Archive of Our Own

Emily Charlton refused to admit two things in life: defeat and illness. But on that gray Tuesday in Manhattan, unfortunately, both seemed to have signed a temporary agreement to destroy her at the exact same time.

Her Valentino heels echoed through the offices of Runaway Magazine like perfectly calculated gunshots as she crossed the main hallway holding a cup of coffee so large it looked medicinal — because it was medicinal. At that moment, caffeine was probably the only functional organ left in her body, and even that seemed ready to go on strike along with the rest.

The office air was saturated with expensive perfume, fresh fabric, and corporate stress; phones rang nonstop, assistants hurried through the corridors carrying clothing racks like soldiers hauling bodies from a battlefield, and the constant sound of heels against the polished floor created a sort of infernal soundtrack of productivity.

Runaway continued operating like a perfectly calibrated machine around her — and Emily Charlton was one violent sneeze away from fainting onto a Dolce & Gabbana folder. What a tragedy.

The makeup, however? Flawless.

The perfectly blended dark green eyeshadow made her pale eyes look far more alive than they actually were; the eyeliner remained sharp enough to open envelopes; the lipstick stayed intact without a single smudge; and her red hair was styled in that same almost robotic, yet uniquely hers, way.

Emily looked like a completely functional woman. Heavy emphasis on looked — because internally her brain had turned into a steaming soup of paracetamol, high fever, and deeply repressed professional hatred.

Her eyes burned every time she blinked, as if someone had rubbed fine sand beneath her eyelids, and the office’s white lighting felt personally offensive. Cruel, even. Whoever designed corporate lighting probably hated humanity. Every voice around her sounded too loud, every perfume smelled too strong, and even the fabric of her own blouse was beginning to irritate her skin as though the entire universe had collectively decided to conspire specifically against Emily Charlton that morning.

“Good morning, Emily!”

Someone called out from reception, and she turned her head so slowly it looked like an owl being force-fed. The movement alone nearly made her brain leak out through her ear.

“Hi.”

That required far too much energy. It was seven in the morning.

Andy Sachs watched Emily cross the newsroom carrying a pile of clothes while slowly frowning with growing concern. Emily was… strange.

Not strange in the usual “Emily Charlton is about to emotionally murder someone for wearing polyester” kind of way.

Strange in a clinical sense. Which, honestly, seemed much worse.

Because Emily was normally sharp, quick, aggressive, and almost annoyingly efficient; now she moved in a straight line purely through muscle memory, like someone operating their own body on autopilot. The dark circles hidden beneath expensive concealer were beginning to show despite the flawless makeup, and she clutched an entire pack of wet wipes as if her emotional survival depended on them — Andy had already discreetly restocked the box on her desk five times since eight that morning.

Five.

Emily’s desk looked like an elegant quarantine station assembled in the middle of a Vogue campaign.

“Uh… Em? Are you okay?”

Andy asked cautiously, holding a folder against her chest while watching Emily stare at the computer monitor with red, half-glazed eyes as if she were trying to remember how letters worked.

Emily sighed.

“Andrea, I’m begging you, don’t start. I am perfectly functional.”

She sniffled immediately after saying it.

And then sneezed.

Hard. Violently. One of those sneezes that makes your soul leave your body for a few seconds before deciding whether it’s worth coming back. Several heads automatically turned around the office. Across the room, Nigel looked up from a clothing rack with the expression of someone witnessing a car crash in slow motion.

“Jesus Christ.”

Emily pointed a finger in his direction without even looking at him.

“Don’t say anything.”

Nigel opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought better of it. Opened it again. Because honestly? When would he ever get another opportunity like this? It wasn’t as though Emily had enough energy to genuinely threaten anyone today.

Besides, this was particularly hilarious.

“You’re wearing two different earrings.”

Silence.

Emily blinked slowly. Her right hand immediately went up to one ear. Then the left. Her expression did not change even slightly, but Andy saw the exact moment that woman’s spirit tried to leave her body for the second time that morning.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“One is gold and the other looks like it was stolen from a divorced pirate.”

Emily stared at Nigel for several full seconds, clearly calculating whether it was worth wasting energy formulating a cruel response — because, you know, normally she would’ve emotionally destroyed him in under twenty seconds (or at least tried to. Nigel was already somewhat battle-hardened).

Today, however, every thought seemed to drag through a mental swamp before reaching her mouth. So Emily simply turned slowly in her chair and began fiddling with the computer as if the conversation had never happened.

Andy tried to hide her laugh.

She failed miserably.

Emily normally typed emails like an emotional sniper — quick, precise, deadly, and flawless. Months of psychological training under Miranda Priestly had practically turned it into a military skill. Now, however, she looked like an elderly woman discovering technology in 1996.

The computer screen had literally been sitting on the same sentence for four minutes.

“Send jacket to”

That was it.

Emily stared at the blinking cursor as if it were some kind of advanced intellectual challenge. Her brain had clearly decided to stop participating in the situation.

Andy noticed that Emily typed one word, deleted it, typed another, forgot what she wanted to write, and then stared at the keyboard like someone trying to decipher a dead language. And that was terrifying, because Emily Charlton never hesitated. Not even at gunpoint.

Twenty minutes later, Andy passed by her desk again and found Emily staring at the printer. Fixedly. Without blinking. The machine made mechanical noises as it printed documents, and Emily watched it with the deeply suspicious expression of someone analyzing a hostile creature newly discovered by science.

“Emily…?”

Silence.

“Emily.”

She blinked slowly, the voice echoing against her eardrums and finally reaching consciousness somewhere inside the fog her head had become.

“Andrea.”

“How long have you been staring at the printer?”

Emily narrowed her eyes at the machine.

“I forgot what it does.”

Andy went silent for a full second. Emily pointed slowly.

“It’s a square box with lights.”

“It’s… a printer.”

“Oh.”

More silence.

“Right. A paper toaster.”

She continued staring at the machine for several more seconds, clearly processing her own words as though she had just discovered something philosophically important.

Andrea felt concern grow uncomfortably in her stomach. Emily, as a whole, looked like a walking red flag — only dressed in Valentino and covered in expensive makeup. Sighing, Andy rested one hand on the desk and leaned forward, carefully pressing the back of her other hand against the redhead’s forehead.

The reaction was immediate. Emily swatted her hand away almost instinctively, though far too weakly, pulling her head back, wrinkling her nose, and crossing her arms.

Andrea? Well, she looked like a fish out of water. A fish wearing Chanel boots with eyes widened nearly out of its skull.

“Oh my God, Emily, you’re burning up.”

The redhead had to physically restrain herself from groaning loudly and dramatically. First because her throat would genuinely commit suicide in the process; and second because she refused to admit that, at that moment, Andy looked like a worried puppy.

A cute worried puppy.

Cute? No. She meant awkward. Emily would never use the word cute to describe someone like Andrea.

Right?

(She was losing her mind.)

“I’m wearing Tom Ford. People wearing Tom Ford do not get the flu.”

“That is definitely not a rule.”

“It’s an olfactory aesthetic rule.”

She tried to rise dramatically from her chair to prove some invisible point. Completely misjudged the distance from the desk.

Hit her thigh. Pretended it never happened.

Nigel immediately turned his face away to hide his smile — possibly half the department had done the same thing too.

And as if things were not already bad enough, the phone rang.

Emily closed her eyes slowly, like someone listening to their own death sentence being publicly announced. The sharp sound echoed through her skull in an almost offensive way, slowly cracking the few neurons she still had left alive.

She absentmindedly rubbed her sore thigh beneath the desk while reaching for the receiver.

“Runaway office, who am I speaking with?”

Her voice came out rough. Miserable. Obviously sick. She sounded like she had been smoking reinforced concrete.

On the other end of the line, Miranda Priestly’s cold and perfectly controlled voice sliced through the phone like a sharpened blade.

“Emily.”

The transformation was instantaneous.

Emily straightened her posture immediately, like a soldier snapping to attention. Even her tone changed, although the universe clearly was not merciful enough to undo the damage the fever had done.

“Miranda.”

Andy watched the whole thing with genuine fascination. Two seconds earlier Emily had looked moments away from dying in a swivel chair. Now she looked ready to lead a military operation.

“Where is the Calvin Klein report?”

Emily looked down at her desk.

Papers.

Folders.

An iced coffee.

Three crumpled tissues.

An opened packet of medicine.

Two mismatched earrings.

But no report.

Red alert — hell, blood red. Her blood.

Her brain immediately entered emergency mode, or at least something vaguely resembling it.

“It’s… coming.”

Nigel slowly raised an eyebrow in a silent you could have come up with something better. On the other side of the line, Miranda went quiet — the kind of silence that froze human blood, though it probably would not have worked on Emily at that moment considering she was currently, uh, boiling alive.

“Emily.”

“Yes?”

“Are you ill?”

Emily looked genuinely offended.

“Of course not.”

At that exact moment she coughed so violently she had to pull the phone away from her face.

Andy had to physically turn around because she was on the verge of laughing — when in her life had this girl ever learned to hide any emotion?

Miranda went silent again.

“Fascinating. From your voice, I assumed you were dying in a London gutter.”

Emily closed her eyes slowly.

“Miranda, I am perfectly fin—”

“Hm.”

The call disconnected immediately after that. No goodbye. No warning. Not even enough time for Emily to finish the absurd lie she was very clearly trying to construct.

The British woman continued holding the phone for a few seconds before placing it back on the receiver with strangely slow movements. Then she simply stared at the chaos her desk had become in the span of a few hours — something that, on any other day, would have been completely unacceptable to her.

She tried to take a deep breath.

Her clogged nostrils immediately burned from the freezing air conditioning.

Emily sneezed again.

Grabbed another tissue.

Blew her nose miserably.

And then let her forehead fall against the desk in defeat for the first time that morning.

“…I love my job…”

she mumbled into the wood of the desk, voice muffled.

“I love my job. I love. My. Job.”

{ . . . }

The rest of the morning passed in a feverish blur of reheated coffee, overly bright screens, and pure spite keeping Emily Charlton functional.

Or semi-functional.

Or at least upright, which at that point already felt like a statistically unlikely victory.

Runaway Magazine continued operating around her at full speed; stylists rushed through the hallways carrying dresses worth more than annual salaries, phones rang nonstop, someone cried quietly near the editing island — which honestly could have described any normal Tuesday at Runaway — and the expensive perfume saturating the air was slowly beginning to make her nauseous.

Emily tried organizing Miranda’s schedule while her brain quite literally leaked out through her ears. The letters on the screen blurred together, tiny black spots dancing across her vision whenever she blinked for too long. At one point, she stared at a stapler for nearly a full minute because she forgot what it was called.

Tiny metal alligator.

She decided mentally. Close enough. Better than calling the elevator a moving closet again in front of a concerning number of people — right, Emily?

It was only when the main elevator opened with a soft ding that the entire office seemed to collectively change posture.

It was instinctive.

Spines straightened.

Conversations quieted.

Assistants sped up.

The entire atmosphere of the newsroom seemed to reorganize itself around the mere presence of Miranda Priestly returning to the building.

Emily immediately felt her stomach drop.

Because unlike the rest of the newsroom, she had just spent the entire morning blatantly lying to Miranda Priestly about being perfectly healthy while looking like the surviving victim of bubonic plague four times in two weeks.

Miranda’s heels echoed through the main hallway in a calm, precise rhythm. Andy appeared right behind her carrying two bags and a cup of coffee, trying to keep up with the editor-in-chief while answering some rapid-fire question about a meeting. Emily watched the two of them approach through unfocused eyes, feeling her brain slowly malfunction in real time.

Then it happened.

Without slowing her pace, Miranda simply removed her coat from her shoulders and tossed it toward Emily’s desk with the automatic precision of someone who did this every single day of her life.

Except normally Emily caught it.

Automatically.

Instantly.

Almost before the coat even touched the desk.

Today, however…

The coat landed on top of the paperwork with an elegant fwump, and Emily merely stared at it, blinking slowly. Her brain clearly took several seconds too long to process the expensive dark object now sitting directly in front of her.

Miranda had already passed the desk. Andy walked by right after her. Then slowly reduced her pace — Andrea nearly tripped in the process.

Because Emily was still staring at the coat.

Fixedly.

With the same expression of someone who had just discovered an unidentified animal in their kitchen at three in the morning.

Nigel looked up from across the room.

Saw the coat.

Saw Emily.

And immediately recognized the tragedy unfolding in slow motion.

Emily blinked again. The enormous question mark on her face was practically visible.

Andy watched the exact moment the redhead’s remaining neurons finally made the connection.

Ah.

Coat.

Hang it up.

Right.

Emily moved abruptly like someone waking up in the middle of class. She grabbed the coat too quickly, nearly knocking half the folders off the desk in the process, and stood up from her chair in a desperate attempt to pretend none of that had just happened.

Critical error.

The world tilted violently for half a second. She had to brace one hand against the desk before her dignity ended up splattered across Runaway’s absurdly expensive floor.

Maybe she was not doing quite as well at the whole “remaining upright” thing as planned.

Andy’s eyes widened subtly. Nigel let out a choked sound that was dangerously close to a laugh.

Emily crossed the few steps toward Miranda’s coat rack in a strangely clumsy manner, nearly catching the sleeve of the coat on a lamp on the way there.

The entire movement looked wrong coming from her; Emily Charlton normally moved with sharp precision, quick and almost irritatingly elegant. Now she looked like an actress playing Emily Charlton after taking too much cold medicine — and possibly something alcoholic.

She finally managed to hang up the coat.

Then stared at it for two seconds, as though checking whether she had done it correctly, before letting out a sigh and turning around slowly. Miranda stood in the doorway of her office watching everything in absolute silence.

Ah.

Shit.

The entire office seemed to collectively stop breathing.

Miranda narrowed her eyes ever so slightly while assessing Emily as a whole; the flawless eyeliner, the overly rigid posture, the tissues scattered across the desk, the faint tremor in her hands uselessly trying to appear functional.

“Emily.”

That was all. One word. Her name — and yet coming from that specific mouth, it sounded like a death threat.

The redhead immediately tried to walk toward her.

Critical mistake. Again. For the second time in Miranda’s presence.

Her legs failed so miserably that Andy had to grab her arm before she collapsed face-first onto the carpet. Emily automatically clutched Andy’s shoulder to steady the world spinning around her.

And dear God, for one moment she wished she could simply collapse into her arms.

Wait, what?

(God bury her.)

Nigel made a tiny sign of the cross. Somewhere in the office, whispers had probably already begun about who would inherit Emily’s position.

Miranda continued staring at Emily with that dangerously neutral expression. The sort of neutrality that usually preceded severe psychological destruction.

“My office. Now.”

Then she walked inside without waiting for an answer, because she would not be Miranda Priestly if she actually waited for one.

Emily remained standing there for a full second. Blinking. Processing. Her brain resembled an ancient computer trying to open fifty tabs simultaneously. At this point she was probably lagging while opening the calculator.

Andy leaned slightly closer to her.

“Emily…”

Nothing.

“Emily.”

The redhead blinked slowly.

“Hm?”

“She told you to go in.”

Silence.

Emily looked toward Miranda’s office door as though she had only just noticed its existence.

“Oh.”

More silence.

Nigel made the sign of the cross again.

“She died standing.”

Emily attempted to take a step immediately afterward. Her legs failed so catastrophically that Andy had to catch her around the waist before she face-planted into the carpet.

“Oh my God.”

Emily automatically grabbed Andy’s shoulder again, breathing deeply through her blocked nose. What was wrong with her legs today? Dear God, from the waist down she had apparently transformed into an antique rag doll — and she was only in her twenties.

“If I die, bury me with my wardrobe. I want to be wearing Valentino.”

“What?!”

“…And fix your eyebrows before attending the funeral.”

“EMILY!”

She let go of Andy’s arm almost immediately, trying to recover the last remaining scraps of British composure still existing inside that feverish body, crossing the newsroom at an impressive speed for someone on the verge of complete physical collapse. Every step seemed powered purely by the ancestral fear of disappointing Miranda Priestly.

Honestly, that was probably exactly what it was.

When Emily finally entered the office, the silence seemed to drop another ten degrees.

Miranda’s office always felt absurdly colder than the rest of the company. Too clean. Too organized. Too quiet. The kind of environment where even breathing felt like something requiring prior approval.

Miranda did not immediately look up. She continued signing documents with precise movements while Emily remained standing in front of the desk trying simultaneously not to cough, not to faint, and not to exist.

The air conditioning was too strong, her head throbbed, and she could feel her own heartbeat pulsing behind her eyes.

Miranda finally lifted her gaze.

And observed Emily for several long seconds — not dramatically. Which somehow made it worse.

Her eyes traveled over the flawless eyeliner, the rigid posture, the perfectly arranged hair… and then saw directly through all of it, reaching the human disaster hidden underneath expensive makeup and Tom Ford perfume.

“Emily.”

“Yes, Miranda?”

“You look terrible.”

Emily looked genuinely shaken by the statement, almost offended even.

“Thank you.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes ever so slightly.

“That was not a compliment.”

Emily immediately opened her mouth, clearly preparing some automatic sarcastic response, some defensive or minimally witty remark.

Nothing came out.

Because at that moment the medication, the fever, the exhaustion, and the eight cups of coffee finally won the war, and she simply stood there blinking slowly, completely motionless.

Miranda set her pen down on the desk.

“What exactly is happening inside your head right now?”

Emily took far too long to answer. Long enough to worry even Miranda — something Emily genuinely had not known was possible.

She inhaled deeply through her nose and instantly regretted it because it burned. Bloody air conditioning in the middle of winter. What was Miranda, Elsa? Emily was fairly certain that if she breathed through her mouth, her breath would become visible.

Then she answered with the miserable honesty of someone far too feverish to keep lying.

“Honestly?”

“Unfortunately.”

Emily stared at some random point on the wall for a few seconds.

“I think my thoughts melted… or everything inside me did. You know… a low-calorie soup… like, no carbohydrates. I don’t eat those.”

Silence.

Andy, standing discreetly outside the office holding a folder, had to bite the inside of her cheek hard to stop herself from laughing again.

Miranda continued staring at Emily. Then, very slowly, she removed her glasses.

And that frightened Emily more than any yelling possibly could have.

“How long have you been like this?”

Emily hesitated.

Fatal mistake.

(When exactly had she succeeded at anything today?)

Because Miranda noticed immediately.

“Emily.”

“Technically?”

“Emily.”

“Since Sunday.”

The silence that followed was so heavy Emily could practically hear Nigel making the sign of the cross outside the office again, only much more slowly this time.

{ . . . }

The Runaway Magazine building felt strange at night. Too quiet. No phones ringing. No heels echoing through the hallways. No stylists having breakdowns over invisible zippers or assistants running around like traumatized soldiers. No one in a questionable blue sweater asking about the difference between two belts. All that remained were the cold office lights and Emily Charlton slowly collapsing over a pile of Prada reports.

She had been sitting at her desk for… honestly, she had no idea how long. But it was longer than both her body and soul agreed with.

The clock read almost eight in the evening. Her head weighed approximately forty kilos.

Even so, Emily continued organizing schedules, answering emails, and sorting documents for the next day because if she let things pile up, tomorrow would be worse. Much worse.

And Emily Charlton would rather die elegantly than admit incapability.

She sniffled for the millionth time and narrowed her exhausted eyes at the computer screen. The letters were beginning to dance, putting on an entire private talent show just for her.

“This is definitely not medically ideal.”

she muttered to herself, her voice so hoarse she sounded like a fifty-year-old smoker.

On the desk beside her, The Book waited.

The nightly delivery. The sacred obligation.

On a normal day, she would actually have been flattered. After all, Miranda trusted her with the very specific task of bringing it to her house.

But today was not a normal day in Emily’s life.

She stared at it the way someone might stare at a criminal sentence. Because it meant streets. Noise. Lights. Taxis. People. She wanted to cry just imagining it — but Miranda needed the book. And Emily needed this job.

So Emily grabbed her bag, her coat, and whatever British dignity she still had left inside her body, which unfortunately was not very much, and left the building —

This time without tripping.

Much.

{ . . . }

The Priestly residence was absurdly quiet when Emily opened the door that night.

Not quiet in an empty or sad way — quiet in a rich way. The kind of expensive silence that only existed in enormous Manhattan apartments where the carpets muffled footsteps, the lighting was always warm at exactly the perfect intensity, and even the air itself seemed specially filtered for important people. After spending an entire day inside the noisy chaos of Runaway Magazine, it almost felt like it entered directly into her bloodstream like morphine.

Emily walked in looking like a designer ghost.

Her coat still perfectly aligned over her shoulders, her handbag hanging from her arm, heels echoing faintly through the entrance hall while she closed the door behind herself with movements far too slow to be normal. The fever had reached a strange point where everything felt slightly distant; as if her body were lagging several seconds behind the rest of the world. Her eyes burned. Her throat felt coated in crushed glass. Even breathing through her clogged nose was irritating.

Even so, Emily remained elegant.

Because honestly? Illness could take her organs. Not her aesthetic standards. Not when she was this close to her long-dreamed trip to Paris and Fashion Week.

She glanced around the entrance hall without truly seeing any of it, her brain functioning in some kind of desperate power-saving mode, and automatically walked toward the small table near the staircase where she normally left The Book. Everything on autopilot. The nearly mechanical movement of someone repeating a routine so many times their own body had learned to do it alone.

Emily carefully placed the book on the table, absentmindedly aligning the cover between two absurdly green and healthy plants.

She stared at the plants for several seconds longer than necessary. The leaves were glossy, alive, hydrated, beautifully colored. Emily narrowed her eyes slightly.

They looked healthier than she did.

Honestly, Emily herself was looking slightly green at that point.

Her brain had already begun shutting down important departments to conserve resources. The first had clearly been the department responsible for coherent thoughts. The second was probably language. At some point inside the taxi she had forgotten the word traffic light and mentally referred to it as an emotional traffic pole.

Even so, some miserable part of her brain was still attempting to remain professional.

Book delivered. Mission accomplished.

Now she simply had to survive long enough to get home and perhaps die discreetly in her own bathroom.

A reasonable goal. Fairly average, population-wise.

Except before she could even turn toward the door, the rapid sound of footsteps crossed the hallway.

Then came the voices — loud, excited, lethal.

Emily’s purest nightmare personified.

Caroline and Cassidy Priestly came racing through the hall like two tiny storms dressed in sparkling tulle.

“Emily!”

one of them shouted immediately. Emily closed her eyes on the spot. Because children naturally spoke at a frequency specifically engineered to destroy feverish people; the shrill little voice cut through her skull like a hot knife through butter.

She inhaled deeply — immediately regretted it because her throat burned.

Then slowly opened her eyes again.

“Hello, miniature people.”

The two girls were wearing crooked crowns, glittery dresses, and dangerous quantities of glitter scattered across their faces. One of them held a pink plastic magic wand; the other wore a blanket tied around her shoulders like a royal cape.

Emily observed the scene in silence for a few seconds.

Normally she would have made some sarcastic remark about children and excessive amounts of synthetic fabric.

Today her brain only managed to conclude: Too much sparkle.

“We’re playing castle!”

Cassidy announced with the energy of a children’s television host after five liters of sugar and several uninterrupted hours of cartoons.

“And the nanny said the magic princess disappeared!”

Caroline added immediately afterward.

“You can be her!”

Emily stared at the two of them, blinking slowly.

Her brain clearly took several additional seconds to process the information. The words magic princess bounced around inside her head without finding any functional surface to land on.

Normally she would have refused immediately — Emily Charlton did not play princess. Emily Charlton made second assistants cry in bathrooms for wearing polyester near Valentino.

Emily Charlton had once looked at a Payless shoe the way someone might look at a war crime.

But then a car horn exploded outside, loud and violent, cutting through the windows of the house directly into her inflamed brain. Emily had to close her eyes immediately as a throbbing pain shot across her forehead.

God.

Manhattan was too loud.

The streets were too bright.

The taxis were too yellow.

People existed too loudly.

She slowly opened her eyes again and looked at the girls.

Soft carpet.

Dim lighting.

The smell of tea drifting from the kitchen.

No phones ringing.

No crowds.

No horns.

No Andrea asking whether she was alive every five minutes.

The two girls continued staring at her with absolute expectation, little hands clasped in front of themselves as though Emily truly were the missing piece in some grand national tragedy involving an imaginary kingdom.

Emily felt her entire body sink with exhaustion all at once. The idea of going back outside sounded genuinely horrible, and she did not want another taxi, did not want to hear more car horns.

Did not want to climb into her own empty, silent apartment alone while her entire body felt seconds away from shutting down.

And honestly?

The carpet in that house looked absurdly comfortable.

Emily blinked slowly one more time and finally sighed in defeat.

“…Fine.”

The girls screamed so loudly Emily nearly saw her own soul leave her body, forcing herself to physically brace against the wall.

“The princess accepted!”

“I KNEW IT!”

Before Emily could reconsider absolutely every life decision that had led her to that exact moment, the girls grabbed her hands and began dragging her upstairs.

Emily nearly tripped over her own heels immediately, abandoning them halfway up the staircase while stumbling after the girls.

“Jesus Christ, slow down— You two are alarmingly fast for such tiny people—”

“—You have to save the kingdom!”

“And defeat the dragon!”

Emily allowed herself to be dragged along in an almost dissociative state, hearing half the words without truly processing any of them. Her entire body felt heavy, hot, and strange; as though her bones had been replaced with soft concrete. Even so, something about that quiet, warm house made her exhaustion feel less aggressive.

Or maybe the fever was simply cooking her brain completely by now. Perhaps she would at least lose a kilo from dehydration.

The two girls finally shoved Emily dramatically into their bedroom.

And Emily Charlton — first assistant to Miranda Priestly, specialist in psychological humiliation and corporate fashion terrorism — spent the next several minutes sitting on the floor holding a pink tiara while two children seriously explained the internal politics of a fictional kingdom governed by a one-armed Barbie.

{ . . . }

When Miranda Priestly arrived home nearly forty minutes later, the first thing she noticed was the silence.

Not the normal silence of the house after dinner. Not the exhausted silence of children finally asleep.

It was a… suspicious silence.

Too calm. Too organized. The kind of silence that usually preceded domestic catastrophe.

Miranda removed her leather gloves with precise movements as she crossed the apartment entrance, her heels echoing softly against the polished floor. Behind her, Andy Sachs balanced two bags of Chinese takeout, an absurdly heavy handbag, and a cellphone trapped between her shoulder and ear while finishing some overdue Runaway email.

The smell of hot food immediately spread through the hall.

Noodles.

Ginger.

Soy sauce.

Somewhere in the house, Emily probably felt her spirit trying to leave her body at the mere concept of soup.

“Did the girls go to sleep?”

Andy asked quietly while discreetly kicking her shoes away from the doorway, glancing around and noticing a strangely familiar pair of stiletto heels. Her eyebrows furrowed, mouth opening to question it, but at that exact moment the nanny appeared descending the stairs, smiling in a way that was half awkward, half nervous.

Ah.

Andy knew that smile.

Miranda did too.

It was the smile of someone about to explain an extremely specific situation.

Miranda narrowed her eyes slightly. That never meant anything good.

“Not exactly.”

the nanny answered carefully, stopping halfway down the staircase, and the silence that followed carried pure expectation wrapped in confusion — Andy already looked dangerously close to laughing without even knowing the reason yet.

Miranda merely placed her gloves on the nearby table with surgical calm, like someone who had already prepared for the worst before even getting out of bed that morning.

“Explain.”

“Miss Charlton arrived to deliver The Book and… well…”

Another pause — the nanny was clearly attempting to find appropriate wording, considering the situation was far from ordinary.

“The girls decided she was a magical princess.”

Andy immediately lowered her head, shoulders trembling while biting her lower lip to stop herself from outright exploding with laughter. Miranda remained silent for a full minute, processing and digesting that sentence as though it were ancient poetry.

“I beg your pardon?”

“She’s been in their room for about thirty minutes.”

That made Miranda stop entirely in the middle of her own thoughts because, frankly, nothing about that sentence made any sense.

Emily?

Her Emily Charlton?

The first assistant?

Emily barely tolerated fully grown human beings. The idea of her voluntarily participating in a children’s game seemed about as likely as Miranda showing up to the office wearing Crocs.

Andy was already turning red.

“I need to see this.”

The two of them walked upstairs in silence, their footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting of the house. As they approached the twins’ bedroom, voices began drifting through the partially open door — Emily’s hoarse, miserable voice, followed by the children’s extremely offended responses.

What a… peculiar combination.

The door stood slightly ajar.

Emily was sitting on the floor wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket up to her shoulders, holding a Monster High doll as though she were participating in an extremely serious televised political debate.

Her red hair remained miraculously intact, although a few strands had begun escaping around her bangs. Her eyeliner was still perfect. Her posture still desperately attempted to preserve some degree of British dignity.

The problem was that she was also covered in glittery star stickers.

And wearing a crooked tiara.

“No, listen carefully,”

Emily was saying in a voice completely destroyed by the flu while dramatically pointing the doll forward, one manicured nail poking its plastic face.

“Draculaura clearly possesses a consistent aesthetic. There is concept. There is visual identity. Clawdeen, meanwhile, dresses like someone who lost a very expensive bet.”

“That’s not true!”

Cassidy protested immediately.

“It’s not falsehood. It’s fashion.”

“You only like Draculaura because she wears pink!”

“Exactly. Finally, someone intelligent in this household.”

Andy slapped a hand over her mouth so quickly she nearly dropped the Chinese food, the nanny rescuing the bags at the last second. Dear God, this was absurdly funny.

And strangely adorable.

Emily still looked elegantly hostile even wrapped in a child-sized blanket arguing about Monster High with two ten-year-olds.

Miranda observed the entire scene in absolute silence.

And then something strange happened on her face. Something small, nearly imperceptible — that dangerously soft expression Miranda only wore when looking at the girls asleep.

But Andy saw it. Of course she saw it.

Emily slowly lifted her eyes at that exact moment.

Blink.

Once.

Twice.

Her feverish brain clearly took a solid five seconds to process the fact that they were standing in the doorway — something that had become very common throughout the day. Andrea could practically see Emily’s neurons attempting to reconnect and properly categorize the information.

Miranda.

House.

Boss.

Shit.

Emily attempted to stand far too quickly, and the world apparently spun at the speed of light because she immediately staggered sideways, the blanket nearly taking half the dolls down with her.

Andy reacted on pure instinct.

“Hey, hey—”

She grabbed Emily’s arms before she could introduce her entire face to the floor. And surprisingly — as though the situation had not already become bizarre enough — Emily simply stayed there, limp and exhausted, trembling hands automatically gripping Andy’s arms while trying to rediscover equilibrium.

Normally Emily would have pulled away immediately. Complained. Made some acidic remark. Acted as though physical contact constituted a federal crime.

But the fever had clearly burned away the final layer of emotional self-preservation she possessed. Because instead she just remained there. Heavy with exhaustion. Nearly melting against Andrea again without realizing it.

Andy’s eyes widened immediately as she supported both their weight, feeling heat radiating from the redhead’s skin as though molten magma flowed through her veins instead of ordinary blood.

“Oh my God, Emily, you’re burning up.”

Emily buried her face against Andy’s shoulder for half a second.

Actually, it was ten entire seconds.

Long enough for Andy to feel Emily’s warm breathing through the fabric of her blouse.

Long enough for Andy’s heart to do something profoundly stupid inside her chest.

Then Emily seemed to realize what she was doing and immediately attempted to recover her composure — or some miserable imitation of it — letting go of Sachs as though electrocuted, straightening her posture like someone trying to pretend she had not almost fallen asleep standing upright.

“I am merely vertically compromised.”

Andy had to stare at the ceiling because laughing directly in Emily’s face in this condition was probably inhumane.

(Emily would probably cry too.)

Miranda sighed slowly, lifting one hand to rub at her temples as though attempting to prevent an incoming migraine.

“Emily.”

Charlton nearly jumped in place, suddenly remembering that she was still inside Miranda Priestly’s house. In her daughters’ bedroom. Wearing a pink tiara and looking clinically deceased.

“…Miranda…”

“Why exactly are you in my house wearing a pink blanket?”

Emily opened her mouth. Closed it again, clearly attempting to formulate a coherent response, but as expected, nothing arrived.

Fortunately — or unfortunately — the twins volunteered an explanation immediately.

“She’s the princess of the castle!”

“And she said Frankie Stein looks like a French magazine editor!”

“Because she does. She dresses like someone who smokes in minimalist cafés and despises happiness,”

Emily muttered automatically, rolling her eyes because regardless of how ridiculous the subject matter was, having her opinion challenged remained unacceptable.

The nanny, who had stayed silent in the doorway until then, used the opportunity to quietly escape the situation while storing away several future laughs, leaving the bags of food on the kitchen counter before disappearing entirely.

Emily looked as though she wanted to die.

Which, given her current condition, was not an especially difficult objective to accomplish.

“They emotionally kidnapped me.”

Miranda removed her coat calmly, and Andrea had to discreetly smack Emily’s hand to stop her from instinctively reaching out to take it — because only now did her brain remember that this was technically part of her job. Not earlier. Not at the office. Now.

Then Miranda looked directly at Emily for a long moment — and Emily actually managed to hold eye contact for approximately three seconds before sneezing miserably into her own arm.

(Oh, her beautiful Valentino clothes.)

Miranda made her decision immediately.

“You are staying here tonight.”

For the first time all day, Emily processed the information in under a minute, producing a sound that could have been a cough, sneeze, choking fit, or perhaps simply her soul attempting to escape and failing catastrophically.

“W-What?”

“You can barely remain conscious.”

“I can perfectly—”

Another cough interrupted her at the worst possible moment, harsh enough to sound as though it peeled her throat raw, forcing her to bend forward while Andrea instinctively steadied a hand against her waist again — long, slender fingers that felt strangely natural there, despite belonging to the person who had also helped emotionally destroy her on several occasions. Not that Emily was counting.

“She stared at a spoon for an entire minute during lunch because she forgot how soup works and almost drank it from the cup.”

Emily slowly lifted her head.

Betrayed.

Deeply betrayed.

“…You treacherous little bitch.”

“You called the printer a ‘paper toaster.’”

“I was innovating linguistically!”

Miranda ignored both of them with the calm of someone accustomed to managing crises, folding her coat neatly over one arm, posture flawless.

“Emily. Shower, medicine, sleep. Those are your tasks.”

Emily looked genuinely horrified — her mouth opened so wide it made the twins burst into laughter.

“I… uh… I don’t have clothes! Ha, what an inconvenience. You know nobody sleeps wearing Valentino, right Andrea? "

{ . . . }

Twenty minutes later, Emily discovered that, unfortunately, Miranda had been right — she truly was not physically capable of continuing the argument.

The hot shower had destroyed the final remnants of energy still keeping her operational through pure professional spite. The adrenaline had finally disappeared down the drain alongside the steaming water and expensive makeup. Now all that remained was fever, exhaustion, and the very specific sensation that her bones had been replaced with wet sand.

The bathroom in Miranda Priestly’s house was larger than entire Manhattan apartments, which Emily found deeply offensive at that moment.

Soft amber lighting illuminated the pale marble while steam still fogged the enormous mirrors. The scent of expensive soap, floral shampoo, and sophisticated moisturizer saturated the warm air around her.

Emily stood barefoot on the plush rug, damp red hair dripping slowly down the back of the absurdly soft robe she wore, staring at the clothes laid out on the counter as though observing evidence from a particularly humiliating crime scene.

Because the only available options were:

A pair of absurdly soft gray pajama pants.

And an enormous blue sweater that very clearly belonged to Andy Sachs.

Oh, she recognized that sweater.

Recognized that exact shade of I-am-going-to-murder-fashion blue perfectly.

The silence in the room could have sliced through diamonds while Emily blinked slowly at the clothing, narrowing her blue eyes afterward, a crease appearing between her brows.

Her feverish brain clearly needed several additional seconds to process the entire situation.

Sweater.

Belonging to Andrea Sachs.

Inside Miranda’s house.

Another pause.

Her remaining neurons finally connected the dots.

Oh.

Oh.

Emily slowly looked toward the bathroom door, then back at the sweater, then toward the door again.

Her brain tried very hard to process the implications. Truly tried, because there were exactly two possibilities here.

First: Andrea had accidentally left clothing behind.

Second: Andrea had very much not accidentally left clothing behind.

Emily felt one very specific region of her brain immediately begin screaming dangerous information.

Shared dinners.

Andrea leaving the office far too late.

Miranda being inexplicably less homicidal around her.

The way Andy already knew where the kitchen mugs were without needing to ask.

The sweater.

The bloody sweater.

Emily stared at the blue fabric for several more seconds in complete feverish silence, though inside her head everything sounded extremely loud. She blinked once. Again. A third time.

Then she simply gave up.

Because honestly?

Her job was already under considerable threat considering she was currently inside Miranda Priestly’s house looking like a Victorian widow dying of tuberculosis, and she did not need to poke the tiger with a very short stick.

Especially not a tiger wearing Prada and potentially emotionally involved with her own second assistant.

Besides, she was far too exhausted to maintain complex thought processes for more than five consecutive seconds.

Earlier that day her brain had literally referred to a traffic light as an emotional traffic pole.

There was no neurological capacity remaining for investigating romantic tension.

So, after an extraordinarily intense spiritual battle against every single one of her principles, Emily put on the sweater in resigned silence —

And immediately hated the fact that it was comfortable.

Very comfortable.

Offensively comfortable.

The oversized fabric slid over her still-damp shoulders with immediate warmth, ridiculously soft against her skin. The sleeves completely swallowed her hands. The hem nearly reached the middle of her thighs. The faint scent of detergent mixed with an extremely familiar smell — Andrea, coffee, books, and something far too clean — wrapped itself around her instantly.

Emily noticed.

And decided to ignore that too.

She stared at her own reflection in the mirror like a widow observing a funeral. Her still-wet red hair fell messily over her shoulders in uneven waves; without makeup, her face looked strangely young. More tired. Softer. Freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks finally appeared now that foundation no longer concealed them. The dark circles beneath her eyes were visible. The fever had tinted the tip of her nose pink.

And that enormous sweater practically swallowed her whole.

She looked…

Domestic.

Emily Charlton would have preferred spontaneous combustion.

“This is a crime against fashion. Against me.”

she muttered miserably toward the mirror.

Andrea — who had apparently arrived sometime during the British woman’s existential crisis and now leaned casually against the bathroom doorway — crossed her arms while trying very hard not to smile.

Failing miserably.

Because Emily looked ridiculously adorable like this.

And that was extremely dangerous.

“You were literally delirious half an hour ago,”

Andrea replied softly, her voice warm like hot chocolate in a way that made Emily’s heart perform a deeply irritating little flip, even while she continued staring at her reflection like someone experiencing profound grief.

“Yes. But I was delirious with elegance and Tom Ford.”

Andy let out a laugh through her nose.

Small. Warm. One of those laughs that escaped before the person realized it.

And Emily hated the fact that she liked that sound.

Convincing Emily to take a shower had been an experience alarmingly similar to attempting to domesticate a particularly hostile stray cat. Convincing her to wear comfortable clothes had somehow been worse. Worse squared, even — because Emily apparently considered soft fabrics a personal moral offense.

(Dramatic even while dying. How could she possibly be anything else? Andrea thought.)

But now…

Now she looked small.

Andy noticed it immediately.

Without the Valentino heels. Without the structured blazer. Without makeup. Without the razor-sharp posture.

Without the armor.

Emily Charlton looked simply…

Human.

Exhausted.

Sick.

Beautiful in a dangerously vulnerable sort of way — and that affected Andy far more than it should have.

Because Emily spent so much time being sharp, immaculate, and emotionally inaccessible that seeing her like this felt far too intimate. Like witnessing something nobody else was normally allowed to see.

Emily noticed the look immediately through the mirror.

“Don’t you dare, Andrea.”

“You look comfortable.”

“Take that statement back immediately.”

Andy genuinely smiled this time — one of those involuntary smiles. Emily had to look away.

Bloody smiling journalist.

The problem was that the fever had transformed her into a dangerously less defensive version of herself. The exhaustion was tearing down important filters. Important barriers.

She stepped out of the bathroom slowly, still absentmindedly drying her hair with the towel while her entire body began shutting down after the hot shower. Her legs felt heavy. Her head sluggish. The hallway felt too comfortable, too warm, too quiet.

She barely noticed when her fingers absentmindedly closed around the sleeve of Andrea’s cardigan as she walked past, holding onto the fabric between her fingers, thumb rubbing lightly against it, feeling the warmth there —

She only realized because the brunette glanced down, and that made Emily let go immediately.

“That did not happen.”

“Of course not.”

Silence.

Two steps later, Emily grabbed her arm again.

This time very clearly on purpose.

Andrea looked at her slowly. Emily avoided eye contact.

“Are you going to fall?”

Andy asked gently.

Emily took a solid two seconds to answer, clearly trying to decide whether dignity mattered more than balance at that moment — because honestly, what she wanted to say was yes, into your arms, ever since nine this morning, but that would have been excessive.

“Maybe.”

That was probably the closest Emily Charlton would ever come, biologically speaking, to asking for help.

So Andy simply let her.

Let Emily continue holding onto her arm while they walked slowly down the warm hallway of the house. And without realizing it, after only a few seconds, Emily gradually started leaning closer.

Just slightly.

Enough for her shoulder to brush against Andy’s arm.

Warmth.

Comfort.

Stability.

The familiar scent of the sweater mixed with Andy’s perfume made something inside her turn dangerously soft — Emily immediately decided that was entirely the fever’s fault.

Because Emily Charlton would never admit, not in her entire life, that she was becoming clingy.

Never.

Absolutely never.

She was merely… vertically unstable.

And that was very, very different.

Right?

Honestly…

Honestly, if Emily were being completely truthful with herself, she would probably be doing exactly the same thing with Miranda at that moment. The only obstacle was that some microscopic part of her brain still possessed survival instincts — and that she had not spent enough uninterrupted time around Miranda to fake a stumble.

Who could blame her?

If you had told Emily two weeks ago that going to work with a cold would somehow result in her sleeping at Miranda Priestly’s house beside Andrea Sachs instead of being fired, she would have strangled you with a Dior scarf.

And yet, well.

Look at that.

But there had, in fact, been some progress — considering Emily had managed the remarkable achievement of passively existing throughout the lecture Miranda had decided to give her in the kitchen.

A lecture that began the exact second Miranda realized Emily had shown up sick around the twins.

Why had it taken her so long to notice?

Well, her head had been too occupied with work.

Work being: texting HR to inform them Emily would be on medical leave for a few days while simultaneously organizing cold medicine and wondering whether Emily’s throat was still functional enough to swallow pills.

“If she has enough throat left to complain, she has enough to swallow,”

had been Miranda’s conclusion as she sorted the medication into neat lines across the counter — though, as a precaution, she still left cough syrup nearby. One never knew. Miranda Priestly liked having a plan B.

And perhaps a plan C involving Andrea physically holding Emily still while Miranda forced capsules down her throat.

In any case, back to the scolding.

The kitchen was illuminated only by the warm yellow lights beneath the cabinets, making the entire room feel warm and absurdly cozy. Rain tapped softly against the enormous windows while Miranda prepared tea with quick, irritated movements, still impeccably elegant even with rolled-up sleeves and the first few buttons of her blouse undone.

Emily sat on the kitchen counter wrapped in Andrea’s sweater, holding a spoon as though it required Nobel Prize-level concentration, while the owner of said sweater had apparently adopted the task of drying Emily’s hair with a towel.

“Have you completely lost your mind? Emily, you showed up feverish near my daughters.”

Miranda asked while pouring hot water into a mug, steam rising alongside the scent of chamomile and herbal tea while the teabag floated gently at the surface.

Emily blinked slowly, shrugging faintly before sighing heavily.

“Technically… I was feverish around everyone.”

“That does not improve the situation.”

“Honestly, I think it improves it slightly.”

Andy attempted to help optimistically, which only earned her one of Miranda’s looks — the kind that normally caused grown adults to spontaneously combust.

“You should have gone home after the first sneeze.”

Emily tried to formulate something sarcastic in response.

She truly tried.

But Miranda continued speaking in that low, cold, perfectly controlled tone that normally terrified the entirety of Runaway Magazine.

The problem was that…

Her voice was comfortable.

Far too comfortable.

Especially now, mixed with the sound of the rain, the soft whistle of the kettle, the warmth of the kitchen, and the careful hands drying Emily’s hair in a way that resembled a massage directly against her melted brain.

Emily slowly began blinking more and more sluggishly.

Her head growing heavier.

Miranda was still speaking about professional responsibility when Emily simply…

Powered down.

No ceremony. No glamour.

Her head slowly tipping sideways in the middle of the lecture.

Silence.

Andrea noticed first, leaning over the redhead’s shoulder and gently lifting her head to see her face — immediately forcing herself to turn away because the urge to laugh was genuinely inhumane.

Because Miranda had simply stopped in the middle of her sentence, still holding the cup of tea, staring at Emily unconscious on her own kitchen counter with her head resting against Andrea’s stomach.

Miranda’s expression was difficult to read. She did not look irritated, not exactly. It leaned more toward the kind of silent exhaustion reserved exclusively for people who were far too troublesome to ignore.

Emily, meanwhile, looked completely at peace slumped against Andrea, breathing slowly, still holding the spoon in her hand as though she had passed out halfway through an extremely important mission.

“She literally fell asleep in the middle of your lecture.”

Miranda finally released a long sigh through her nose, setting the teacup down on the counter.

“Bold of her.”

“Technically she’s been unconscious for several hours already. The difference is that now she finally closed her eyes. I think that reduces the offense a little.”

Miranda shot her a dry look while reaching for the thermometer beside the medicine.

“Do not be insolent.”

“You like it when I’m insolent.”

Silence.

The short kind. Small, but not uncomfortable.

Andrea caught the corner of Miranda’s mouth almost threatening a smile before it immediately disappeared behind homicidal dignity again, and that made Andrea’s own smile soften.

Miranda stepped toward the counter once more, carefully brushing damp strands of hair away from Emily’s burning forehead before slipping the thermometer beneath her tongue. Emily immediately grumbled in protest despite being half asleep, brows knitting together.

“... Mmph. ’S cold…”

“Quiet.”

Miranda replied automatically.

And Emily, astonishingly, obeyed.

Andrea watched the interaction silently for several seconds. Honestly, it was a little frightening.

Conscious Emily Charlton already obeyed Miranda like conditioned reflex.

Apparently unconscious Emily Charlton obeyed through muscle memory.

The thermometer beeped. Miranda checked the result, her expression tightening slightly as her lips pressed into a thin line.

“She still has a high fever.”

Andrea sighed softly, running her hand slowly along the back of the oversized sweater Emily wore, immediately causing the redhead to nestle closer without properly waking up.

That made both of them fall silent for a second.

Because.

Well.

Emily Charlton was not exactly a physical affection sort of person.

Or an affection person in general.

Or particularly compatible with human vulnerability whatsoever.

And yet there she was, practically melted against Andrea while allowing Miranda to take care of her without a fight. The fever had truly destroyed every defense mechanism that woman possessed.

Miranda picked up the bottle of cough syrup from the counter, the glass clinking softly against the marble as she unscrewed the cap. Andrea watched her carefully pour a dose into a spoon — thick, pink liquid with the unmistakable smell of something disgusting — and raised an eyebrow.

“You’re really going to wake her up for that?”

Miranda did not hesitate.

“No.”

She simply cupped Emily’s chin gently.

“Emily.”

A tired mumble. Nothing more.

“Open your mouth.”

Emily wrinkled her nose in her sleep.

“... Nuh-uh... Don’t like it…”

“What a tragedy. Open.”

Andrea felt her stomach do something entirely ridiculous.

This looked dangerously domestic. Far too natural. Far too intimate.

Emily opened her mouth automatically just slightly, Miranda using her thumb against Emily’s lower lip to guide it open a bit more before slowly tipping the spoonful of syrup inside.

The Brit swallowed while making a deeply offended expression despite being unconscious.

“... Horrible…”

“And yet you continue breathing despite it.”

“... Rude…”

At this point Andrea was smiling like a lovestruck puppy, absentmindedly scratching her fingers gently against the scalp currently resting against her chest. Miranda did not answer Emily’s final complaint, merely wiping the corner of her mouth carefully with her thumb before reaching for the pills arranged on the counter.

Then she paused, glancing briefly toward Andrea, and something silent passed between them in that moment.

Small.

But unmistakably clear.

She knows.

Andrea exhaled softly through her nose, glancing down at Emily completely unconscious against her.

“Well… I suppose hiding it now feels somewhat pointless.”

she murmured quietly, like a thought that had accidentally escaped aloud.

Miranda remained silent for a moment while placing the cold cloth she had prepared earlier against Emily’s forehead.

“Considering she is wearing your clothes, sleeping in my kitchen, and being medicated by both of us…”

Andrea smiled slowly.

“It’s becoming difficult to call this a ‘professional environment.’”

“Hm.”

Another brief pause, interrupted only when Miranda added, almost absently:

“Besides… it seems rather late to pretend she isn’t already part of this.”

Andrea felt her chest tighten slightly at that, because regardless of what either of them might say, Miranda was right.

Emily had already been part of this for quite some time.

Perhaps ever since Andrea had started automatically grabbing extra coffees because she knew exactly how Emily liked them.

Or since the moment Miranda began asking for the redhead’s opinion on things she normally asked nobody about, because she had never considered anyone else’s opinion necessary besides her own —

and, well, her two assistants’.

Or perhaps it had happened so gradually neither of them truly noticed.

Emily grumbled again just then, shifting slightly against Andrea before cracking her eyes open for barely two seconds.

“... You two are... suspiciously... close…”

Andrea froze.

Miranda raised an eyebrow.

And Emily blinked slowly at both of them, clearly unable to see properly — or fully aware of her own words.

“... Very suspicious… And unprofessional…”

Then she immediately closed her eyes again.

And went right back to sleep.