Archive of Our Own

The New York Mirror newsroom smelled faintly of burnt coffee, printer ink, and collective professional exhaustion.

Which, Andy reflected grimly while proofreading a headline for the third consecutive time, probably meant it was only Tuesday. Around her, the office buzzed in uneven waves of keyboard clicks, ringing phones, and editors loudly pretending not to panic about deadlines. Melissa sat across from Andy balancing three open folders, half a muffin, and what appeared to be pure spite.

“Tell Henderson if he moves my interview again,” she announced to nobody in particular, “I’ll publish his tax returns recreationally.”

Andy smiled faintly without looking up from her screen. “You can’t threaten financial crimes before dinner.”

Melissa pointed a pen at her. “Watch me.”

Andy laughed softly and reached for her coffee just as her desk phone rang.

She answered automatically. “Andy Sachs.”

“Hi sweetheart, it’s Lorraine.”

Andy immediately sat up slightly. Lorraine, her landlord, sounded approximately one inconvenience away from setting the entire apartment building on fire for insurance money.

“Oh no,” Andy said immediately. “What happened?”

Across the desk, Melissa looked up with interest.

Lorraine sighed heavily into the receiver. “Well. Good news is the third-floor pipe finally stopped leaking.”

Andy narrowed her eyes. “There’s bad news.”

“The bad news,” Lorraine admitted carefully, “is that the electricians had to shut off power to half the building while they fix the water damage.”

Andy blinked once. “Half the building?”

“Your half.”

“Oh my God.”

“And,” Lorraine continued with the exhausted cadence of a woman spiritually defeated by infrastructure, “the water’s temporarily off too.”

Andy slowly lowered her forehead toward her desk. Somewhere nearby, an editor yelled about font spacing. Melissa mouthed dramatically: What happened? Andy waved weakly in her direction without lifting her head.

“How temporary is temporary?” Andy asked carefully into the phone.

A pause.

“…Lorraine.”

“They’re saying tonight at least.”

Andy stared blankly at the middle distance. “You’re telling me my apartment currently has no electricity and no water.”

“Yes, but on the bright side—”

“There’s a bright side?”

“The ceiling may no longer collapse.”

Andy closed her eyes. “Fantastic.”

“I’m very sorry, sweetheart. I’ll have someone there first thing tomorrow.”

Andy sighed softly and sat back upright in her chair. Honestly, at this point, her apartment building surviving exclusively through stubbornness and legal loopholes no longer surprised her. “It’s okay,” she said finally. “I’ll figure something out.”

After another apology and approximately six additional warnings not to light candles “unless emotionally necessary,” Lorraine hung up. Andy dropped the phone back onto the cradle with the slow haunted expression of a woman abandoned by modern civilization.

Melissa immediately leaned across the desk. “Well?”

Andy rubbed a hand down her face. “My building apparently lost both electricity and water.”

Melissa stared. “At the same time?”

“Apparently the plumbing and electrical systems have entered a suicide pact.”

“Oh, that’s bad.”

Andy laughed tiredly despite herself and pushed back slightly from the desk. “Lorraine says they’re fixing it tomorrow.”

“So where are you staying tonight?”

Andy paused. Because honestly? She had absolutely no idea. Normally she’d call Lily. Except Lily was in Detroit visiting her sister this week. Nate was obviously not an option unless Andy wanted to willingly walk into a deeply uncomfortable post-breakup hostage negotiation. And also, he's in Boston, so. Which left…

Melissa raised one eyebrow slowly. “You can crash at mine, you know.”

Andy looked up immediately. “No, it’s okay—”

“Andy.”

“I’m serious. I’ll survive one night.”

Melissa leaned back in her chair folding her arms. “My couch is perfectly respectable.”

“I don’t doubt the couch.”

“You doubt my interior design?”

“I absolutely doubt your interior design.”

Melissa gasped dramatically. “Rude.”

Andy smiled faintly. “I actually have to stay late anyway. Kaplan still hasn’t turned in his revisions.”

Melissa groaned instantly. “Oh my God, that man treats deadlines like vague spiritual suggestions.”

“Apparently he’s ‘almost done,’” Andy replied, making air quotes.

“Which means?”

“Probably sometime between midnight and the collapse of civilization.”

Melissa winced sympathetically. Andy shrugged one shoulder. “So honestly I’ll probably just finish editing here, shower in the gym downstairs, and sleep on the couch in the break room.”

Melissa stared at her. “That sounds so sad.”

Andy laughed softly. “I worked at Runway, Melissa. My standards for acceptable suffering are medically concerning.”

“That’s actually fair.”

A sports editor rushed past muttering obscenities at a fax machine. Somewhere behind them, two assistants were arguing about whether a columnist had accidentally plagiarized himself.

Andy reopened her laptop with a sigh. “Besides, it’s only one night.”

Melissa narrowed her eyes slightly now. “Okay.”

Andy paused mid-typing. “…Why did you say that like you’re plotting something?”

“I’m not plotting anything.”

“That was absolutely the voice of someone plotting.”

Melissa looked deeply innocent. “I merely think sleeping in the office is depressing.”

“It’s practical.”

“It’s giving divorced accountant.”

Andy snorted unexpectedly. Melissa tilted her head casually. “You could also ask Emily.”

Andy froze. Completely. Entirely. One hand still resting on the keyboard while her brain short-circuited so visibly Melissa actually smiled.

“Oh my God,” Melissa whispered immediately. “Look at your face.”

Andy blinked rapidly. “I am not making a face.”

“You looked spiritually winded.”

“That’s not a real expression.”

“It is now.”

Andy looked back at her laptop with immense concentration. “Emily lives across the city.”

“And?”

“And we’ve had exactly one dinner that may or may not have legally qualified as a date.”

Melissa made a thoughtful noise. “Pretty sure handwritten love confessions accelerate the timeline a little.”

Andy felt heat crawl instantly into her face. “Please stop referring to it like she mailed me a hostage note.”

“She kind of did emotionally.”

Andy failed to suppress a smile at that. Melissa pointed immediately. “There. That’s the face again.”

Andy groaned softly and dropped back into her chair. “I’m not inviting myself to Emily Charlton’s apartment because my building failed structurally.”

“You say that like Emily wouldn’t treat this as an opportunity to aggressively care for you.”

Andy looked up before she could stop herself. And unfortunately, the worst part was: Melissa might actually be right.

Because ever since dinner, Emily had developed this strange habit of appearing emotionally unavailable while simultaneously texting Andy things like:

You cannot genuinely be considering wearing suede in this weather.

and:

I saw a man order his steak well-done today. Society is collapsing.

and once, at 1:14 AM:

Are you awake or have journalists finally evolved beyond consciousness entirely?

Which, somehow, had become the highlight of Andy’s week.

Melissa watched her expression carefully now. “Oh, you’re considering it.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Andy looked down at her phone sitting beside the keyboard. Then immediately looked away again. “Nope,” she decided firmly. “Absolutely not. I’m not calling Emily and telling her my apartment’s become a humanitarian crisis.”

Melissa hummed thoughtfully. “Interesting that you said calling and not texting.”

Andy pointed at her warningly. “You’re becoming deeply irritating.”

“And you,” Melissa informed her cheerfully, “are one minor inconvenience away from accidentally domesticating yourself into a relationship.”

Andy stared at her. Then slowly, “…That’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Melissa grinned. “Let me know if you change your mind about my couch, okay?”

Andy sighed dramatically and reached for her coffee again. “Yeah. I will.”

But even as she said it, her eyes drifted back toward her phone. And somewhere deep in the part of her brain specifically reserved for terrible ideas, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Emily Charlton quietly observed: Sleeping in the office is profoundly tragic, Andrea.

Which, honestly, felt unhelpfully persuasive.

-

By six-thirty that evening, the New York Mirror office had become eerily quiet.

Not silent exactly. Newspapers apparently never achieved true silence. Somewhere deeper in the building, printers still hummed steadily through tomorrow’s headlines. Phones rang occasionally in distant departments. A television mounted near the reception desk murmured softly to itself about election polling numbers no one currently cared about.

But compared to daytime chaos, the newsroom now felt cavernous. Rows of empty desks stretched beneath low fluorescent lighting while abandoned coffee cups and unfinished drafts littered surfaces like evidence of professional collapse. The city outside the massive windows had gone fully dark, Manhattan glittering beyond the glass in gold and blue reflections.

Andy emerged from the downstairs gym looking significantly more offended by existence than when she’d entered it ten minutes earlier.

Absolutely not. The shower situation downstairs could only be described as a violation of several human rights conventions. One showerhead had produced water with approximately the pressure of emotional disappointment while the other sprayed directly sideways into the wall like it had given up on infrastructure entirely.

Andy had taken one look inside, whispered “no” to herself, and left immediately. Honestly, one night without showering wouldn’t kill her. Probably.

By now she’d fully committed to survival mode anyway. Her hair remained tied loosely up in a clip, sleeves rolled messily to her elbows while she sat cross-legged in her desk chair reviewing copy edits beneath the dim newsroom lights.

Kaplan still hadn’t sent his revisions. Of course he hadn’t. Andy sighed dramatically and refreshed her inbox for the seventeenth time in ten minutes. Nothing.

“Excellent,” she muttered to herself. “Love that for me.”

Somewhere near reception, the security guard laughed quietly at something on his phone. Andy reached for her coffee only to remember she’d finished it almost an hour ago. Tragic. At least the office was warm.

Her phone buzzed suddenly beside the keyboard. Andy glanced down automatically.

Emily Calling.

And immediately, ridiculously, her entire mood improved.

Andy smiled before answering despite herself. “Hey.”

On the other end came the familiar background symphony of Runway chaos: heels against marble flooring, muffled voices, someone sounding vaguely terrified in the distance. Emily, meanwhile, sounded distracted. “Are you still alive?”

Andy leaned back slightly in her chair. “Debatable.”

“Encouraging.”

“I’m currently being held hostage by a man incapable of understanding the concept of deadlines.”

Emily made a soft disapproving noise. “Men continue to disappoint globally.”

Andy laughed quietly.

There was a brief pause. Then Emily asked, almost casually, “Have you eaten yet?”

Andy blinked once. Something warm immediately unfolded low in her chest because this was new. This strange careful reaching Emily had started doing lately. Casual on the surface. Deliberate underneath.

“Not yet,” Andy admitted. “I was gonna grab a sandwich downstairs eventually.”

Emily hummed softly. “Mm.”

Andy twisted slightly in her chair, smiling faintly now without meaning to. “Why?”

Another tiny pause. Then, with suspicious nonchalance, “I got out early tonight.”

Andy sat up slightly. Emily Charlton? Leaving work early? Why?

She tried very hard not to sound too pleased by this information. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” Emily paused. “And I was wondering whether you wanted to get dinner.”

The words landed so gently Andy almost missed the significance entirely. Then her brain caught up. Emily was initiating. Andy stared blankly at her dark computer screen for one tiny stunned second.

Across the line, Emily cleared her throat lightly. “Though if you’re busy, obviously, that’s perfectly—”

“No!” Andy said immediately. Too fast. Andy winced at herself. Emily went very quiet.

Andy recovered quickly with as much dignity as possible. “I mean—not no. I just…” She laughed softly. “I’m still waiting on this guy’s revisions. And honestly I’ll probably be here another couple hours.”

“Oh.”

The single syllable somehow sounded disappointed despite Emily’s obvious attempts to strangle the emotion immediately. Andy’s chest squeezed painfully. God.

“And also,” she continued before she could stop herself, “my apartment’s basically uninhabitable right now?”

Emily paused. “…What?”

And because Andy Sachs had apparently never once in her life learned how to withhold information from Emily Charlton specifically, the entire story came pouring out almost automatically. “The building lost power and water because apparently the plumbing exploded? Or maybe the electrical system exploded? Honestly the details were unclear. Lorraine said something about a pipe and then told me not to light candles unless emotionally necessary—”

“Emotionally necessary?” Emily repeated faintly.

“She’s very dramatic.”

“And your apartment currently has no electricity.”

“Or water.”

Emily went silent.

Andy continued typing absentmindedly while talking. “So I’m probably just gonna crash here tonight after I finish editing.”

Another pause.

Then, “You’re sleeping at the office.”

Andy shrugged instinctively even though Emily couldn’t see it. “It’s not a huge deal.”

Andrea Sachs, Emily thought privately, had apparently survived working at Runway only to completely lose all remaining survival instincts afterward.

“You cannot sleep in the newsroom,” Emily informed her sharply.

Andy smiled helplessly. “I literally can though.”

“That was not admiration, Andrea.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

Andy laughed softly under her breath. God. She liked this version of Emily. The one who got bossy when worried.

Emily exhaled quietly on the other end. “And your solution to this situation was a sandwich from downstairs.”

“Well when you say it like that, it sounds bleak.”

“It is bleak.”

Andy grinned despite herself, spinning absently in the chair once. “I’ll survive.”

“Yes,” Emily replied dryly. “Human beings are unfortunately very resilient.”

Andy laughed again. Then Emily sighed softly. “Well. Fine. Do as you please.”

The words sounded resigned in a way Andy immediately recognized as: I strongly disapprove but cannot legally stop you.

Andy smiled warmly at absolutely nothing. “I’ll call you later?” she offered.

A tiny pause. Then quieter, “…Alright.”

Andy’s chest did the weird thing again. “Enjoy your evening, Em.”

Emily was silent for one beat too long before replying softly, “You too Andrea."

The line disconnected. Andy stared at her phone for a moment afterward smiling faintly to herself like an idiot. Then she shook herself and returned to work. Unfortunately, Kaplan remained professionally useless.

-

By seven-fifteen, Andy had entered the deeply specific stage of exhaustion where every sentence in the article began sounding personally offensive. She was halfway through rewriting a paragraph about city budget reform when someone knocked lightly against the glass doors of the newsroom.

Andy looked up automatically. And completely stopped functioning.

Emily stood outside the office holding two takeaway bags and looking profoundly annoyed by the existence of weather.

For one suspended second, Andy genuinely thought she might be hallucinating from exhaustion. Then Emily spotted her through the glass. And raised one eyebrow like: well? are you going to let me in or must I perish dramatically in this lobby?

Andy shot upright so quickly her chair nearly rolled backward into a filing cabinet. “Oh my God,” she whispered to herself.

The security guard looked up immediately, startled by the sudden movement. Andy practically speed-walked across the newsroom while her pulse attempted to physically escape her body.

When she pushed open the glass doors, cold evening air curled instantly into the warm office space. Emily stood there in a dark wool coat with her hair slightly windblown from outside, takeaway bags looped elegantly around one wrist like she routinely delivered food across Manhattan for women she absolutely was not in love with.

Andy stared at her. “Emily.”

Emily looked mildly defensive immediately. “The sandwich situation was depressing me.”

Andy’s heart actually hurt. Like physically. A real medical issue.

“You came here?” she asked stupidly.

Emily frowned slightly. “Yes, Andrea, I’m aware of my current location.”

“No, I just mean—”

“I was nearby.”

“You live like twenty blocks away.”

Emily ignored this completely and stepped inside, handing one of the bags toward her. “Also the man downstairs attempted to sell me tuna on focaccia and I found that personally insulting.”

Andy laughed helplessly, still staring at her in disbelief. “You brought me food.”

Emily looked offended now. “Obviously I brought you food. You were about to spend the evening surviving exclusively on caffeine and structural despair.”

Andy smiled so hard her face hurt. And suddenly the giant empty newsroom felt warmer somehow.

Emily glanced around the mostly abandoned office with visible judgment. “This is grim.”

“Yeah, a little.”

“A little?” Emily repeated. “Andrea, this looks like the setting of a political thriller.”

Andy laughed softly again while taking the takeaway bag from her. Their fingers brushed briefly in the process. Both paused. Just for a second. And there it was again, that tiny impossible shift in the air between them now whenever they touched.

Emily recovered first by looking away sharply toward the newsroom. “Well,” she announced with immense composure, “someone had to intervene before you fully devolved into trenchcoat journalism.”

Andy bit back a smile. “You know this is a deeply romantic gesture, right?”

Emily nearly dropped her own takeaway bag.

“I brought protein,” she replied stiffly. “Let’s not become theatrical.”

Which, unfortunately, only made Andy smile harder.

-

Andy had initially assumed Emily would leave after the food handoff. Which, admittedly, should have been her first mistake.

Because Emily Charlton had not crossed Manhattan carrying takeaway containers through cold night air merely to perform a two-minute charitable intervention before disappearing dramatically back into the city like some sort of emotionally unavailable food fairy.

Instead, Emily stepped into the newsroom, glanced once around the empty office with profound disapproval, and immediately placed her own takeaway bag down on Andy's desk.

Andy blinked. “Oh,” she said intelligently.

Emily removed her coat with elegant efficiency. “What?”

“You got food for yourself.”

Emily paused briefly. “…Yes?”

Another pause.

Then Andy realized. “Oh my God,” she said slowly. “You were planning to stay.”

Emily looked vaguely offended now, like Andy had somehow accused her of emotional sincerity in public. “Well I wasn’t going to eat alone,” she informed her crisply. “That would be saddening.”

Andy stared at her for one dangerous second too long. Because the thing was Emily had come here for her. Not obligation. Not logistics. Not convenience. Just because Andy was stuck in a sad empty newsroom eating vending-machine-adjacent food and Emily apparently found that unbearable enough to physically intervene. God.

Andy smiled helplessly. “You know this is still romantic even if you say it with judgment.”

Emily ignored this completely while unpacking containers onto the desk with terrifying organization. “Also,” she continued briskly, “I got the food from Tonchin, so please don't leave any leftovers. My money is hard-earned.”

Andy looked delighted. “You got me fancy Japanese food?”

Emily looked at her blankly. “Andrea, you look one missed meal away from Victorian tuberculosis. I wasn't going to feed you, what, dry baguette?”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“It absolutely should not be.”

Andy laughed softly and moved around the desk toward her.

The newsroom lights hummed faintly overhead while rain tapped gently against the giant windows overlooking Manhattan. Somewhere deeper in the building, printers still rolled steadily through tomorrow’s edition. And right in the middle of all that dim exhausted newsroom gloom sat Emily Charlton unpacking takeaway containers like she belonged there. Which honestly felt strangely intimate.

Emily handed her one of the chopsticks with severe reluctance. “Eat before you collapse.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

God. That soft bossy concern thing Emily did lately was becoming a real issue for Andy’s long-term emotional stability.

They settled side-by-side near Andy’s desk while she reopened Kaplan’s still unfinished draft with profound resentment.

Emily peered over immediately. “This is the man ruining your evening?”

“Yes.”

Emily narrowed her eyes at the screen like personally evaluating an enemy of the state. “I already dislike him.”

“You’ve never met him.”

“I don’t need to. He’s delayed dinner and forced you into office homelessness.”

Andy laughed quietly into her sushi.

Emily continued scrolling through the visible paragraph with growing offense. “Also this sentence structure is criminal.”

Andy looked delighted. “Oh my God, keep going.”

“He’s used ‘fundamentally’ three times in one paragraph. Is he being paid by the syllable?”

Andy nearly choked laughing. Emily pointed accusingly at the monitor. “And this comma placement suggests active psychological distress.”

“You are unbelievably judgmental.”

“And yet correct.”

Andy grinned helplessly while editing another paragraph. “Honestly, Kaplan’s entire writing style feels like he learned journalism through mild head trauma.”

Emily looked deeply satisfied by this description.

-

The next hour passed strangely easily after that.

Andy edited copy while Emily sat beside her criticizing strangers professionally. Occasionally she read over Andy’s shoulder just long enough to make deeply cutting observations before returning calmly to her food like a very elegant assassin.

At one point she muttered, “This man writes like a hostage negotiator trying to sound casual.” And Andy actually had to put her forehead briefly against the desk because she was laughing too hard to function.

Outside, rain streaked softly against the windows while the newsroom grew quieter still around them. Midnight-blue Manhattan glittered beyond the glass. Emily occasionally stole glances toward Andy whenever she became too focused on work to notice. Not intentionally, at first. It simply kept happening.

The soft crease between Andy’s brows while concentrating. The way she chewed absently on the inside of her cheek reading edits. How her sleeves remained pushed messily to her elbows. How tired she looked now that the adrenaline of the workday had worn off. And still, somehow, she kept smiling every time Emily spoke.

Emily looked away quickly the third time she caught herself staring. This was becoming medically concerning.

Then suddenly: Ping.

Both women looked immediately toward Andy’s inbox. 

A beat of silence.

Then Andy gasped, “OH THANK GOD.”

Emily sat upright instantly. “Has the bastard finally submitted?”

Andy clicked open the email with the reverence of someone receiving divine intervention. “He has.”

Emily actually exhaled in visible relief.

And then, somehow, they both spoke at once, 

“Finally.” 

“Oh thank Christ.”

They blinked at each other. Then burst into laughter simultaneously. Honestly, the sheer joy in the room over one mediocre journalist finally turning in revisions felt spiritually unhealthy.

Andy grinned at her screen. “Okay. Okay, I can work with this.”

Emily leaned back in her chair with exhausted elegance. “I hope terrible things happen to him professionally.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I know enough.”

Andy smiled warmly and turned back toward her computer.

And while she worked, Emily watched her quietly. Not in the dramatic overwhelming way from dinner. Something softer than that. Just… fond.

Andy looked happy right now. Tired, yes. Slightly disheveled. Wearing yesterday’s clothes and surviving exclusively on caffeine and stubbornness. But happy. And the awful thing was, Emily liked being the reason. She looked away quickly before that realization could become psychologically dangerous.

Twenty minutes later, Andy finally leaned back from the computer with a victorious sigh. “Done.”

Emily glanced over immediately. “Done?”

“Done.”

“Completely?”

“Yes.”

“No hidden disasters waiting to emerge?”

Andy laughed softly. “No hidden disasters.”

Emily looked genuinely relieved. Andy smiled and stood, stretching slightly before moving toward her desk drawers to shove loose notebooks and papers back inside.

Unfortunately, this required stepping directly beside Emily’s chair. Which suddenly felt… noticeable. Andy became abruptly aware of:

• warmth
• proximity
• perfume
• and Emily Charlton existing approximately six inches away from her.

Oh. Andy’s movements slowed involuntarily while reaching for a folder. Emily smelled expensive. Not aggressively floral. Nothing overpowering. Something softer underneath sharper notes. Clean. Warm. Elegant in the deeply unfair way everything about Emily seemed to be.

Andy’s brain supplied immediately: Chanel? Maybe No. 18? Which was insane behavior. Who mentally identified perfume while standing in a deserted newsroom at eight-thirty at night? Apparently Andy Sachs now.

God. Whatever expensive French witchcraft Emily had sprayed onto herself this morning was absolutely working.

Then Emily spoke beside her. “You smell terrible.”

Andy looked up immediately. Emily sat perfectly composed in the chair watching her with mild disapproval.

Andy blinked once. Then laughed helplessly. “Well,” she admitted sheepishly, “the gym shower situation downstairs was… upsetting.”

Emily narrowed her eyes. “So you simply gave up?”

“One showerhead sprayed directly sideways.”

“And?”

“And I decided modern hygiene was optional.”

Emily stared at her in complete disbelief. “Andrea.”

“I know.”

“And what, have you been wearing the same clothes since last Winter?”

“Technically since yesterday.”

“That is not better.”

Andy grinned tiredly. “No shower plus newsroom stress plus old coffee probably isn’t helping.”

Emily looked genuinely appalled now. “Oh, you are pathetic.”

Andy laughed outright. And the thing was, Emily didn’t actually sound disgusted. Mostly she sounded concerned in an aggressively judgmental sort of way. Which was, disturbingly, becoming one of Andy’s favorite tones.

Emily sighed deeply through her nose before standing abruptly and grabbing her handbag from the desk. “Well,” she announced with crisp finality, “are you done?”

Andy blinked. “Yeah?”

“Good. I’m leaving.”

“Oh.”

Andy watched her automatically while Emily slipped her coat back on with sharp efficient movements. Right. Of course. Because despite whatever this thing between them currently was, Emily still had a functioning apartment. And Andy still had:

• no electricity
• no water
• and a deeply depressing office couch waiting for her.

Andy shoved the last folder into her drawer and smiled faintly despite herself. “Thanks again for dinner.”

Emily waved this off dismissively while walking toward the glass doors. “You were moments away from nutritional collapse.”

“Still counts.”

Emily made a tiny noise that sounded suspiciously pleased. Then she reached the doors. Paused. And stopped moving entirely.

Andy looked up automatically. Emily didn’t turn around. Didn’t look back. She simply stood there with one hand resting lightly against the glass door before saying, with careful casualness, “Well?”

Andy blinked.

Emily still didn’t turn. “…Are you not coming?”

Silence. Complete absolute silence inside Andy’s brain.

Because surely, surely—Emily could not possibly mean—

Andy stared at her in disbelief. “Coming where?”

Now Emily finally turned slightly, just enough for Andy to catch the edge of her expression beneath the dim newsroom lights. Mildly impatient. Faintly pink. Trying very hard to sound normal.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Andrea,” she said crisply. “You cannot genuinely believe I’m allowing you to sleep in this office smelling like collapsed infrastructure.”

Andy’s heart stopped functioning instantly. She stuffed her things into her bag with all the coordination of someone fleeing a crime scene, then hurried after Emily at her heels—eager, obedient, and altogether too much like a golden retriever who’d just been praised once and would now die for it.

-

Emily Charlton reacted to the subway entrance exactly the way one might react to discovering a rat inside a Birkin bag. Andrea, meanwhile, looked delighted.

“No,” Emily said immediately as Andy pulled open the station door. “Absolutely not.”

Andy glanced back over her shoulder innocently. “What?”

“This,” Emily informed her, staring down the stairs like they descended directly into societal collapse, “is public transportation.”

“Yes?”

“At night.”

Andy grinned. “Live a little.”

Emily looked deeply offended by the suggestion. “I lived once. It was dreadful.”

Andy laughed softly and kept walking before Emily could successfully escape. Honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure why she’d insisted on the subway. Maybe because the city felt strangely beautiful tonight. Rain still glossed over Manhattan streets in gold reflections while cold air curled softly between buildings. Or maybe because some deeply selfish part of her wanted more time with Emily before the night ended.

A cab would’ve been too fast. The subway meant: walking together, sitting close, another twenty minutes beside Emily Charlton before reality resumed. Which apparently now mattered enough for Andy to engineer public transportation crimes over.

Behind her, Emily descended the station stairs with the expression of a woman approaching execution. “This smells like sadness,” she muttered.

“That’s just New York.”

“No,” Emily replied darkly, “New York usually smells significantly more expensive.”

Andy laughed again, the sound echoing lightly against tiled walls while they reached the platform.

The downtown train screeched in moments later. Mercifully uncrowded. Emily stepped inside cautiously, like the subway itself might attempt physical violence. Andy slid into one of the seats near the middle. Emily remained standing for exactly three seconds before visibly realizing there were no acceptable alternatives and sitting beside her with enormous reluctance.

“This seat is damp,” she announced immediately.

“Everything in New York is damp.”

“That cannot possibly be true.”

Andy tilted her head thoughtfully. “Okay, eighty percent of things.”

Emily sighed like someone personally betrayed by infrastructure.

The train lurched forward. And then suddenly they were close. Not accidentally close like brushing hands across restaurant tables. Not fleeting closeness interrupted by work or movement or phone calls. Just… sitting together. Knees nearly touching. Coats brushing faintly together whenever the train shifted. Emily’s perfume settling softly into the warm enclosed air around them.

God. Now that they weren’t trapped in the grim and dim newsroom, Andy could smell it properly.  Sophisticated in a way Andy couldn’t fully articulate. Sharp at first, then softer underneath. Warm skin and expensive perfume and winter fabric. It was absolutely unfair.

Andy leaned back slightly against the seat trying very hard to behave normally while her exhausted brain immediately spiraled into: wow okay this perfume is either actual witchcraft or i’m clinically unwell

Beside her, Emily glanced sideways. “Why are you staring at nothing?”

Andy blinked. “I’m tired.”

“You’re delirious.”

“Probably.”

Emily looked mildly suspicious but let it go.

The train rattled steadily beneath fluorescent lights while stations blurred past outside the windows in streaks of darkness and graffiti.

And slowly, despite herself, Andy began to feel it. The full horrible exhaustion of the day finally catching up all at once. Her limbs felt heavier suddenly. Her eyes burned faintly. Even holding her head upright began requiring negotiation.

Emily was saying something beside her about Miranda’s latest seating-chart emergency, but Andy only caught every third word because now all her senses had become overwhelmingly occupied by: warmth, motion, and Emily’s perfume drifting softly every time the train shifted. Honestly…this might actually be a nice smell to fall asleep to.

The thought arrived lazily through exhaustion before Andy could stop it. Which was objectively insane. She was not going to fall asleep on Emily Charlton in the middle of the subway like some deeply codependent Victorian heroine. Absolutely not.

Two minutes later, her head slipped sideways directly onto Emily’s shoulder. 

Emily went rigid instantly. “…Andrea.”

Andy made a tiny exhausted noise without opening her eyes.

“You cannot possibly be serious.”

The train rocked gently again beneath them. Andy’s cheek shifted slightly against the soft fabric of Emily’s coat. God. Comfortable.

Emily looked appalled. “Get off me, you rat.”

There was outrage in the words. Deep offense. Possibly even horror. But then here was also notably:

• no actual movement to shove her away
• no shoulder jerk
• no attempt whatsoever to create distance

In fact, after one profoundly scandalized sigh, Emily simply sat there. Completely still. Allowing it.

Andy drifted somewhere pleasantly unconscious after that. Not deeply asleep. Just floating vaguely in and out while subway announcements blurred into meaningless static around her. Warm. Safe. Soft perfume. The steady rise and fall of Emily breathing beside her. At one point she thought she maybe felt Emily shift slightly closer when the train jerked around a corner. But that was probably a dream.

Then suddenly—flick.

Andy jerked awake immediately. “What—”

Another sharp flick landed lightly against her temple.

Andy blinked upward blearily. Emily stared down at her with immense disapproval while the subway doors stood open behind them.

“We’re here,” she informed her crisply.

Andy blinked again, still halfway asleep. Then realization hit.

“Oh my God,” she whispered hoarsely. “Did I fall asleep on you?”

Emily stood smoothly before the question even finished. “Like a tranquilized golden retriever.”

Andy laughed weakly while pushing herself upright.

“And,” Emily continued while stepping toward the subway doors, “you also drooled slightly.”

Andy froze in complete horror. “…I did not.”

Emily’s expression remained perfectly composed.

A beat.

Then, “…No. But watching you panic was rewarding.”

Andy groaned loudly while Emily stepped off the train looking unbearably pleased with herself. And unfortunately, despite the humiliation, Andy followed her smiling helplessly anyway.

-

Emily Charlton’s apartment looked exactly like Emily Charlton.

Which was to say: beautiful, expensive, intimidating, and so aggressively organized that Andy immediately became aware of every poor decision she had ever made in her entire life.

The moment Emily unlocked the door and stepped inside, Andy stopped dead in the entryway. Oh. Oh, wow.

Warm amber lighting glowed softly across dark polished floors and impossibly clean surfaces. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked glittering Manhattan several stories below, the city spread out beyond the glass like something cinematic. Shelves lined one wall with art books arranged in precise intimidating stacks. A low cream-colored sofa sat beneath a charcoal throw that looked too expensive to physically touch. Everything smelled faintly incredible: clean linen, something woodsy, and underneath it all, traces of whatever candle or diffuser Emily apparently used to make her apartment smell like a luxury hotel for emotionally unavailable women.

Andy turned slowly in place taking it all in. Wow. This was not an apartment. This was a habitat carefully curated by someone who alphabetized emotional damage.

Meanwhile Emily had already removed her coat and heels with the exhausted efficiency of someone accustomed to arriving home from twelve-hour workdays and immediately continuing to judge things professionally. She glanced back once. Andy was still standing motionless near the doorway staring around like a Victorian child witnessing electricity for the first time.

Emily narrowed her eyes. “Stop gawking.”

Andy blinked. “Sorry, your apartment just looks like a magazine spread.”

“It looks normal.”

“No,” Andy replied honestly, “my apartment looks normal. This looks like rich people in films have unresolved sexual tension here.”

Emily stared at her for one long second. Then sighed deeply and dropped her handbag onto the kitchen island. “Quit staring into nothing,” she informed her. “You look stupid.”

Andy grinned helplessly. God, even Emily’s apartment sounded judgmental.

Emily crossed toward the hallway already pulling pins from her hair. “I’m showering first.”

“Okay.”

“You may sleep on the sofa. Or the floor. Or wherever your strange little subway-loving instincts compel you.”

Andy laughed softly. “Very generous.”

“I’m known for my charity.”

Emily disappeared briefly into what Andy assumed was the bedroom before reemerging moments later carrying folded fabric and a towel. Without warning she dropped both directly into Andy’s arms.

Andy looked down. “…Are these pajamas?”

Emily looked mildly inconvenienced by the question. “Obviously.”

Andy unfolded them slightly. They were men’s pajamas. Expensive-looking men’s pajamas, naturally. Dark cotton, soft from washing.

Emily spoke before Andy could ask. “They belonged to an ex-boyfriend. I kept stealing them, so they remained after the relationship very mercifully ended.”

Andy looked up slowly. “You kept his pajamas?”

“I kept the fabric quality.”

“That feels somehow colder.”

Emily ignored this. “They’ll probably fit you.”

Andy narrowed her eyes immediately. “Are you implying I’m broad-shouldered?”

Emily looked blank. “What?”

“Or fat?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Andrea.”

“I’m just clarifying.”

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re taller than me.”

“So?”

“So unless you’d prefer to sleep naked on my sofa, stop being ridiculous.”

Andy burst out laughing while Emily swept past her toward the bathroom.

A second later Emily paused in the hallway without turning around. “And Andrea?”

“Yeah?”

“If you touch my skincare products, I’ll know.”

Then the bathroom door shut behind her. Andy stared after her smiling helplessly into the borrowed pajamas. God. This entire situation felt deeply unreal. Fourteen days ago Emily Charlton had accidentally mailed her a drunken love confession. Now Andy was standing barefoot in Emily Charlton’s luxury apartment holding her ex-boyfriend’s pajamas while Emily showered fifteen feet away. Woah. life came at you fast.

Andy eventually settled onto the sofa carefully, still slightly afraid she might somehow stain it through proximity alone. The apartment remained softly quiet around her except for distant water running behind the bathroom wall and the occasional muted traffic sounds drifting up from the street below. Honestly? This was probably the nicest apartment Andy had ever been inside. Everything about it felt so unmistakably Emily, precise, elegant, controlled.

But there were softer things too. Books stacked unevenly near the couch. A mug abandoned beside the sink. One blanket folded imperfectly over the armrest like Emily had fallen asleep there recently and been too tired to fix it afterward.

Andy smiled faintly to herself. She liked this version of Emily’s life. The private version. The one nobody at Runway probably ever got to see.

Eventually the bathroom door opened. Steam curled faintly down the hallway. And then—oh no. Andy looked up automatically. Immediate catastrophic mistake.

Because Emily Charlton fresh from the shower was apparently something no government agency had adequately prepared her for.

Emily stood in the hallway toweling damp hair absently over one shoulder while wearing dark silk pajamas that looked criminal against warm skin still faintly flushed from hot water. No makeup. None. And somehow that made things significantly worse. Softer. Younger, maybe. Not less beautiful—God no, absolutely not less beautiful—but different in a way that made something low in Andy’s chest ache unexpectedly. Without eyeliner and lipstick and Runway armor, Emily looked almost unfairly real.

Andy forgot how to speak.

Emily glanced up immediately and caught her staring. “…Why do you look winded?”

Andy blinked rapidly back into consciousness. “Nothing.”

“You’re doing the face again.”

“What face?”

“The one where your brain visibly stops functioning.”

Andy laughed weakly. “Can you blame it?”

Emily paused. Very briefly. Then looked away too quickly while continuing to dry her hair. “Yes,” she replied crisply. “Frequently.” But there was color rising faintly beneath her cheeks now.

And Andy, sitting there on Emily’s couch holding Emily’s towel while Emily stood barefoot in silk pajamas under soft apartment lighting, suddenly had the terrifying realization that she could become addicted to this frighteningly fast.

-

Andy was still sitting on the sofa trying very hard not to stare at Emily in silk pajamas when Emily finally noticed she hadn’t moved.

“…Why are you still there?”

Andy blinked. “You told me not to touch anything.”

“I meant the skincare products, not basic furniture.”

“Oh.”

Emily sighed deeply through her nose and pointed down the hallway. “Go shower before you begin fossilizing.”

Andy laughed softly and stood, clutching the borrowed pajamas and towel against her chest. “Right. Okay.”

Emily crossed toward the bathroom ahead of her with the exhausted air of someone forced to supervise a particularly underqualified intern. The bathroom door swung open. Andy stopped dead immediately.

“Oh my God.”

Emily glanced back. “What now?”

“This bathroom is bigger than my kitchen.”

“That’s deeply concerning.”

“No, Emily, there’s a plant in here.”

Emily looked unimpressed. “Plants are not rare, Andrea.”

“In bathrooms they are.”

Honestly, calling it a bathroom barely felt accurate. The space glowed softly beneath warm recessed lighting reflecting off pale marble countertops and glass shelves lined with neatly arranged products Andy strongly suspected cost more individually than her monthly grocery budget. A massive rainfall shower stood behind clear glass panels while folded white towels sat stacked with terrifying precision nearby.

It smelled faintly of steam and expensive soap. And underneath that—Emily.

God. The entire room still held lingering warmth from Emily’s shower moments earlier, steam curling faintly against the mirror while traces of her perfume and shampoo lingered in the air. It felt weirdly intimate standing there surrounded by evidence of Emily existing privately. Like Andy had somehow crossed into territory she wasn’t entirely prepared for.

Emily, meanwhile, had moved directly into Practical Crisis Management Mode. She pointed toward the shower shelves. “The shampoo is the black bottle.”

Andy nodded automatically.

“The conditioner is the white one.”

“Okay.”

“The face wash is the smaller bottle on the left.”

Andy looked over at the approximately fourteen products arranged beside the sink. “That narrows it down significantly.”

Emily ignored this. “Do not use the exfoliating cleanser.”

“…Why?”

“Because your skin already looks exhausted.”

Andy gasped softly. “Rude.”

“It’s true.” Emily crossed her arms now, eyeing her critically. “Also I assume you use one of those horrifying combination shampoo-body wash situations.”

Andy looked offended immediately. “I do not.”

Emily raised one skeptical eyebrow.

Andy paused. “…Okay sometimes.”

“Oh, Andrea.”

“What? It’s efficient.”

“That is not a word that should apply to hygiene.”

Andy burst out laughing. Emily looked deeply resigned by her existence now. “Anyway. There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet.”

Andy blinked once. “…You have spare toothbrushes?”

Emily froze for one almost imperceptible second like she regretted revealing this information immediately. Then she recovered smoothly. “Normal adults prepare for guests.”

Something about that made Andy’s chest ache unexpectedly. Guests. The word settled strangely warm somewhere beneath her ribs.

Emily turned briskly toward the door before the moment could become emotionally dangerous. “Try not to drown.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And Andrea?”

Andy looked up. Emily’s gaze flicked once toward her hair before she said dryly, “Conditioner is not optional.”

Then she disappeared down the hallway. Andy stood there alone for a second afterward smiling helplessly at absolutely nothing. God. This woman was going to kill her. Eventually Andy forced herself to behave like a functioning adult and got in the shower quickly before she completely lost the ability to think in complete sentences.

-

The shower itself was genuinely unfair. The water pressure alone nearly made Andy emotional. No screeching pipes. No questionable temperature fluctuations. No shower curtain attempting murder every thirty seconds. Just hot water cascading down in perfect steady streams while steam filled the room around her. Honestly, Emily’s apartment was less an apartment and more a functioning argument against poverty.

Andy washed quickly at first, hyperaware she was technically using Emily’s things. Emily’s shampoo. Emily’s conditioner. Emily’s obscenely expensive body wash that smelled clean and warm and expensive in the exact same impossible way Emily herself did. She used approximately half the amount she normally would out of guilt. Because surely these products were handcrafted individually by tiny French chemists beneath moonlight or something.

Still, despite herself, Andy relaxed gradually beneath the hot water. The exhaustion of the day loosened slowly from her shoulders while warmth soaked through muscles she hadn’t realized still hurt. By the time she rinsed conditioner from her hair, she felt almost human again. Which honestly felt medically significant.

Eventually she shut off the water reluctantly and reached for the towel Emily had left her. Big mistake. Because the second Andy wrapped it around herself—Oh no. It smelled like Emily too. Warm. Soft. Faint traces of perfume and fabric softener and Emily’s apartment and Emily herself lingering in the fabric.

Andy froze immediately. Then, horrifyingly, without fully meaning to—she buried her face briefly into the towel before she could stop herself.

Then immediately jerked back in horror at her own behavior. “Oh my God,” she whispered aloud to the empty bathroom. “Get a grip.”

Too late, honestly. Because now her exhausted overtired brain had fully entered catastrophic territory. First: the subway shoulder nap. Then: Emily’s apartment. Now: being wrapped in something that smelled unmistakably like Emily Charlton herself.

At this point Andy was approximately three emotionally loaded domestic moments away from proposing accidentally.

She leaned over the sink trying very hard to recover dignity while brushing damp hair back from her face. What the hell, Andy. Get it together. You are thirty seconds away from becoming clinically embarrassing.

She quickly changed into the borrowed pajamas afterward, sleeves hanging slightly too long over her hands while the soft dark fabric settled warm against still-damp skin. Honestly? The pajamas were absurdly comfortable. Which somehow made the situation emotionally worse.

That was when Emily’s voice drifted through the bathroom door. “Oh, and Andrea?”

Andy startled violently hard enough to nearly knock over an extremely expensive-looking moisturizer jar. “Yeah?”

A pause.

Then, slightly muffled through the door, “I was joking earlier. You can use my skincare products.”

Andy blinked once at the door. Something warm unfolded instantly in Andy’s chest.

“Oh.”

Outside, Emily continued with careful casualness, “I wouldn’t want your pretty face breaking out from neglect,” she said lightly through the door. “That would be unfortunate for everyone involved.”

Andy went completely still. Pretty face. PRETTY FACE??? Her stupid heart immediately attempted self-destruction.

Outside the bathroom, Emily—apparently unaware she’d just committed emotional manslaughter—continued briskly, “There’s cleanser already out beside the sink. And moisturizer. The serum is absurdly overpriced but effective.”

Andy swallowed once. “…Okay.”

“Also,” Emily added, somehow sounding both detached and deeply domestic simultaneously, “I left a blanket and pillow on the sofa. And there’s water on the coffee table because you look like someone who forgets hydration exists.”

Andy looked toward the bathroom door like she could somehow see through it.

“And now,” Emily finished, voice softer now around the edges with sleepiness, “I’m going to bed.”

A tiny pause.

Then, “Goodnight, Andrea.”

And then footsteps. Andy stood motionless listening as Emily disappeared farther down the hallway toward her bedroom. A door clicked softly shut. Silence settled across the apartment again.

Andy stood motionless in front of the mirror for a long moment.

Andy remained frozen in the middle of the bathroom wrapped entirely in Emily-scented fabric while her brain attempted to process:

• pretty face
• goodnight andrea
• use my skincare
• blanket and pillow waiting on the couch

God. Now she was going to:

• use Emily’s cleanser
• use Emily’s moisturizer
• sleep wrapped in Emily’s blanket
• inside Emily Charlton’s apartment
• while Emily Charlton slept down the hall

This was not sustainable. Fourteen days ago this woman had been drunkenly mailing her emotional warfare disguised as hate lists. Now Andy was standing barefoot in her bathroom using her cleanser while trying not to have a complete psychological breakdown over being called pretty. Honestly, this felt less like staying over and more like accidentally being absorbed into Emily Charlton’s ecosystem.

And the truly dangerous thing was: Andy wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to leave.

-

The first thing Andy became aware of the next morning was sunlight.

The second was a voice announcing, with immense disapproval, “Right, out of bed. The day’s half gone.”

Andy made a faint noise of protest somewhere beneath the blanket and cracked one eye open blearily.

For one deeply confusing second, she had absolutely no idea where she was. Warm blanket. Soft pillow. Something expensive and clean lingering faintly in the air around her.

Then her brain caught up. The newsroom. The subway. The shoulder incident. Emily’s apartment.

Oh God.

Andy blinked sleepily upward just in time to see Emily standing near the sofa already fully dressed for work like some sort of impossibly polished morning hallucination. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless. A Ralph Lauren cream blouse tucked into dark trousers. Coffee cup balanced elegantly in one hand. And somehow, somehow—she still smelled incredible from several feet away.

Meanwhile Andy currently resembled abandoned laundry. 

Emily took one sip of coffee while watching her with visible judgment. “Wonderful,” she said dryly. “The girl hasn’t slipped into a coma.” 

Andy groaned softly and buried her face briefly back into the pillow.

“Come now,” Emily continued briskly. “I made breakfast," she informed her. “Now will you kindly remove yourself from my sofa before your toast becomes soggy and tragic.”

Andy sat upright immediately, hair completely disastrous while the blanket nearly tangled around her legs. “I’m up, I’m awake.”

Emily looked unconvinced.

God. Andy became abruptly aware that she had just slept in Emily Charlton’s apartment. On Emily Charlton’s couch. Possibly unattractively. Horrifying. Instant panic arrived.

Oh God. Please let her have slept normally. What if she drooled? What if she snored? What if her mouth had fallen open while sleeping? What if she talked in her sleep? What if Emily had walked out this morning to discover Andrea Sachs starfished unconscious across the sofa mumbling nonsesne into expensive throw pillows like a sedated zoo animal? The thought of Emily Charlton witnessing any form of unconscious indignity felt genuinely career-ending. Humbling. Truly humbling. 

Andy glanced up cautiously. Emily looked perfectly composed, which unfortunately revealed absolutely nothing. No visible trauma. No signs of emotional damage from observing Andy unconscious for several hours. Promising. Still.

Andy ran one hand quickly through her hair trying unsuccessfully to recover dignity. “How long have you been awake?”

Emily looked unfazed. “Long enough to question several of your sleeping positions.”

Andy froze in complete horror. “Oh my God.”

“You move aggressively for someone unconscious.”

“That’s not comforting.”

"It wasn't meant to be."

Andy groaned louder while Emily looked unbearably pleased with herself. God. There was absolutely no way to survive this woman with dignity intact.

Eventually Andy pushed herself upright fully, still wrapped partly in the blanket while searching vaguely around for her clothes. Her jeans were nowhere visible. Neither was her sweater.

Andy frowned. “Uh.”

Emily looked up from her coffee. “What?”

“My clothes?”

“Oh.” Emily waved one hand dismissively., not even looking remotely ashamed. “I threw them in the laundry.”

Andy blinked once. “You what?”

“They smelled horrendous.”

Andy stared at her in complete disbelief. “Emily!”

“Don’t ‘Emily’ me, I’m serious,” Emily informed her firmly. “I nearly lost consciousness when you walked into my apartment last night.”

“You can’t just secretly launder people’s clothes!”

“I absolutely can when they arrive in my apartment dressed like municipal exhaustion.”

Andy laughed despite herself and stood, stretching slightly before immediately becoming aware she was still wearing Emily’s ex-boyfriend’s pajamas in front of Emily at six-thirty in the morning. Which somehow felt significantly more intimate in daylight.

“…Okay,” Andy said slowly. “Then what exactly am I supposed to wear to work today?”

Emily gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “I put something out for you in the bathroom.”

Andy blinked again. “Something?”

“One of my spare work outfits.”

Andy was momentarily stunned. “Emily.”

“What?”

“You’re lending me your clothes?”

Emily looked deeply irritated by how emotional Andy apparently found basic logistics. “You said you’re a size four now, yes?”

Andy narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Yes…”

Emily shrugged lightly. “I’m a two, but I'm sure if you simply shove yourself into them and shimmy slightly, they should fit adequately.”

Andy stared at her for one long second. Momentarily speechless. Then, “I’m choosing to believe that was intended affectionately.”

Emily paused, very briefly. Then looked away toward the kitchen with suspicious casualness. “Yes,” she said crisply. “It was."

Andy’s heart did something medically concerning. Again. Honestly at this point she should probably consult a physician.

Emily pointed at the hallway immediately before Andy could visibly melt onto the sofa. “Now stop being sluggish.”

So she hurried toward the bathroom smiling helplessly while Emily pretended not to watch her go.

-

The bathroom somehow looked even more luxurious in daylight. Soft morning sun filtered through frosted windows while marble countertops gleamed beneath warm lighting. And there, folded neatly beside the sink, sat an entire outfit Emily had apparently selected for her.

Andy stared. Checkered skirt. Navy knit top. Dark fitted coat draped neatly beside them. Everything looked expensive enough to require supervision.

“Oh my God,” Andy whispered faintly to herself.

The skirt fit suspiciously well, which honestly felt personally offensive considering Emily’s earlier comments about shoving and shimmying.

The sleeves on the coat were slightly short, but otherwise—Andy turned slowly toward the mirror. Oh. Okay. She looked…good. Like genuinely good. Dangerously good. And somehow unmistakably Emily-adjacent. Which was psychologically complicated.

Then there was the makeup situation. Andy looked slowly toward the collection of products arranged neatly across the marble counter. And after one long moment of internal moral debate…well. Emily had technically said she could use them.

Very carefully, Andy applied concealer beneath tired eyes and a small amount of mascara while trying not to think too hard about the fact she was standing barefoot in Emily Charlton’s bathroom doing makeup with Emily Charlton’s products while wearing Emily Charlton’s clothes. This was becoming alarmingly domestic.

By the time Andy emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, Emily had moved into the kitchen balancing a plate in one hand while scanning something on her phone.

Then she looked up. And stopped. Very briefly. Almost imperceptibly. But enough.

Andy suddenly felt hyperaware of everything all at once: Emily’s clothes on her body. Emily’s makeup on her face. Emily’s shampoo still lingering faintly in her hair.

God.

Emily recovered quickly, setting the plate down on the counter. “Well,” she said lightly, “you appear significantly less tragic.”

Andy grinned despite herself. “High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

-

Breakfast itself felt strangely normal after that. Which honestly might’ve been the most dangerous part.

Sunlight spilled across the kitchen island while Manhattan glittered pale gold beyond the massive windows. Emily moved easily around the kitchen pouring coffee while Andy perched sleepily on one of the stools wearing borrowed work attire and trying not to look too emotionally affected by domesticity before nine in the morning.

Toast. Fruit. Coffee. Simple. And yet Andy felt bizarrely warm the entire time.

Emily slid another cup of coffee toward her. “Careful. It’s hot.”

“Thanks.”

A comfortable silence settled briefly between them. Andy looked up. And immediately made the mistake of actually looking at Emily properly in morning light.

God. This woman was unfair before caffeine. The soft cream blouse. Gold jewelry glinting faintly against warm skin. Perfect eyeliner. Hair falling smoothly over one shoulder while she sipped coffee with sleepy irritation still lingering faintly beneath her polished exterior.

Andy stared without meaning to. Again.

Emily noticed immediately, obviously. “What now?”

Andy smiled into her mug. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring again.”

“You’re very stare-able.”

Emily nearly choked on her coffee. Actually physically choked.

Andy burst into startled laughter while Emily coughed once into her hand looking deeply offended by existence.

“That,” Emily informed her hoarsely, “was entirely your fault.”

Andy grinned helplessly into her coffee cup. “Sorry.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“No,” Andy admitted. “Not really.”

Emily narrowed her eyes suspiciously while faint color crept slowly upward beneath her makeup. And God. Seeing Emily Charlton blush might actually become Andy’s favorite hobby.

-

Breakfast ended eventually only because reality and employment remained deeply irritating concepts. They both gathered coats and bags near the apartment door while Manhattan bustled awake several stories below them.

At the mirror in the entryway, Emily paused abruptly. Then reached toward the console table beside the entryway where a familiar perfume bottle sat waiting. Andy recognized it instantly. Oh no.

Emily picked it up casually. “Hold still.”

Andy blinked. “What?”

Then—spritz. A soft cloud of perfume settled lightly against her neck before she could react. Warm floral-citrus smoke wrapped instantly around her. Andy forgot how to breathe. 

Emily lowered the perfume bottle with complete composure. “There.”

Andy stared at her. “Did you just perfume me?”

“You currently smell like my shampoo and laundry detergent already,” Emily replied matter-of-factly. “It would’ve been strange not to commit fully.”

Andy laughed weakly because her brain had stopped functioning somewhere around: Emily deliberately making her smell like her.

Then Emily held out the bottle again casually. “Wrists.”

Andy blinked. “What?”

Emily sighed with immense long-suffering patience. “Honestly, Andrea, has no one taught you anything?”

Still stunned, Andy held out her wrists automatically while Emily sprayed perfume lightly against both pulse points with terrifying precision.

God. Now she completely smelled like Emily. Not metaphorically. Literally. Emily’s clothes. Emily’s perfume. Emily’s skincare probably still sitting on her face. At this point Andy was approximately ninety percent Emily Charlton by volume. Now it felt less like borrowing toiletries and more like accidental scent-marking. Which was not a thought Andy should be having before nine in the morning.

Emily stepped back smoothly like she hadn’t just committed psychological warfare before work hours.

“There,” she said calmly. “Now you smell acceptable.”

Andy stared at her. “…You are an alarming person.”

“Yes," Emily said simply, before tucking the bottle of perfume into Andrea's bag. "Remember to top up during the day."

And somehow that was the end of the discussion.

-

Absolutely no subway was involved this time.

Emily flagged a cab downstairs with the efficiency of a woman correcting a previous moral failure. She slid into the backseat first with elegant efficiency while Andy followed beside her.

Again, close. Knees brushing faintly. Emily’s perfume surrounding her from literally every direction now. This could not possibly be healthy.

Emily gave the driver Andy’s office address first before her own.

Andy looked over immediately. “You don’t have to drop me off first.”

Emily looked horrified. “Andrea, if I let you out after me you’d somehow end up back underground voluntarily.”

“That happened once.”

“Once too many.”

Andy laughed softly and settled back into the seat while the cab pulled into Manhattan traffic.

Emily looked out the window like the conversation suddenly interested her significantly less.

But after a second, quieter now, “Well,” she said carefully, “I wasn’t going to make you take the subway looking respectable for once.”

Andy smiled helplessly all the way to the Mirror.

Morning light flashed gold across buildings outside the windows. Beside her, Emily checked emails with sharp sleepy focus while traces of perfume drifted softly between them every time the cab turned.

And somewhere beneath exhaustion and coffee and all the strange tenderness of the last twelve hours, Andy had one sudden terrifying realization: she could get used to this.

Which felt like the beginning of something potentially catastrophic.

-

The cab pulled smoothly to a stop outside the New York Mirror building.

Morning traffic surged loudly around them while pedestrians streamed across sidewalks wrapped in coffee cups and winter coats. The city already felt fully awake now in that aggressively New York way where everyone looked simultaneously exhausted and late.

Andy gathered her bag reluctantly, suddenly aware that getting out of this cab meant the night was officially over. Which, well. That felt unfortunate.

She turned slightly toward Emily. “Your clothes?”

Emily barely looked up from checking something on her phone. “Keep them.”

Andy blinked. “Seriously?”

“They’re last season anyway.”

Andy stared at her. Wowza. Fashion people were genuinely terrifying.

“That sentence alone probably cost more than my electricity bill,” Andy informed her.

Emily waved one dismissive hand. “Then your electricity bill lacks ambition.”

Andy laughed softly while reaching for the door handle.

Then she paused. 

“…Thanks for the ride, Em.”

The nickname slipped out naturally now. Easy. And Emily reacted to it exactly the same way she always did lately, a tiny pause, barely noticeable, but there.

Then she recovered immediately, waving her away with elegant impatience. “Right, now shoo, out of my way.”

Andy grinned.

“If we continue this touching little morning routine,” Emily continued dryly, “I’ll be late, and you know how Miranda is.”

Andy laughed outright at that and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The cold morning air hit immediately. God. She stood there smiling helplessly at absolutely nothing for several seconds before finally heading inside.

-

The newsroom was already fully operational by the time she reached her desk. Phones ringing. Editors yelling. Coffee brewing somewhere with visible aggression.

Melissa sat across from Andy balancing a bagel in one hand and three open folders in the other. She looked up immediately. “Well?”

Andy blinked innocently while setting her bag down. “Well what?”

Melissa narrowed her eyes. “How was the break room couch?”

Andy hesitated. Which unfortunately was enough.

Melissa slowly lowered the bagel. “…Oh?”

Andy tried very hard to look casual while removing her coat. “Actually, I didn’t stay here last night.”

Melissa’s expression sharpened instantly with terrifying interest. “Hm.”

Andy sat down at her desk quickly. “Don’t make that sound.”

“What sound?”

“The sound you make before becoming deeply annoying.”

Melissa ignored this completely. Instead, her eyes slowly dragged over Andy’s outfit. The coat. The skirt. The knit top. Then upward toward: the makeup, the suspiciously polished hair, and whatever lingering traces of Emily’s perfume still clung softly to her skin.

Melissa went very still. “Oh my God.”

Andy immediately pointed warningly at her. “No.”

“Those are Emily’s clothes.” Melissa gasped suddenly. “Wait. Did you sleep over?”

Andy groaned softly. “Please lower your voice.”

Melissa physically slapped a hand over her mouth for approximately half a second before whisper-screaming, “Oh my God.”

Several nearby coworkers looked over briefly. Andy dropped into her chair with immense regret. “Nothing happened.”

Melissa leaned across the desk aggressively. “Did you get to third base?”

“SHUT UP. NO—we aren't even remotely on first base!”

A copy editor passing nearby looked deeply alarmed. Melissa lowered her voice slightly but not her excitement. “Andrea.”

“No!”

“She let you stay at her apartment?”

“My building lost power.”

“She gave you clothes.”

“My clothes smelled bad.”

“She dressed you.”

“She lent me clothes.”

Melissa was fully invested in this now. “So what happened?”

Andy sighed dramatically and gave her the abbreviated version: the food, the subway, the apartment, the pajamas, the breakfast.

Melissa listened with the increasingly delighted expression of someone witnessing a live romantic comedy unfold directly in front of her.

Then, “She called you pretty?”

Andy immediately looked away toward her computer screen. “Maybe.”

Melissa slapped the desk softly. “OH, she’s gone.”

Andy failed miserably to suppress a smile.

Melissa pointed accusingly. “That face right there? That’s the face of someone moments away from being folded into a very expensive relationship.”

“I hate the way you phrase things.”

“I’m right though.”

Andy opened her mouth to argue.

Her phone buzzed. Both women looked down instantly. And because God apparently hated her personally, the screen lit up with:

Emily Charlton

Melissa made a silent choking gesture. Andy ignored her and opened the text.

I said you could keep the clothes, but please restrain from staining them.

Andy stared at the message smiling before she could stop herself.

Then another text appeared immediately underneath:

Also the perfume is Tom Ford. Do NOT lose it. I’ll become unbearable.

Andy laughed softly under her breath.

“Oh my God,” Melissa whispered immediately. “She gave you her perfume?”

Andy buried her face in her hands. “Please don’t phrase it like that.”

“But she DID.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Melissa replied cheerfully. “You’re too busy getting emotionally adopted by a British woman.”

Andy looked down at the phone again, warmth blooming slowly through her chest. Then she typed back:

No promises. I’m drinking newsroom coffee.

Also thanks again. For everything.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then:

Mm.

Eat some proper lunch today.

I’m serious.

Andy tried very hard not to smile at her phone. Failed immediately.

Melissa watched this happen with the exhausted expression of someone observing a preventable disaster unfold in slow motion. “You realize,” she said carefully, “that you look insane right now.”

Andy looked up innocently. “What?”

“You’re smiling at punctuation.”

Andy glanced back down at the message again despite herself.

I said you could keep the clothes but please restrain from staining them.

God. It wasn’t even remotely romantic on paper. And somehow that made it worse. Because Emily Charlton apparently cared about her in ways so fundamentally Emily that even concern arrived disguised as dry-cleaning instructions.

Andy’s chest hurt a little about it. Which felt medically unnecessary for nine-thirty in the morning.

-

Around them, the newsroom continued buzzing loudly through another exhausting Manhattan morning. Phones rang. Editors shouted. Someone nearby swore violently at a headline.

But somehow, despite the chaos, Andy still felt strangely warm. Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe the lingering exhaustion. Maybe the fact she was still wearing Emily’s clothes and smelled faintly like her shampoo and perfume and apartment.

Or maybe—Andy looked back down at her phone again before she could stop herself.

Then, after one brief moment of hesitation, she typed:

I’ll try not to disgrace the skirt publicly

Thanks again for last night

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then disappeared. Then reappeared again. Andy smiled before the reply even arrived.

Finally:

Mm.

You looked nice this morning, by the way.

Even unconscious.

Andy stopped breathing. Completely. 

Across the desk, Melissa watched her expression change in real time. “Oh,” she said softly. “That was bad, wasn’t it?”

Andy stared at the screen in complete silence while heat crawled rapidly into her face. Because somewhere between the food, the subway, the shoulder, the shower, the breakfast, the perfume—Emily Charlton had apparently gone from: emotionally repressed workplace disaster, to actively flirting.

And honestly? That felt significantly more dangerous.

Andy stared at the text for one long stunned second while heat climbed steadily into her face.

Across the desk, Melissa watched her with open pity now. “Oh, you’re gone.”

Andy laughed weakly without looking up from her phone.

Because honestly? Maybe she was. Maybe somewhere between:

• the aggressively judgmental rescue mission
• the subway shoulder nap
• Emily doing laundry at dawn like an emotionally repressed housewife
• and being personally perfumed before work like a Victorian mistress heading into society

something had gone catastrophically wrong inside Andy Sachs. Or right.

Her phone buzzed once more. And because Emily Charlton apparently believed in psychological warfare as a love language, the newest message read:

And Andrea?

Try not to fall asleep on any more strangers today. I’m not sharing my perfume with the general public.

Andy actually had to bite down on a smile.

Melissa narrowed her eyes immediately. “That expression means the British woman texted you again.”

Andy flipped her phone over quickly. “Mind your business.”

“Absolutely not.”

Andy laughed softly despite herself, warmth lingering low and impossible beneath her ribs while newsroom chaos swelled around them once more.

God. Liking Emily Charlton was rapidly becoming less of a crush and more of a medically significant event. And the worst part was, Andy glanced down at her phone one last time, still smiling helplessly, she suspected loving Emily Charlton probably required this exact level of psychological instability.