip of the toy between Miranda’s legs, already slick and ready. Miranda hissed softly as Andy teased, sliding just an inch in, then pulling back.

Andy groaned. “You’re so wet for me,” she whispered.

Miranda shot her a warning glance over her shoulder. “Don’t make me wait.”

Andy grinned, and pushed in. Slow, thick, deep.

Miranda let out a breathy moan, one hand fisting in the sheets as Andy filled her. She stayed still for a moment, buried deep, one hand pressed to Miranda’s lower back. Then she started to move. Long, slow thrusts at first, letting them both feel it. The give, the stretch, the delicious pressure of it.

Miranda reached one hand out to brace against the headboard, spine curved, taking it with graceful, calculated control. But when Andy grabbed her hips and pulled her back into each thrust, her control wavered. She gasped. And again, louder.

Andy leaned over her back, lips brushing Miranda’s ear. “You like this, don’t you?”

Miranda let out a soft, broken sound.

Andy fucked her deeper, a little faster, each thrust driving her forward on the bed. Miranda’s moans grew louder, breathier, her fingers scrambling against the pillows and headboard for purchase. Andy’s hands slid up, palms splayed along Miranda’s ribs, then to her breasts, cupping them, rolling her nipples between her fingers while the rhythm below never stopped.

“You’re mine like this,” she whispered, voice low and rough. “Just like this.”

Miranda didn’t respond with words. But she pushed back harder, hips meeting Andy’s every thrust, her body greedy and giving all at once. It was wild and quiet, rhythmic and messy, the air thick with heat and breath and the low slap of skin on skin. Andy shifted her angle just slightly, deeper, upward, and Miranda let out a sharp cry.

“There,” Andy growled. “Right there, isn’t it?”

Miranda nodded, gasping, her whole body tense and trembling. Andy kept going, chasing it, dragging Miranda to the edge with her. One hand dipped between Miranda’s legs, rubbing her clit in tight circles as she fucked her, relentless now.

And Miranda broke.

Her orgasm tore through her in waves, hips shaking, a hoarse cry spilling from her lips. Andy held her through it, slowing only when Miranda sagged forward, boneless and gasping.

Gently, Andy withdrew and lay beside her, wrapping her arms around her waist and pressing her face into the back of Miranda’s neck. Miranda reached back blindly, fingers threading through Andy’s. They stayed that way for a moment; flushed, breathless, tangled and silent.

Miranda’s body trembled beneath her, breaths shallow and broken as Andy held deep inside her, one hand cupping her breast, the other still wrapped tightly around her hip.

Andrea started to slow, just slightly, ready to pull back. But Miranda’s voice stopped her.

“Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.” Low, hoarse, wrecked.

Andy froze. “Yeah?”

Miranda pushed back against her, back up on all fours, hair wild and over her brow. “I want it harder,” she rasped. “Fuck me, Andrea.”

Andy let out a growl and surged forward, grabbing Miranda’s hip hard with one hand and fisting her hair with the other, tugging her head gently back.

“Oh, you want it hard now?” Andrea’s voice was rough with disbelief. “After all that teasing tonight?”

Miranda moaned, sharp, filthy, desperate. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Andy didn’t need more direction. She snapped her hips forward, the dildo slamming into Miranda with a loud, wet smack, driving her forward on the bed. Again. And again. Each thrust was brutal now; merciless, hungry. Her hips crashed against Miranda’s ass in a rhythm that made the whole bed shudder. Miranda braced herself on her elbows, her body shaking with the force of it, gasping into the pillow with every impact.

Andy yanked her hair gently, enough to arch Miranda’s back, exposing her neck. “You love this, don’t you?”

Miranda moaned, eyes squeezed shut. “Yes…fuck…yes.”

“You love being fucked like this,” Andy hissed. “Bent over. Begging.”

“Oh shit…harder.”

Andy growled and obliged, slamming into her, her thighs flexing with the effort, hips driving her in again and again. Miranda was incoherent now, moaning, gasping, grinding back on her, taking every punishing thrust with desperation.

Andy reached down, sliding her slick fingers between her own thighs, pressing and circling her clit as she continued to fuck Miranda with everything she had. Her eyes rolled back, lips parted, breath hitching with each motion.

“Don’t stop,” Miranda gasped. “Don’t…don’t stop…I’m so close…”

“I’m gonna come,” she gasped. “On you. While I’m inside you.”

Miranda moaned, raw and wild. “Do it. Come on me…fuck, come inside me. Rub yourself on my ass and come for me.”

Andy’s rhythm stuttered, then intensified; hips slapping into Miranda, the sound obscene, echoing off the walls. Her hand worked her clit fast, friction building, the soft skin of Miranda’s backside hot against her.

“Miranda…fuck…Miranda, I’m…”

And then it hit them both.

Miranda cried out, body snapping taut, her orgasm tearing through her so violently she collapsed to her elbows, her thighs shaking, a high sob caught in her throat as she pulsed around the toy. Andy followed her with a strangled moan, grinding against Miranda’s ass as she came hard, pleasure crashing over her in waves, her body locking into Miranda’s.

Their cries blended, one hoarse and guttural, the other breathless and gasping.

Andy kept moving just enough to ride it out—shallow, instinctive thrusts—until the tension drained from both of them, leaving them slumped, tangled, slick with sweat and still trembling.

She pulled out carefully, the toy sliding free with a wet sound that made them both shiver. Miranda rolled onto her side, eyes closed, one leg sliding over the sheets. Andy lay beside her, chest still heaving, hair stuck to her forehead.

“You’re shaking,” Miranda whispered.

Andrea laughed, breathless. “I just blacked out a little.”

“Good.”

Then Miranda reached across the sheets and found Andy’s hand. She didn’t lace their fingers together. She didn’t pull.

She just grasped it. Firm. Unshakable.

Andy turned her head toward her. Miranda’s eyes were still shut, her lips parted, her expression soft in a way Andy had never seen before.

Andy didn’t say a word. She just held on, their hands knotted together, their bodies flushed and spent, and something unspoken heavy in the space between their chests.

--------------------

An hour later, the room was quiet again.

Andy slept tangled in the sheets, one arm reaching across the bed in the space Miranda had left. She was deep in the kind of sleep that only came after a long, devastating climax; body warm, lips parted, flushed and still glowing under the soft light that spilled in through the hallway.

But Miranda was wide awake.

She had slid out of bed carefully, silently, like something might break if she stayed any longer. Now, she stood beneath the spray of her shower, one hand pressed flat against the cold marble wall, water sluicing over her shoulders, down her back, over the places Andy had kissed, licked, claimed. She tilted her head forward and let the water pour down her face, blinking through the sting of heat and salt.

She wasn’t crying. Not exactly.

But something was cracking open inside her and she wasn’t sure how to contain it anymore.

The sex had been extraordinary. It always was.

But tonight…tonight Miranda had come so hard she’d forgotten how to breathe. She’d felt Andy’s hands on her hips, her mouth on her skin, her body…inside her…and had let herself go so completely that when the orgasm hit, it had felt like something had been ripped from her.

She had surrendered.

And she didn’t do that. Not for anyone. Not ever.

She pressed her forehead to the cool tile now, chest tight, water pounding down her back.

It wasn’t just sex. It hadn’t been for a long time, and that was the terrifying part. The realisation wasn’t new. It had crept in slowly, insidiously, over weeks of stolen mornings and quiet dinners and Andy smiling at her across her own damn kitchen table.

But tonight, it had become undeniable. She had let Andy fuck her on her hands and knees, pulled her deeper, begged her not to stop. Had gasped, come with me, like a woman possessed. And when they’d both come—shaking, panting, utterly ruined—she’d reached for Andy’s hand like it was the only thing keeping her tethered.

She’d wanted to say it.

I’m in love with you.

The words had sat on her tongue like a stone. Heavy. Unwelcome. Dangerous.

But Andy hadn’t said anything. She’d just held her. Kissed her temple. Fell asleep like she had no idea the devastation she had caused.

Miranda turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and sat on the edge of the bathtub, dripping and breathless, her hair wet against her neck. Her heart was still racing.

What if this is just sex for her? What if Andy—young and charming and full of life—was just basking in the thrill of seducing someone powerful, of owning her in bed? What if she didn’t want the weight of Miranda outside of this townhouse? The complications. The obligations. The real parts of her.

Miranda hands tightened around the edge of the tub. She could handle pain. She’d endured heartbreak. She had endured marriages that wilted slowly under the pressure of her ambition, and men who left with vague apologies about not being “prioritized.”

But Andy wasn’t a man who wanted attention.

Andrea was…Andrea.

Blazing and bright and bold enough to hold her down and make her scream.

And now, Miranda had fallen utterly in love with her.

And she didn’t know how to tell her.

Because if she did, and Andy didn’t feel the same, if this was all just passion, all just lust wrapped in warmth…Miranda didn’t know if she could survive it.

She wrapped the towel tighter around herself and stood. Her legs still felt weak. Her body ached in all the best ways. She opened the bathroom door quietly, stepping back into the darkened bedroom. Andy was still asleep, one leg half-bared, the sheets twisted around her waist, lips slightly parted, hair a mess from Miranda’s fingers.

She looked devastatingly beautiful.

Miranda stood there, bare and dripping, towel clutched tight to her chest, staring at the woman who had taken her apart piece by piece, and still didn’t know the damage she’d done.

Miranda slipped back into bed, turning to face the ceiling. She didn’t touch Andy, she simply lay there, eyes open in the dark, heart thudding loud and slow in her chest. And tried to breathe through the truth she couldn’t say.

I love you.

And it’s ruining me.

----------------------

She slipped quietly from the bed sometime after six. The sun had just begun its slow crawl over the rooftops. The city outside remained hushed. She didn’t make coffee; didn’t answer emails. She just stood by the window, robe wrapped tightly around her, arms crossed, watching the light shift across the skyline.

Everything in her ached.

Not her body, though that too. It was her heart. Her fear. The unbearable fragility of what she had allowed herself to feel. By the time Andy woke, Miranda was sitting at the kitchen counter, perfectly composed. Hair brushed. Robe pristine. A mug of untouched tea beside her. Andy padded in quietly, dressed in a casual outfit that must have been left here on one of their previous encounters. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes were soft and still full of sleep.

She smiled when she saw Miranda. “Morning.”

Miranda looked up. “Good morning.”

Andy came closer and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Miranda’s cheek. “Did you sleep?”

“Eventually.”

Andy narrowed her eyes. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up.”

“I had work on my mind.”

Andy hummed. “You always have work on your mind.”

Miranda didn’t smile. She just lifted her mug and took a slow sip, not tasting it.

Andy poured herself a coffee and slid into the stool beside her. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” Miranda said too quickly.

Andy paused, watching her. “You’re quiet.”

Miranda finally looked at her. “Am I not allowed to be quiet?”

Andy’s smile faltered and she looked at Miranda closely for a moment. “What’s wrong?.”

Miranda shrugged. “It was a long night.”

Andy bit the inside of her cheek. “Do you regret it?”

The question hung in the air, weightless and crushing. Miranda didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for the newspaper beside her and opened it with precise, practiced fingers. Andy stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back in her stool, clutching her mug a little tighter.

“Right,” she said quietly. “Okay.”

Miranda turned a page.

Andy’s voice was softer now. “You know I can tell when you’re shutting me out.”

“I’m not shutting you out,” Miranda replied evenly, eyes never lifting from the print.

“Then what are you doing?”

Miranda didn’t look up from her mug. Her thumb rubbed the handle in small, controlled circles.

“I’m considering,” she said flatly, “whether we’ve gone too far.”

Andy blinked. “Too far?”

Miranda finally raised her eyes. “This…whatever this is, it’s beginning to bleed into things it shouldn’t.”

Andy’s throat tightened. “Like what?”

Miranda held her gaze. “Control. Clarity. Boundaries. It was meant to be uncomplicated.”

Andy let out a quiet, stunned laugh. “You think this has been uncomplicated?”

“I think,” Miranda said carefully, “that the boundaries have blurred…again.”

Andy leaned back like she’d been struck, eyes wide. “Right. So last night? That was a what? A misunderstanding?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re implying it.”

Miranda exhaled. “Andrea…”

“No,” Andy cut in, getting to her feet. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to open up for one second, let me see something real, something honest, and then snap it shut like it never happened.”

Miranda’s jaw clenched. “You’re reading into things.”

“Am I?” Andy said, voice sharper now. “Because this isn’t the first time. You show me something, a glimpse, a thread, something human, and then you rip it back like it was a mistake.”

Miranda said nothing.

Andy continued. “You invite me in. You fuck me like I’m yours. You fall asleep with your hand in mine, and then in the morning, you sit there in your perfect robe, drinking tea like we’re strangers and this is all some unprofessional inconvenience.”

Miranda flinched, barely. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” Andy snapped. “It’s not fair. Because I don’t get the rules. I don’t get to know what’s allowed and what’s too much. I just get pushed and pulled every time you get scared.”

Miranda’s voice went low and cold. “Watch your tone.”

Andy laughed bitterly, her arms come up then dropping back down again. “There she is! Miranda Priestly, back in charge. Easier to hide behind the frost than admit you might actually want something real.”

“I didn’t ask for real,” Miranda snapped, standing too.

“You didn’t have to,” Andy said. “It happened anyway.”

Miranda stared at her, expression unreadable. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, white-knuckled.

“I’m trying to protect something,” she said.

“What?” Andy asked. “Your pride? Your image? Or your heart?”

Silence.

Andy stepped closer, suddenly furious and heartbroken all at once. “If you want to end this, fine. But don’t do it like this. Don’t act like I imagined everything. Like I’m the one who read too far into you moaning my name while I was inside you.”

Miranda’s mouth parted, but no words came.

Andy’s voice shook now. “Say something.”

Miranda blinked once, then said, too evenly: “Perhaps we do need to dial it back.”

Andy’s stomach dropped.

There it was. Flat. Clean. Neatly wrapped and delivered with the same efficiency she used to kill a shoot that didn’t make the cut.

Andy stared at her. She swallowed hard. “You know what’s worse than you pushing me away?”

Miranda didn’t answer.

Andy stepped back, her voice low and trembling. “You pretending like none of this meant anything to you.”

Miranda stood still as a statue.

Andy nodded, her mouth a thin line. “Okay, fine.”

She turned toward the hallway. Miranda didn’t move.

At the doorway, Andy paused. “You know, for someone who’s so afraid of being left, you’re really good at making sure it happens.”

And then she left.

The front door clicked shut behind her.

The silence that followed was heavy, absolute. Miranda stood at the kitchen counter, the half-full mug untouched beside her. She didn’t chase her, didn’t call out. But her hand slid over the marble countertop and gripped the edge until her knuckles ached.

In the empty room, her breath shook.

And she whispered, only to herself, “I never said it didn’t mean anything.”

-------------------------

The Runway offices were always cool, sharp, composed, but today the temperature between the Editor-in-Chief and her assistant was positively glacial. The morning began with clipped greetings and meticulous silence. Andy arrived at 7:58. She placed Miranda’s coffee on her desk precisely, said “Good morning” in a tone so neutral it bordered on robotic, and walked out before Miranda could respond. She stared at the coffee for a full minute before picking it up with trembling fingers and a lead weight in her stomach.

The day dragged. There were back-to-back meetings, print layout revisions, and an editorial pitch session in conference room C. Andy stood to Miranda’s left the entire time, her tablet in hand, every note perfect, every task executed with mechanical grace. But she didn’t look at her. Not once. Not even when Miranda paused mid-sentence in the pitch meeting, mouth parted as if to say something she forgot halfway through.

Andy simply leaned forward, handed her the page she hadn’t asked for yet, and said, “It’s here.” Miranda blinked. Took it. Said nothing.

By lunchtime, Nigel leaned across Andy’s desk and gave her a look. “Is there a reason Miranda’s stomping around like her Louboutin’s are on fire?”

Andy didn’t glance up. “No idea.”

Nigel raised a brow. “Did something happen?”

“Not that I know of,” she said calmly.

Inside her office, Miranda stared out the window, one hand pressed to her temple. The city was below her, steady and disinterested. She hadn’t looked Andy in the eye all day. She’d wanted to. But every time she turned her head, there was Andy, poised and professional, chin lifted, eyes pointed anywhere but Miranda. A fortress in a fitted blouse. And Miranda had no one to blame but herself.

Perhaps we need to dial it back.

She had pushed Andy away with precision and now she stood in the wreckage. Alone again.

At 2:13 p.m., Andy stepped into her office to deliver the revised press packet. Their hands almost brushed as she passed it to her and they both paused.

Miranda looked up. “Thank you.”

Andy nodded. “Anything else?”

Miranda hesitated. “No,” she said after a beat. “That’s all.”

Andy nodded again, turned, and walked out. Miranda stared at the closed door for a long time, her throat thick.

By the time the day ended, they had spoken fewer than thirty words. Andy gathered her things silently, bundled into her coat, and left five minutes after six. Miranda stood behind the glass wall of her office, watching Andy disappear down the hallway.

She didn’t call after her. But her hand hovered over the edge of her desk, fingers twitching with the want to reach for her. Miranda knew they had crossed a line and now they stood on opposite cliffs, the silence between them wide and raw. But she didn’t know how to fix it, or even if she should.

The days rolled on each one followed the same bleak rhythm:

Andy brought the coffee.
Miranda gave clipped thanks.
They passed assignments, updates, schedules…
But never once passed a look that lingered.

The absence of warmth had become routine and unbearable. Miranda had never thought heartbreak would feel like this. She wasn’t broken, exactly – she was functioning. Efficient. Sharp as ever. But inside there was a hollowness she couldn’t fill. She sat at her desk during lunch and barely touched the meal Emily dropped off. At home, she sat at the dining table across from her daughters, smiling when required, nodding through school updates and social drama, but missing nearly everything. She felt…empty.

And she hated it.

Andy was faring no better. The anger came in waves. Sometimes it surged in meetings, sitting silently at Miranda’s side, watching her carry on as if nothing between them had ever blurred. Other times it burned quietly in the late hours of the night, curled on her couch, staring at the ceiling with a glass of bourbon in hand, trying not to imagine Miranda lying in bed, untouched, unfazed.

She wanted to hate her. She wanted to forget the way Miranda had moaned under her touch, the way she’d gasped and reached for her hand after, like it meant something. Andy had felt it. In every glance, every brush of skin, every quiet second between thrust and release.

And now Miranda acted as though none of it had mattered. Like it had all been a phase. A mistake. A beautifully orchestrated fantasy they were now required to forget.

Andy clenched her jaw just thinking about it.

She’d fallen, hard and fast. She didn’t have time to really realize it until Miranda had cut the cord with surgical precision. And that, being left behind without even being told she was wanted, was what hurt most. Not the silence or the cold, but the not knowing if it had ever meant anything to her.

She hated Miranda for making her feel like a fool.

And she hated herself for loving someone so completely impossible.

---------------

It was nearly nine when Andy heard the knock.

She froze, halfway through folding a pile of laundry she hadn’t wanted to do in the first place, her television muted and the room dimly lit by the soft yellow lamp in the corner.

Her heart leapt in her chest. Three more knocks followed. Measured and somehow tentative. She stepped quietly to the door, peered through the peephole, and her breath caught.

Miranda.

No coat. Just a sleek black sweater, hair neatly slicked back, her arms crossed like she was holding herself together by the wrists.

Andy opened the door slowly. Her voice came out quiet, guarded. “Miranda?”

Miranda looked up. There it was again. that unguarded flash of something; fear, uncertainty, longing, before her mask snapped back into place.

“I…” Miranda’s voice broke slightly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come without calling. I just…” She paused, swallowed hard. “May I come in?”

Andy didn’t answer right away. She studied her. There was something raw around Miranda’s eyes. Her composure was there, but it was cracking around the edges. Her hands were trembling slightly where they pressed against her side. She nodded, stepping back wordlessly to let her in.

Miranda entered as if she were walking into a room filled with landmines, every step careful, controlled as if she might turn and run at any moment. Andy closed the door behind her. She didn’t speak. She just stood there, arms folded loosely, waiting.

Miranda turned around slowly, then looked at Andy like she didn’t know where to begin. “I know I’ve made this…complicated.”

“That’s one word for it,” Andy said, her tone more brittle than she meant.

Miranda winced. “I deserve that.”

Andy didn’t answer.

Miranda took a shaky breath and stepped further into the apartment, her gaze flicking around the room like she needed something to anchor herself. But there was nothing here to distract her from what she came to do.

“I wasn’t going to come,” Miranda said. “I told myself I shouldn’t. That it was…inappropriate. That I should stay quiet and move on.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “Sounds familiar.”

Miranda’s lip twitched at that. Not in amusement – in guilt.

“I’ve been quiet because I’ve been afraid,” she said. “And I think I’ve convinced myself, again and again, that fear was reason enough to say nothing. To let it end.”

Andy’s arms dropped to her sides. “You didn’t let it end. You ended it. You shut me out. You made me feel like I meant nothing.”

“I know,” Miranda said quickly, stepping forward. “And I’ve hated myself for every second of it.”

The words were ragged. Uneven. Andy’s expression shifted from guarded to startled.

“I didn’t know what to do with it,” Miranda said, a slight shrug of her shoulders and her voice taking on a higher than usual tone, as though trying to reign in her emotions. “With you. With the way you…made me feel.”

Andy swallowed. “I didn’t ask you to feel anything. I just wanted you to stop pretending like you didn’t.”

Miranda stopped just in front of her, her eyes shining. “I know.”

The silence sat thickly between them.

“I don’t do this,” Miranda said, voice shaking slightly. “I don’t ask. I don’t show up and beg people to listen. But tonight…tonight I couldn’t sit in that house one more hour pretending like I wasn’t unravelling.”

Andy searched her face. “Why?”

Miranda’s throat worked. “Because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

Andy froze.

Miranda’s voice dropped. “And I didn’t want to. I tried not to. I tried to keep it…simple. Contained. But it isn’t.”

She stepped closer. “It’s messy. And frightening. And I don’t know what to do with it, except stand here and tell you that every day I’ve spent away from you has felt like I’m suffocating.”

Andy’s eyes were glassy now, but she blinked rapidly, holding her ground. “Why now?”

“Because I thought I could live without it,” Miranda whispered. “But I can’t.”

Her composure cracked, fully this time. Her voice caught on the last word. Her arms dropped to her sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for something but didn’t dare.

Andy stepped forward, voice soft. “You really mean it?”

Miranda nodded, lips trembling.

Andy exhaled, slow and uneven. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I was so angry with you.”

“I know,” Miranda said again. “You should be.”

Andy stepped closer. “You were cruel.”

Miranda’s nodded and swallowed. “I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight. Or say it back. I just needed you to know that I’ve never…never felt like this before. Not even close.”

Andy stared at her for a long time. Then she reached out to brush Miranda’s hand with her own, softly: “I believe you.”

Miranda looked up.

“And I don’t know what this means either,” Andy added. “But I want to figure it out. Just…not alone.”

Something fragile in Miranda’s chest gave way then. Her fingers curled tightly around Andy’s, as though she still feared it would be pulled away. The silence between them still crackled, heavy with what had just been said. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused, breath catching. She lowered her gaze to their joined hands.

“I understand,” she said finally, voice low and tight, “if this isn’t what you want.”

Andy frowned. “What?”

“If you don’t want me,” Miranda said quickly, the words spilling like she needed to say them before courage ran out. “If you don’t want more than what we had. If you want someone closer to your age. Someone simpler. Less…carved up by experience.”

Andy’s eyes sharpened. “Miranda…”

“I just need you to know,” Miranda pushed on, like she hadn’t heard her, “that it doesn’t matter what happens after this. I couldn’t keep it inside anymore. I’ve fallen for you. Entirely. And if it’s not returned, I’ll survive it. But I couldn’t keep pretending…”

Andy didn’t let her finish. She stepped forward, closed the space between them, cupped Miranda’s face with both hands, and kissed her. Deep. Fierce. Unapologetic. The kind of kiss that breaks silence. That says everything words have failed to. Miranda gasped against her mouth but didn’t pull away. Her hands caught Andy’s waist like she needed to hold on, and Andy kissed her harder, pouring everything into it. Weeks of longing. Days of silence. All the aching, confused, terrifying love that had been coiled beneath her ribs.

When they finally parted, both breathless, Andy pressed her forehead to Miranda’s and said, “Of course I love you.”

Miranda’s breath shuddered.

Andy pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. “You think I went through all that just for fun? You think I let you in, let you see every piece of who I am, and didn’t fall in love with you in the process?”

Miranda didn’t answer. Her expression crumbled, subtle, almost imperceptible, but there. The final mask falling.

Andy ran her thumbs gently across Miranda’s cheekbones. “I love you. I’ve loved you for a while now. You infuriate me. You terrify me. But you ruin me in the best ways.”

A breathless laugh slipped from Miranda’s mouth. “You have no idea how much I wanted to hear that.”

Andy smiled through the ache in her chest. “You didn’t make it easy.”

Miranda leaned in again, brushing her nose lightly against Andy's. “I’m not easy.”

“I noticed.”

They kissed again, this time slower, deeper, Miranda’s hands sliding up Andy’s back like she was anchoring herself there. Their bodies pressed close, warm and hungry and trembling from the sheer weight of what had just broken open between them. When they finally pulled apart again, Miranda rested her head lightly on Andy’s shoulder, and Andy wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. For a long time, they just stood like that, breathing together in the stillness.

No more pretending.
No more running.

Andy kissed her again, slower this time. Lingering and full, the kind of kiss that demanded nothing and yet said everything. Miranda melted into it, her hands curling at Andy’s waist, lips parting with a soft sigh that sounded almost like surrender. Andy tilted her head, deepening it, their mouths moving in sync, breath catching and mingling between kisses.

“Stay,” Andy whispered into her lips. “Please.”

Miranda didn’t answer with words.

She nodded, just slightly, then brought her mouth back to Andy’s like she needed to reassure herself it was real. Andy’s hands moved up her back, warm and firm beneath the soft black fabric of Miranda’s sweater, her fingertips tracing slow, deliberate lines up her spine.

“I missed this,” Miranda murmured, voice barely audible. “I missed you.”

Andy’s breath hitched. “I’ve been dreaming of touching you again.”

Andy guided her backward, step by step, until Miranda’s legs bumped the edge of the couch. She lowered her hands to the hem of Miranda’s sweater, tugging gently, pausing for permission. Miranda lifted her arms in answer, and Andy pulled the sweater up and over her head, revealing bare skin beneath.

Miranda hadn’t worn a bra.

Andy’s breath left her in a shudder. “You are…Miranda, you’re so beautiful.”

Miranda didn’t blush. But her lips parted slightly, her gaze softening with something vulnerable and open. Andy leaned forward and kissed her collarbone, then down between her breasts, hands cradling her waist as if trying to memorize the shape of her. Miranda gasped, fingers threading into Andy’s hair as their mouths found each other again, hotter now, rougher, their restraint melting like sugar under heat.

Andy stepped back just enough to strip off her own shirt, tossing it aside, then undid her jeans with shaking fingers. Miranda watched, breathing unsteady, before slowly sliding down the black slacks she’d worn with her sweater, revealing matching lace underneath. Andy stepped into her space again and hooked her fingers in the waistband of Miranda’s panties, dragging them down slowly, eyes locked on hers.

Miranda leaned in and murmured, “Bed.”

Andy didn’t need to be told twice. She took Miranda’s hand, led her through the short hallway, past dim lights and closed windows, to the bedroom, where the air already felt thick with anticipation. At the edge of the bed, they stopped. Miranda reached for her, kissed her again, and then reached around and unhooked Andy’s bra, letting it fall between them. Andy pushed down her underwear and kicked it away, both of them now fully bare, skin to skin.

They climbed onto the bed together, tangling in sheets that still smelled like Andy’s shampoo, knees brushing, lips meeting, hands roaming with purpose. There was no hesitation anymore, just need, and emotion, and relief. Andy hovered over her, straddling her hips. Miranda’s hands explored her sides, her back, her thighs, touches reverent but increasingly desperate.

“I missed the way you feel,” Andy breathed, rocking forward, their bodies aligning.

Miranda moaned, arching up into her. “I missed your mouth,” she whispered. “The way you kiss me like you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

Andy dipped her head and kissed her again, deep and slow, while her hand slid between Miranda’s thighs. She was already wet. Andy moaned against her lips, rubbing slow, tight circles over her clit with her fingers until Miranda gasped, back arching, legs parting wider.

“Yes,” Miranda said, breathless. “Just like that.”

Andy moved lower, kissing down Miranda’s neck, her chest, taking a nipple into her mouth and sucking until Miranda cursed softly, hips lifting.

“I need you,” Miranda whispered. “I need you, Andrea.”

Andy kissed her way down her belly, then lower, settling between Miranda’s thighs. She licked her slowly at first…flat, full strokes, savouring the taste, the heat, and Miranda cried out, one hand grabbing the sheets, the other gripping Andy’s hair. Andy moaned into her, working her tongue with increasing pressure, flicking over her clit until Miranda’s thighs began to tremble.

“Fu…yes! Don’t stop…don’t stop,” Miranda panted.

Andy didn’t. She stayed there, tongue steady, fingers sliding inside her, curling perfectly as Miranda bucked up into her, every muscle taut with pleasure. Miranda came hard, with a sharp cry, her body shaking, her voice ragged. Andy stayed with her through it, only slowing when Miranda whimpered softly, “Too much.”

Andy kissed her inner thigh, then her hip, then crawled back up, straddling her again, both of them flushed and gasping. Miranda sat up, cupped the back of Andy’s neck, and pulled her into a kiss that devoured. Their bodies twisted, shifted, Miranda rolling her over, moving between Andy’s thighs with surprising strength, her hand sliding down Andy’s body until she found her soaked and ready. She rubbed her, slow and firm, watching her come undone with every stroke.

Andy clutched at her shoulders, gasping, “Yeah…right there…”

Miranda leaned down and kissed her as Andy came, hard and fast, moaning into Miranda’s mouth as her body jerked under her. Miranda kissed her through every breathless twitch, hand still moving, until Andy finally grabbed her wrist and whispered, “Enough…please…I’ll explode.”

They both laughed, soft, breathless, shaken. Miranda sank into her arms, kissing her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. They stayed there, tangled and slick, heartbeats slowly settling beneath the silence. Andy held Miranda’s face, brushing her thumbs over her cheeks. Miranda closed her eyes and leaned in.

No more pretending. No more rules. Just them.

Together.

-------------------

Epilogue

The front door clicked shut with a quiet finality as Miranda stepped into the townhouse, the familiar scent of garlic and lemon, wafting toward her from the kitchen. She slipped off her heels, flexed her sore toes, and let out a soft sigh. A long day. But not a hard one. Not anymore. Laughter echoed from the back of the house, Caroline, definitely, followed by a dry, deadpan quip that could only belong to Cassidy.

And right in the middle of it, Andy’s voice. Light, warm, easy. The sound made Miranda smile before she’d even crossed the threshold. She followed the voices and found them exactly as she’d expected – Andy barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into a soft bun, holding a mixing bowl while Caroline attempted to stir with far too much enthusiasm. Cassidy was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, offering commentary like a teenage food critic. “That’s not folding. That’s assault.”

“It’s enthusiasm,” Andy countered, grinning. “Julia Child would be thrilled.”

“She’s dead,” Cassidy replied.

Andy smirked. “Then I’m honoring her memory.”

Miranda leaned in the doorway, unnoticed for a moment, and let herself watch. Andrea in her kitchen. The girls, elbow-deep in flour and banter.

Home.

She stepped forward, and all three turned as if by instinct.

Andy’s smile lit the room. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Miranda crossed to her without hesitation, slipped a hand around her waist, and tugged her in for a slow, soft kiss. Andy melted into it without hesitation, one floury hand coming to rest on Miranda’s hip.

“Ew,” Caroline groaned, turning away.

“Every time,” Cassidy said with deadpan horror. “Every time we try to make brownies.”

Miranda pulled back, eyes twinkling, and looked at Andy. “How was your day, darling?”

Andy wiped a smudge of flour off Miranda’s cheek with her thumb. “Good. Productive. My new boss isn’t nearly as hot as my last one, though.”

Cassidy fake gagged. “I’m going to throw up.”

Caroline mock-frowned. “They think they’re cute.”

“I’m traumatized,” Cassidy muttered, heading toward the fridge. “You’re lucky I haven’t charged therapy hours yet.”

Miranda turned to Andy with a raised brow. “Have you been corrupting them?”

“I’ve only improved their wit and sarcasm,” Andy said sweetly.

“That was me,” Miranda replied, stealing another kiss before releasing her.

Andy turned back to the batter. “Dinner’s almost ready. Girls helped. Minimal chaos.”

“Except she dropped an entire egg on the floor,” Cassidy said.

Miranda leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching them with a softness that three months ago she might have been afraid to show. Not now.

Now, she let herself smile.

Later that night, the girls had retreated upstairs, one with headphones and a novel, the other with a video call and a face mask, and the house settled into a comfortable hush. Miranda sat on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand, Andy curled up beside her, legs stretched across her lap. Andy was reading something on her phone, distracted and cozy in one of Miranda’s old cashmere cardigans.

“Have I mentioned,” Miranda said, brushing her hand slowly along Andy’s thigh, “that I quite like coming home to you?”

Andy looked up, smiling. “Only every other day.”

“I’m trying not to overwhelm you.”

“Please do.”

Miranda set the wineglass down and leaned in. “You’ve changed this house.”

Andy tilted her head. “For the better?”

“For the only way it could’ve gone.” Miranda kissed her temple. “You made it feel like I wasn’t just passing through it anymore.”

Andy turned, slid her arms around Miranda’s neck. “I love you.”

Miranda kissed her, slow and sure. “I love you, Andrea.”

They sat like that for a long time. Breathing together. Hands gently tangled. No pretense. No fear.

Just love. Ordinary and extraordinary all at once.