Chapter Text
Of all the ways Miranda Priestly expected to wake up on a Saturday morning, this was not one of them.
She surfaced slowly, consciousness tugged upward by a sensation she hadn’t felt in months—warmth at her back, steady and unmistakably human. An arm draped over her waist. A body curved perfectly along hers.
Miranda stilled.
Her bedroom was quiet, the early winter light barely filtering through the curtains. The silk sheets were familiar. The mattress was familiar. The faint scent of her own lotion was familiar—
—but the soft breath against the back of her neck was not.
Someone shifted behind her. A nose pressed briefly into her hair, inhaling, followed by a contented little hum. The arm around her tightened, possessive without meaning to be.
Miranda’s spine went rigid.
She did not move. Years of discipline had taught her that panic was undignified, and indignity was unacceptable. She catalogued sensations instead: the warmth, the weight, the slow rhythm of breathing. The body behind her was smaller than Stephen’s had been. Softer. Familiar in a way that made her chest ache before her mind could catch up.
Andrea.
The name arrived fully formed, bringing with it memory like a tidal wave.
The Elias-Clarke end-of-year celebration. Runway’s celebration. Andy had not been on the guest list she approved. She remembered noticing that immediately—registering the anomaly before she registered the reason.
Emily’s former desk. Nigel’s laugh. A stylist from accessories waving her over, delighted. Andy explaining, casually, that an old colleague had invited her. That she was freelancing now. That she “just wanted to see everyone.”
Miranda had told herself she did not care.
She remembered the black dress Andy wore—elegant, unfussy, confident in a way that no longer sought approval. She remembered the way Andy moved through the room like someone who belonged there and didn’t need to prove it. She remembered the champagne flowing more freely than it should have.
She remembered insisting Andy stay. Remembered Andy protesting, cheeks flushed, insisting she was fine, she could get a cab. Remembered Miranda’s voice—low, firm, leaving no room for argument.
You’re staying.
What she did not remember was this.
Miranda carefully tested the situation. She attempted to shift forward, just enough to slip out of the bed with the quiet dignity she deserved.
The arm around her waist tightened immediately.
“No,” Andy murmured, still asleep, her voice rough and warm. Her nose brushed Miranda’s neck again, her forehead pressing lightly between Miranda’s shoulder blades. “Stay.”
Miranda closed her eyes.
This was absurd. She was trapped in her own bed by her assistant—former assistant, she reminded herself—who was clinging to her like a lifeline. She should extract herself. She should wake Andrea, deliver a withering comment, restore order.
Instead, something inside her loosened.
The tension she carried so relentlessly—through boardrooms and runways and crises manufactured and real—eased. Andrea’s breathing evened out again, her grip relaxing just enough to be comfortable but not gone. Miranda felt, disturbingly, safe.
She exhaled.
Just for a moment, she told herself. Just until she figured out what to say.
Sleep took her before she could.
—
Andrea Sachs woke up warm.
That was the first thing she noticed. The second was that the warmth was very specifically shaped like a person. The third was that the silk sheets were definitely not hers.
Her eyes flew open.
She froze, brain scrambling to assemble reality from fragments. The room was elegant, understated, expensive. The bed was enormous. The scent in the air was unmistakable.
Miranda Priestly.
Andrea looked down.
Her arm was wrapped around Miranda’s waist. Her leg was draped over Miranda’s calves. Her face was approximately one inch from Miranda Priestly’s neck.
“Oh my God,” Andrea whispered.
She jerked backward in pure panic.
Unfortunately, she forgot she was on the edge of the bed.
The next thing she knew, gravity won.
Andrea tumbled off the mattress with a yelp, colliding shoulder-first with the nightstand. There was a sharp clatter as something—glass, maybe—hit the floor.
“Ow—oh my God—”
Miranda woke instantly, sitting up with terrifying speed. “Andrea, what on earth—”
Andrea scrambled upright, mortified and wide-eyed, clutching her shoulder. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know— I mean I knew but I didn’t know—”
Miranda stared at her.
Hair disheveled. Makeup smudged from sleep. Panic written plainly across her face. Andrea Sachs had never looked less polished and somehow never more herself.
Miranda swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Are you injured?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. Just my dignity,” Andrea said weakly. “Which is… gone. Completely gone.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and fragile.
Andrea swallowed. “I’m really sorry. About last night. I drank too much, which you told me not to, and then you told me to stay, and I swear I went to the guest bedroom. I don’t know why I—” She gestured helplessly at the bed. “I would never— I mean, I didn’t mean to—”
“Andrea,” Miranda said sharply.
Andrea stopped.
Miranda took a breath, steadying herself. “You did not take advantage of me. And you did not do anything I did not… allow.”
Andrea’s eyes flicked up. “Allow?”
Miranda hesitated. The pause was brief, but for her, it was monumental.
“I remember more than you think,” she said quietly. “And I remember not wanting you to leave.”
Andrea’s throat worked. “I remember wanting to stay.”
Another silence. This one softer.
“I have missed you,” Miranda said, the words clipped but unmistakably sincere. “More than is reasonable. More than is convenient.”
Andrea laughed weakly. “Yeah. Same. I tried not to. I was very bad at it.”
Miranda studied her, then said, “You were holding me as though you belonged there.”
Andrea flushed. “I— I guess I wanted to.”
Miranda nodded once, decision settling into place like a perfectly tailored coat. “So did I.”
Andrea’s breath hitched. “Does this mean—”
Miranda stood, smoothing her robe, every inch herself again—except her gaze was softer now, unguarded in a way Andrea had only ever seen in fleeting moments. “It means we will have a conversation. A proper one. Over coffee. After you stop looking like you’ve been assaulted by my furniture.”
Andrea smiled, small and real. “Okay.”
Miranda paused at the door, then added, almost gently, “And Andrea?”
“Yes?”
“I do not mind that you left the guest bedroom.”
Andrea’s smile widened.
For the first time in months, Miranda Priestly felt entirely awake.