Archive of Our Own

Andy spent most of lunch staring at the letter like it might spontaneously rearrange itself into something less life-altering. It did not. The paper lay folded beside her sandwich in the tiny café across from the Mirror offices, creased soft now from being opened too many times in the span of a single morning. Which was absurd behaviour, honestly. She was acting like a Victorian woman with tuberculosis reading forbidden correspondence by candlelight.

Across from her, Melissa was still trying to extract information with the determination of an investigative journalist pursuing government corruption. “You cannot just say ‘Emily Charlton sent me something alarming’ and then go silent for an hour.”

Andy barely looked up. “I didn’t say alarming.”

“You looked like you were about to either cry or throw yourself into traffic.”

“That could describe most mornings.”

Melissa pointed accusingly at the folded paper. “Is it about Paris?”

Andy hesitated. Because that was the problem now. It had been about Paris. At first. Now it was about… everything else.

“I genuinely don’t know what it’s about anymore,” Andy admitted quietly.

Melissa narrowed her eyes. “That sounds significantly more concerning.”

Andy unfolded the page again before she could stop herself.

I hate your smile—those ridiculous dimples are deeply distracting and frankly, unnecessary.

Her stomach flipped unpleasantly. Distracting. At nine-thirty that morning, she’d thought the line was strange. By noon, it had become catastrophic. Because now that the initial shock had faded enough for her brain to function again, she kept noticing things. Tiny things. Things she had not understood at the time because she’d spent most of her Runway employment trying not to cry in designer shoes. Emily had noticed her smile. Not in a vague sense. Not generally. Specifically enough to have opinions about it. Specifically enough to call it distracting.

Andy stared down at the line. “Oh no,” she murmured quietly.

Melissa looked up immediately. “What now?”

“She was paying attention to me.”

Melissa blinked. “...Yes? Andy, she mailed you a handwritten emotional breakdown.”

“No, I mean before that.”

Andy looked back down at the page, pulse strange and uneven all over again. Because suddenly memories kept surfacing one after another, each of them rearranging themselves into something entirely different. Emily noticing immediately when Andy started dressing differently. Emily wordlessly handing her coffee exactly how she liked it after only hearing the order twice. Emily somehow always seeming to materialise whenever Andy was speaking to someone important, inserting sharp commentary into conversations she technically had no reason to join. Emily somehow remembering details Andy herself had forgotten mentioning. The way Emily always looked directly at her when Andy was talking, even while insulting her.

At the time, Andy had assumed Emily monitored her because she was incompetent. Because Emily enjoyed criticism recreationally. But now—

I hate your voice. It’s entirely too soft and far too sincere.

Andy pressed the heel of her hand briefly against her forehead. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

“You keep saying that in increasingly terrifying ways.”

“She noticed my voice.”

Melissa stared at her. “Andy. People generally notice voices.”

“No, but she thought about it.” Which somehow felt infinitely worse. 

Andy’s eyes drifted helplessly lower down the page.

I hate that situation this afternoon was borderline offensive, and I refuse to believe that is the best you can do.

At the time she’d read it, she’d been confused. Now she just felt slightly insane.

“Oh my God,” she said again.

Melissa groaned. “I’m going to kill you.”

“She was jealous.”

Melissa froze mid-bite. “...What?”

Andy looked up slowly, horrified by her own realization. “David.”

“The accountant?”

“Yes.”

Melissa looked personally offended. “Emily Charlton was jealous of David?”

“I think she was jealous of anyone who was near me.” The words settled between them with alarming weight.

Andy looked back down at the letter again, heart thudding harder now for entirely different reasons than before. Because this wasn’t just a confession anymore. It was evidence of months of Emily watching her in ways Andy had never understood. And somehow that affected her more than the actual I love you. Which was probably a separate psychological problem.

I hate that you are… competent. The New York Mirror is, regrettably, better for it.

Andy swallowed. “She reads my work,” she said faintly.

Melissa blinked. “What?”

“She reads my columns.”

“Well, yes, she’s obsessed with you.”

Andy ignored that entirely because another horrible realization had already arrived. Emily hated reading. Not literally, obviously. Emily read fashion reports and schedules and terrifyingly expensive magazines at speeds that defied biology. But Andy’s work? Human interest pieces. Arts coverage. Long-form columns. Emily would absolutely pretend those were unbearably sentimental. And yet apparently she had read enough of them to develop opinions. Enough to know Andy’s writing voice. Enough to praise it in the most emotionally constipated way imaginable.

Andy folded the letter carefully again, like it might bruise. “So what do I do now?”

Melissa looked delighted. “Call her immediately.”

“What? No.”

“Yes.”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Andy, she literally wrote ‘I fucking love you.’”

Andy’s entire face heated instantly. “Please don’t say it out loud.”

Melissa leaned across the table. “She’s in love with you.”

Andy looked helplessly down at the folded paper in her hands.

The thing was—Emily probably didn’t know Andy had seen it yet. And the more Andy thought about that, the more horrifying the entire situation became. Because sober Emily Charlton would never survive this. The Emily Andy knew weaponised composure like body armour. She would rather throw herself into the Hudson than voluntarily confess feelings on paper.

Which meant—“Oh my God,” Andy whispered.

Melissa dropped her head onto the table. “I hate you. Please stop saying that.”

“She probably doesn’t remember sending it.”

That made Melissa sit back up instantly. “Oh, that is so much worse.”

Andy could suddenly picture it with awful clarity now. Emily drunk enough to be honest for approximately fifteen catastrophic minutes. Furious over David. Furious over Andy. Scribbling aggressively into a notebook when really, she should’ve been following up on Demarchelier. Then somehow, impossibly, mailing it. And now presumably existing somewhere in Manhattan completely unaware that Andy currently possessed written evidence of her emotional collapse.

Andy stared down at the folded paper. What was she supposed to do with this? Calling immediately felt cruel somehow. Mortifying. Emily would probably fake her own death. But pretending she hadn’t seen it also felt impossible now that every line of the letter had carved itself directly into Andy’s nervous system.

I fucking love you.

Andy’s stomach flipped violently again. “Oh God,” she muttered.

Melissa squinted at her. “You like her back.”

Andy looked up too quickly. “What? No.”

“Andy.”

“…I don’t know.”

Which was, unfortunately, true. Or maybe worse: she did know.

Because the horrifying thing was that none of this felt impossible. Not really. Shocking, yes. Catastrophic, absolutely. But impossible? No.

Some part of Andy had apparently been carrying Emily around with her long after Runway ended too. She thought suddenly, helplessly, of instinctively glancing toward Emily’s desk before leaving Runway for the last time. Of almost calling her after bad dates. Of still hearing Emily’s voice whenever she tried on clothes. Of missing her.

Andy looked back down at the letter. Then she sighed deeply and folded it one final time, slipping it carefully back into the envelope.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I should wait a few days.”

Melissa stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Why?”

“Because if she remembers sending this on her own,” Andy said carefully, “I genuinely think she may have a nervous breakdown.”

-

At precisely two-thirteen that afternoon, Emily Charlton discovered she had made a catastrophic mistake.

It happened entirely by accident. She was seated at her desk at Runway, flipping briskly through her notebook while simultaneously emailing three editors, rejecting floral arrangements on Miranda’s behalf, and trying not to commit homicide over the existence of courier delays. Normal Monday behaviour. Her fingers paused briefly against a familiar page.

Andrea Sachs is very much forgettable. 

Emily rolled her eyes immediately upon seeing the title. Honestly mortifying. So dramatic. The list itself was deeply embarrassing in retrospect. It had seemed significantly more reasonable a week ago after half a bottle of wine and an exceptionally unfortunate amount of introspection. In hindsight, however, it read less like a condemnation and more like evidence of a psychological condition. Particularly because none of the items were remotely normal things to remember about a former assistant. Not professionally, anyway.

And also because roughly half the items weren’t even criticisms. (okay, all of them.) Things like:

The way Andrea hovered slightly after delivering coffee, waiting for acknowledgment she never outright asked for. The ridiculous determination with which she answered phones during those first disastrous weeks. The absurd number of bags she carried every morning as though personally preparing for evacuation. The way she said Em so casually, like it belonged to her.

Oh God. The entire exercise had been intended as catharsis. Proof that Andrea Sachs had exited her life and taken the accompanying chaos with her. Instead, Emily had somehow produced a detailed inventory of things she missed with humiliating specificity. Which was deeply irritating, frankly. Worse, she had finished the entire thing. That alone should have concerned her more than it apparently had at the time.

Emily turned the page dismissively, then stopped. Slowly, she turned it back. Her eyes narrowed. Something was wrong.

The previous page had been torn out. Emily stared at the jagged edge along the notebook seam. Her stomach dropped. No. No, no, no. For one completely blank second, her mind refused to function properly. Then memory arrived all at once in fractured, horrifying flashes. Seeing Andrea laughing at something an aggressively average-looking man said at a cafe. Going back to Runway furious for reasons she had absolutely not examined. Writing. And more writing. Then wine. Too much wine. Then seeing Andrea dilly-dallying with the same man again at the restaurant that night. Speeding past the window while clutching something in her hand. 

Then Emily went completely still. Envelope. She remembered an envelope. A cream-coloured envelope. Addressing it. Sealing it.

“Oh my God,” Emily whispered.

Several staff nearby looked up nervously. Emily ignored them entirely.

Because surely not. Surely she had not… Her pulse began climbing violently now. There had been another memory too. Brief. Hazy. But unmistakable. Standing beside a mailbox. Dropping something through the slot.

Emily’s soul briefly left her body. “Oh no.”

Her hands flew toward the notebook again, flipping backward frantically now until it finally hit her what might’ve been there. 

Emily stopped breathing. No. No no no no no. Because if that page was missing—blood drained rapidly from her face. She remembered writing it now. Not clearly. God, now she wished she remembered it clearly. But enough. Enough to recall the increasingly unhinged progression from irritation to emotional ruin. Enough to remember writing:

I fucking love you.

Enough to remember failing to dial the phone afterwards, which was frankly the most humiliating detail of all.

Emily shut the notebook instantly like it had physically attacked her. Across the office, Nigel looked up slowly from a garment rack.

“Emily,” he said slowly, watching her face with concern, “Why do you look like you just saw someone pairing cerulean with velour?”

Emily stared straight ahead in absolute horror. “I may need,” she said faintly, “to leave the country.”

-

Three days passed. Which, Andy discovered, was apparently long enough for a human being to lose their mind completely.

By day one, the shock had settled enough to allow coherent thought. By day two, coherent thought had become significantly less helpful. By day three, Andy had reread the letter so many times she could practically recite sections of it from memory, which felt less like healthy behaviour and more like the beginning of a Victorian illness.

“You’re obsessed with her,” Melissa informed her over coffee Thursday morning.

Andy glared weakly over the rim of her cup. “I am not obsessed.”

“You’ve carried that envelope around like a religious artefact for seventy-two consecutive hours.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“You put it inside a folder to protect it from weather conditions.”

Andy looked offended. “It’s handwritten!”

Melissa leaned across the desk. “Call her.”

“No.”

“Andy.”

“She’ll die.”

“She mailed you a love confession!”

“She mailed me an emotional hostage situation.”

And the worst part was Emily still hadn’t called. Not once. Which meant one of two things: Either Emily had no idea the letter existed anymore, or she did. Andy genuinely couldn’t decide which possibility was more terrifying.

Because if Emily remembered, then her silence meant she was avoiding Andy intentionally. Which hurt slightly more than Andy wanted to admit. But if she didn’t remember…Andy looked down at the folded envelope beside her keyboard. Then Emily was unknowingly walking around Manhattan while Andy possessed written evidence of her emotional collapse. Which somehow felt unethical.

“You’re spiralling again,” Melissa observed.

Andy ignored her. Because over the last three days, every memory she had of Emily had become newly unbearable. The way Emily used to glance automatically toward Andy’s desk whenever Miranda started asking questions. The way she noticed immediately when Andy improved at something. The way she remembered things. Tiny things. Meaningless things. And now Andy knew why.

I hate that I am apparently, against all reasons and professional standards, rather attached to you.

Attached. Like Andy had become some unfortunate workplace condition Emily couldn’t cure. God. Andy dropped her forehead briefly against the desk.

Melissa sighed heavily. “For someone who writes professionally, you are handling communication very poorly.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re catastrophising.”

“I’m considering her emotional state.”

Melissa looked delighted. “Oh, so you do like her.”

Andy sat upright immediately. “That is not what I said.”

“You’ve spent three days talking about Emily Charlton like she’s a wounded Victorian widow.”

“She wrote me a handwritten breakdown!”

“And you’ve smiled every single time you reread it.”

Andy froze.

Melissa pointed triumphantly. “There it is.”

Andy looked down at the envelope again. The truth was, she missed Emily too. That was the problem. Somewhere between shock and horror and rereading the letter fourteen consecutive times, Andy had realised something deeply unfortunate: none of this actually felt one-sided. And maybe it never had. Maybe that was why this felt less like a revelation and more like finally understanding a language she’d already been hearing for months.

Melissa slid Andy’s desk phone toward her. “Call her.”

Andy stared at it. Then at the envelope. Then back at the phone.

“Oh God,” she muttered.

And before she could reconsider it, she grabbed the receiver and dialled.

-

Meanwhile, Emily Charlton spent the past three days existing in a state best described as elegant psychological warfare. Against herself.

By Monday evening, she had considered:

• fleeing to England,
• changing her name,
• joining a remote monastery entirely devoid of postal systems,
• and briefly, fatally, throwing herself beneath a town car outside Elias-Clarke.

None felt proportionate enough. Because the problem was not simply that she had confessed feelings to Andrea Sachs. The problem was that she had done so in writing. Handwritten. With details. 

Emily closed her eyes briefly at her desk. God. Every few hours, another memory returned unprompted and attempted to kill her where she stood. The envelope. The ink smudged near the bottom because her hands had stopped cooperating properly. The deeply unfortunate inclusion of the phrase: I fucking love you.

Emily pressed two fingers hard against her temple.

At one point Tuesday morning, she had actually walked halfway toward a post office before realising there was absolutely nothing one could do after mailing a confession several days earlier. The damage had already occurred. The letter was either:
 a) still in transit, b) already delivered, or c) currently being used by Andrea Sachs as evidence in some kind of legal proceeding. Emily genuinely could not decide which possibility was worse.

She did know one thing, however. She was absolutely not calling Andy. Under no circumstances. Because if Andy had not received the letter yet, Emily refused to be the person who alerted her to its existence.

And if Andy had received it…Emily felt briefly lightheaded. Then Andy was intentionally not calling. Which was humiliating in ways Emily lacked the emotional equipment to survive.

So instead, she did what she did best: she worked. Aggressively. Pathologically.

By Wednesday afternoon, three assistants had cried, one stylist had quit, and Nigel had confiscated her third espresso after declaring her “one passive-aggressive comment away from cardiac arrest.” Emily ignored him.

Unfortunately, this did not stop her brain. Because the truly dreadful thing was that now she remembered everything she’d written. Not vaguely. Specifically. I hate your smile. Bloody hell. What a pile of bollocks.

At two in the morning on Thursday, Emily sat bolt upright in bed remembering with complete horror that she had also written: those ridiculous dimples are deeply distracting. Distracting. She buried her face directly into a pillow and considered death. How had she allowed that sentence to exist physically in the world?

And it didn’t make it better that Andy worked in journalism. Journalists archived things. There was now a very real possibility that somewhere in Manhattan, Andrea Sachs possessed a carefully preserved handwritten record of Emily Charlton emotionally disintegrating over her smile.

Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable. And yet, every time her phone vibrated across the three days, Emily’s stomach dropped violently before she could stop it. Every single time. Which was pathetic.

Thursday morning brought no relief. By eleven o’clock, Emily had almost convinced herself Andy had never received the letter at all. Perhaps it had been lost. Destroyed. Misdelivered to a law office or financial institution where complete strangers were currently being traumatised by Emily’s emotional collapse. Honestly, ideal outcome.

Then her phone rang.

Emily glanced automatically at the screen while striding down Madison Avenue carrying approximately twelve garment bags and a box containing shoes Miranda needed immediately despite having rejected them yesterday. She couldn’t read the caller under the Manhattan sunlight, but presuming it was one of the vendors, she answered it.

-

On Andy’s end, the line rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then—“Emily Charlton,” came the familiar clipped voice immediately, distracted and breathless beneath layers of city noise. “If this is regarding the Valentino delivery, tell Richard if he’s lost another garment bag I’ll have him publicly executed.”

Andy’s stomach flipped violently. God, she’d missed her voice.

“…Hi.”

There was a pause. A shorter one than Andy expected, actually.

Then: “Andrea.”

Andy could hear traffic in the background. Footsteps. The sharp click of heels against pavement. Emily sounded distracted. Busy. Normal. Which somehow made this infinitely worse.

For one horrible second, Andy considered hanging up. Instead, she said: “So.”

Silence. Traffic noise crackled faintly through the line.

Then, finally, as if regained her voice, Emily responded cautiously, “…So?”

Andy tightened her grip on the receiver. “You love me?”

The reaction was immediate. A moment of silence, followed by a loud car horn blasted through the phone. Tires screeched violently. Someone shouted. There was a horrifying clatter that sounded suspiciously like multiple shopping bags hitting concrete.

Then: “OH MY GOD—”

Andy shot upright so fast her chair nearly toppled backward. Déjà vu on what happened pre-Paris. 

“Emily?!”

More noise. Rapid footsteps. A distant voice yelling something aggressively New York in tone.

Then Emily’s voice returned, significantly further away from the receiver and sounding absolutely stricken. “Good heavens!”

“Emily, where are you?”

Another pause.

Then, faintly, “…crossing the street.”

“WHY WOULD YOU CROSS THE STREET DURING THIS CONVERSATION?”

“I DIDN’T KNOW THIS CONVERSATION WAS GOING TO HAPPEN!”

Andy pressed a hand against her forehead in relief so intense it bordered on nausea. “Oh my God.”

“Yes,” Emily snapped breathlessly, “that is more or less the general atmosphere currently.”

Andy could hear her collecting things now. Rustling bags. What sounded like a muttered threat directed at a taxi.

Then silence. Longer this time.

When Emily spoke again, her voice had gone noticeably quieter. “…You got the letter.”

Andy looked down instinctively at the folded paper still sitting beside her keyboard. “Yeah.”

Another silence. Andy could practically hear Emily’s soul trying to leave her body through the phone line.

“This,” Emily said eventually, sounding like each word was causing her active physical pain, “is deeply unfortunate.”

Against all reason, Andy laughed. Not loudly. Just enough that she heard Emily inhale sharply on the other end of the line.

“You mailed me a handwritten declaration of love,” Andy said. “What exactly did you think was going to happen?”

“In my defence,” Emily replied faintly, “I was experiencing a catastrophic lapse in judgment.”

“You wrote like, a whole page.”

“Again,” Emily said quickly, “catastrophic.”

Andy bit hard against another smile. Across the desk, Melissa was staring at her with the expression of someone witnessing premium live theatre.

Andy turned slightly away anyway, lowering her voice. “You really read my columns?”

“Oh, good. Excellent. Let’s discuss journalism. Much safer territory.”

Andy laughed properly this time. And on the other end of the line, she heard Emily go very, very quiet.

Andy’s smile softened before she could stop it. “You did.”

Emily recovered instantly, which honestly was impressive considering the circumstances. “I read many things, Andrea,” she replied crisply. “Contracts. Schedules. Threatening emails from publicists with delusions of relevance.”

“You read my columns.”

A pause.

“…Occasionally.”

Andy laughed softly. “Emily.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Andrea, you work for a newspaper. Your writing appears publicly. I wasn’t lurking outside your office stealing drafts from bins.”

The thing was, that sounded exactly like the sort of thing Emily would say when she absolutely had been emotionally invested.

Andy leaned back slightly in her chair, twisting the phone cord loosely around her fingers. “So what did you think?”

Another silence. Long enough this time that Andy could practically hear Emily recalculating her entire will to live.

“…You’re annoyingly good,” Emily admitted finally, each word sounding physically extracted from her against her will. “Particularly the piece on the gallery closures in Brooklyn. The section regarding community funding was—” Emily stopped abruptly.

Andy blinked. “You remember specific articles?”

“Oh, fantastic,” Emily muttered faintly. “Now I sound deranged.”

“You kind of sent me a full page of handwritten love confession. I think we moved past ‘deranged’ a while ago.”

A choking noise came through the phone. Andy grinned despite herself.

On the other end of the line, Emily exhaled sharply, somewhere between suffering and resignation. “You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

“A little.”

“That is deeply cruel of you.”

“You wrote ‘I love you’ like ten times.”

“It was not ten!”

“It was implied.”

“Still excessive, admittedly.”

Andy bit hard against another laugh. God. This felt absurdly easy. Not awkward, exactly. Mortifying, yes. Completely surreal, definitely. But underneath all of that was something else Andy hadn’t expected: familiarity. Like they had somehow slipped back into rhythm without trying. Emily sounding exasperated. Andy teasing her anyway. The strange charged undercurrent beneath every conversation they’d ever had now abruptly visible.

Andy glanced down at the envelope again. “You really thought I was oblivious?”

“Oh, I know you were oblivious,” Emily replied immediately. “Painfully so.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s accurate.”

Andy smiled helplessly. “I didn’t know you missed me,” she said, quietly this time. 

The line went silent again. Traffic hummed faintly in the background around Emily. Somewhere nearby, a taxi horn blared. Andy could almost picture her standing motionless on some Manhattan sidewalk, expensive coat pulled tight around herself, bags looped over one arm while she stared furiously at absolutely nothing.

When Emily finally spoke, her voice had changed slightly. It was softer. “…You left quite abruptly.”

Something in Andy’s chest twisted. Because underneath the composure, underneath the sarcasm and deflection and Emily-ness of it all, there it was at last. The hurt.

Andy swallowed. “I know.”

“You were just…” Emily stopped.

Andy waited.

“Gone.”

God. Andy closed her eyes briefly. For months after Runway, she had convinced herself Emily was angry. Annoyed. Maybe resentful over Paris. Not this. Definitely not this.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to stay,” Andy admitted softly.

Emily let out one short disbelieving breath. “Andrea,” she said, sounding genuinely appalled, “I wrote an entire list about the psychological devastation caused by your absence.”

Despite everything, Andy laughed again. And Emily did too. Just briefly. Small and startled, like the sound escaped accidentally. The noise hit Andy straight in the chest.

For a second neither of them spoke. Then Emily cleared her throat abruptly, composure snapping back into place with visible effort even through the phone.

“Well,” she said briskly, “this has been sufficiently horrifying for one afternoon.”

“You’re hanging up?”

“I’m preserving what remains of my dignity.”

“I think that ship sailed when you wrote about my dimples.”

“Oh my God.”

Andy grinned. “Distracting, were they?”

“I need you to understand,” Emily said with deep sincerity, “that I have never regretted literacy more than I do right now.”

“You mailed it to me.”

“Yes, thank you, I’m aware. The memory returns periodically like a medical condition.”

Andy laughed so hard she had to cover the receiver briefly. Across the desk, Melissa looked delighted beyond human comprehension.

When Andy caught her breath again, Emily had gone quiet once more.

Andy’s smile faded softer around the edges. “So,” she said carefully, “what happens now?”

Emily retorted immediately, trying very hard to sound controlled, “Ideally? Sudden death.”

Andy laughed softly, twirling the phone cord once around her fingers before she could think too hard about what she was about to do. “Okay,” she said carefully. “Alternative option.”

Emily sounded immediately suspicious. “Why do I dislike the tone of that sentence?”

“Dinner tomorrow night.”

Dead silence.

“Absolutely not.”

Andy smiled despite herself. “Emily—”

“No. No, absolutely not, Andrea, you are completely out of your mind.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“It did not in any way sound like ‘just dinner’.”

Andy could practically hear her pacing now.

“I have already accidentally confessed my love to you in writing,” Emily continued rapidly, horrified by her own life. “I am not then going to voluntarily appear in person so you can observe me experiencing psychological collapse in real time.”

Andy bit back a laugh. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I would quite literally walk directly into traffic first.”

“You almost already did.”

“That was different. That was shock-related.”

Andy grinned helplessly into the receiver. God. There was something almost unbearably endearing about Emily unraveling this hard over the possibility of seeing her. Which, frankly, answered several questions Andy had not realised she’d still been asking herself.

“Please, Em?”

Emily made a strangled noise immediately. “Do not weaponise my own nickname against me.”

Andy’s chest tightened unexpectedly at the reaction. “You wrote me a love letter.”

“I wrote you a deeply regrettable manifesto under emotional duress.”

“You told me you loved me.”

“Repeatedly, apparently,” Emily muttered darkly.

Andy laughed again, before lowering her voice slightly, sincerity slipping in before she could stop it. “This is on me.”

Emily went quiet.

Andy glanced down at the envelope beside her hand. “You already did the terrifying part,” she said gently. “Now I’m asking to see you.”

Silence. Long enough that Andy wondered briefly whether the call had disconnected.

Then Emily spoke, much quieter than before. “…Andrea.”

Andy swallowed. “We’re fair now,” she said softly.

Another silence.

And then, very faintly, Andy heard Emily exhale. It sounded defeated in the way people became when faced with something they wanted too much.

“You’re making this extremely difficult,” Emily informed her.

“That sounds like a yes.”

“It sounds like I’m temporarily incapable of sound decision-making.”

Andy smiled. “Dinner?”

Emily hesitated so long Andy could practically hear her arguing with herself. Then she finally spoke again, “…If this is some sort of pity date, I will actually kill you.”

The warmth that spread through Andy’s chest at that nearly startled her. “I can assure you, it’s not pity.”

“Oh.”

That tiny little oh hit Andy harder than literally anything else in the conversation had. Because suddenly she could hear it, that Emily had genuinely considered the possibility Andy was only asking because she felt guilty.

Andy sat up straighter immediately. “It’s really not,” she said quickly. “I want to see you.”

Complete silence. Somewhere in Manhattan, Emily Charlton apparently forgot how to function.

When she finally spoke again, her voice had gone very controlled in the way it always did when she was trying desperately not to feel something. “…You’re making this worse.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep doing it!”

Andy laughed softly. “So is that a yes?”

Emily sighed heavily enough to suggest profound personal suffering. “One dinner.”

Andy grinned immediately. “One dinner.”

“And if you mention the letter in person,” Emily warned, “I’m leaving.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“It is a very serious threat.”

“You wrote about my eyes.”

“Oh dear me.”

“And my voice.”

“I hate you.”

The words landed automatically, instinctively. But this time they sounded different. Lighter. Fond.

Andy smiled so helplessly it almost hurt. “No you don’t,” she said quietly.

And for once, Emily didn’t argue.

Another brief silence settled between them. Softer now.

Then Andy cleared her throat lightly. “So… tomorrow night? Six-thirty?”

Emily made a suspicious noise immediately. “Andrea.”

“Dinner,” Andy said, smiling helplessly into the phone. “At Felice 56. It’s like opposite Tiffany’s. They do live music on Fridays.”

“…You really want to do this.”

Something in Andy’s chest tightened unexpectedly. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I do.”

Emily exhaled heavily, the sound halfway between suffering and reluctant affection. “…Fine. Six-thirty.”

A beat. Then, very primly, “And for the record, if you’re late, I’m leaving you on Fifth Avenue to die.”

Andy grinned. “See you tomorrow, Em.”

Silence. Tiny. Dangerous.

Until eventually, “…Yes. Alright.”

And this time, Emily sounded like she was smiling too.