Chapter Text
The transition from the kitchen to the dining table was a chaotic symphony of carrying plates, pouring drinks, and making sure Roark didn’t accidentally feed his broccoli to the floor. The warm scent of lemon and ricotta filled the air, mingling with the faint clatter of silverware and the soft murmur of the city beyond the windows.
Dinner ended up being a surprisingly flawless lemon ricotta pasta that Emily had effortlessly thrown together while simultaneously cleaning up the table of their baking utensils.
Once they’re all settled, Andy took a bite and let out a dramatic, appreciative sigh.
“I have to admit,” Andy said, twirling her fork toward Emily. “When I first met you, I didn’t exactly peg you for the ‘whips up a gourmet pasta in a pinch’ type.”
Emily took a delicate sip of her wine, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising in challenge. “And what type did you peg me for, exactly?”
Andy grinned, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, you know. Subsisting entirely on espresso, pure ambition, and maybe the occasional cube of cheese when you felt you were about to faint.”
Emily nearly choked on her wine, a genuine, startled laugh escaping her before she could catch it. Bronwyn looked up from her plate, giggling just because her mother was laughing.
“I’ll have you know,” Emily recovered smoothly, though her eyes were still dancing with amusement, “that I am a woman of multitudes. And I happen to be an excellent cook.”
“She really is,” Bronwyn chimed in loyally, before adding, “But she burns pancakes. Every time.”
“Bronwyn!” Emily gasped, feigning betrayal. “Treason? At the dinner table?”
And Bronwyn just laughed at her mother.
“But it’s true, Mummy!” Roark added brightly, a noodle hanging from his mouth. “The smoke alarm went beep-beep-beep last Sunday!”
Andy bit her lip to stop the laugh from bubbling over, looking at Emily with triumphant delight. “Is that so? The unflappable executive, defeated by breakfast carbohydrates?”
Emily shot Andy a withering glare that lacked any real heat, a faint flush creeping up her neck.
“They were crepes, Andrea. And the pan was entirely defective.”
“Of course it was,” Andy agreed easily, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m sure the pan has already been thoroughly reprimanded and removed from the premises.”
Emily let out a long, exasperated sigh, though the corners of her mouth betrayed a stubborn smile. “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”
“I really am,” Andy said.
“And what about you?” Emily deflected smoothly, leaning her elbows on the table. “I suppose you’re a culinary mastermind in your own right? What is the signature Andrea Sachs dish? Cereals? Microwaved noodles? Toast?”
“Hey, I make a fantastic grilled cheese,” Andy defended, placing a hand over her heart. “It’s all about the butter-to-mayonnaise ratio on the crust. It is an art form. And one day, I’ll bless you with it.”
“I’ll try to contain my excitement,” Emily deadpanned, though the warmth in her voice completely ruined the sarcasm.
“I can also flip a mean pancake, you know,” Andy said with a playful smile to Bronwyn, winking.
Inviting myself to breakfast would be pushing it at this point, right?
Andy slumped back in her chair, watching Emily softly in the amber glow of the dining room light. The easy laughter, the warmth in Emily’s eyes, it's a side of her that felt like home. “The pasta really is incredible, though. Thank you for letting me stay.”
I wish every dinner was like this. No pretenses. Just us.
Emily met her gaze, the sharp, polished armor of her usual self entirely gone, replaced by something quiet and deeply vulnerable.
“Thanks,” Emily said, her voice dropping to a softer register meant just for Andy, “for wanting to.”