Archive of Our Own

Two days after accidentally spending the night at Emily Charlton’s apartment, Andy Sachs found herself developing a problem. Several problems, actually.

The first was that Emily had apparently become impossible to stop thinking about. 

The second was that Emily Charlton, once she decided to care about someone, did so with the terrifying intensity of a deeply judgmental guardian angel. 

And the third, arguably most concerning, was that Andy now had absolutely no idea what the appropriate romantic response was to being emotionally adopted by a British fashion executive through acts of aggressive domesticity. Because honestly? Emily had set the bar alarmingly high. It had started with food. Then concern. Then subway rescues. Then sleepover. Then laundry. Then skincare. Then coffee. Then perfume.

Perfume, Andy thought while staring blankly at her laptop screen Thursday morning, was psychologically loaded. There was no platonic explanation for scent-marking someone before work. That was behavior found exclusively in, a) Victorian novels, b) highly codependent marriages, or c) whatever terrifying thing she and Emily currently had happening between them.

Across the desk, Melissa glanced up from editing copy. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for six minutes.”

Andy blinked. “What?”

“You’re spiraling again.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You’re making the face.”

Andy frowned. “What face?”

“The one where you look like you’ve been hypnotised by a woman. Especially a woman named Emily.”

Andy sighed and leaned back in her chair dramatically.

Because the issue was this. Emily kept doing things. Small things, yes. Technically deniable things. But still things. 

Texting reminders to eat lunch. 

Sending weather warnings like:

Wear proper shoes today. Manhattan currently resembles maritime warfare.

Complaining about men in media with increasing specificity.

And forwarding articles with no explanation except:

Thought this would irritate you professionally.

And every single interaction somehow made Andy feel fond, unstable, and vaguely like she should start looking at engagement rings against her will.

It was becoming a real issue. Worse, Andy had begun developing the persistent horrible feeling that she needed to… reciprocate somehow. Which sounded simple in theory.

Except Emily Charlton was not a simple person to romantically gesture at. Andy had been trying to solve this problem for approximately thirty-six hours now.

Lunch? No. Impossible. Emily barely had time to inhale oxygen between meetings. Coffee? Too casual somehow. Emily would drink it, judge it, and then continue emotionally devastating Andy uninterrupted. A gift? Horrifying. What exactly could one buy for a woman who treated luxury retail like a constitutional right?

Flowers? Andy physically paused mid-thought. …Actually no. Absolutely not. Because in theory, flowers sounded romantic. In practice, however, sending flowers to Emily Charlton at Runway would basically constitute public execution.

Andy could picture it with crystal clarity: the flowers arriving at reception, some trembling assistant carrying them upstairs, Nigel witnessing the entire thing instantly, Serena absolutely never shutting up about it, and Miranda Priestly slowly lifting one eyebrow while Emily died visibly in real time beside her desk.

No. No no no. Emily would simply fake her own death and relocate internationally.

Honestly, Emily seemed like the type of person who preferred relationships handled discreetly. Quietly. Elegantly. Minimal public humiliation involved.

Showing up unexpectedly at Runway would somehow be even worse.

Because at first, Andy had briefly thought, well… maybe I could surprise her? And immediately afterward, Oh my God absolutely not.

Surprising Emily Charlton at work felt less like a romantic gesture and more like a direct threat. Especially at Runway. That’s basically saying, “Hahaha suck it! You really thought I had a thing for you? Ding-ding… Wrong!”

Andy could already imagine the outcome. She’d walk into the office. Emily would look up. Nigel would notice instantly. Serena would smell emotional vulnerability in the air like a shark sensing blood in water. Miranda would emerge from her office exactly at the wrong moment. And Emily, humiliated beyond recovery, would probably block Andy’s number, move apartments, and legally erase all evidence of knowing her.

Honestly, Andy was fairly certain Emily would rather die than have her coworkers witness active romantic developments occurring in her personal life. Which, fair enough. Runway wasn’t exactly an emotionally safe environment. It was more like a beautifully dressed psychological war zone.

Across the desk, Melissa slowly lowered her coffee cup. “…You’re doing it again.”

Andy blinked. “Doing what?”

“That thing where you stare into space looking deeply homosexual for one specific woman.”

Andy looked appalled. “What do you mean ‘looking homosexual’.”

“You just do.”

“I swear, can people stop saying confusing things to me today. It somehow feels targeted.”

“Eh.”

Andy groaned softly and dropped her forehead briefly against the desk.

Because really, this was ridiculous. How had Emily Charlton somehow become the prettiest person Andy had ever met, the most stressful person Andy had ever met, and simultaneously the person most likely to text:

Eat something with nutrients today or I’ll become unpleasant.

Honestly, the emotional whiplash alone should’ve qualified as a medical condition.

Melissa watched her carefully now. “Okay,” she said slowly. “What’s happening in there?”

Andy lifted her head with immense reluctance. “I think I need to up my game.”

Melissa went completely still.

“Oh my God.”

“Please don’t react like that.”

“No, wait, this is huge.” Melissa leaned forward immediately. “What does that mean?”

Andy gestured vaguely in emotional distress. “I don’t know! Emily keeps doing all this…stuff.”

“Stuff,” Melissa repeated flatly.

“She brought me food. She let me stay over. She washed my clothes, Melissa.”

Melissa slapped one hand dramatically against her chest. “The woman domesticated you in under twelve hours.”

“I know!”

“And now you want to impress her back.”

“Yes!”

Melissa stared at her for one long beat. “You’re in so much trouble.”

Andy dropped back into her chair with a groan.

Because the worst part was, Melissa was right. Andy Sachs—formerly sensible journalist, emotionally functional adult, survivor of Miranda Priestly herself—was currently losing psychological stability over one frighteningly elegant British woman who expressed affection through criticism and premium skincare.

And somehow, impossibly, things only seemed to be getting worse.

-

By lunchtime, Andy had reached a decision.

Well. Less a decision and more a vaguely unhinged compromise between romantic impulse, social survival, and avoiding public execution at the hands of Emily Charlton.

Because after nearly two full days of psychological deterioration, Andy had finally accepted three important truths. 

1. She absolutely wanted to do something for Emily.
2. Any grand public gesture directed toward Emily at Runway would almost certainly result in immediate emotional death.
3. If Miranda Priestly ever witnessed Andy Sachs arriving at Elias-Clarke holding flowers for Emily Charlton, there would probably be a small tasteful obituary published afterward. Written by Miss Charlton herself. And then Emily would flee the country.

So. Fine. No dramatic office delivery. No surprise lunch. No showing up inside Runway looking lovestruck and emotionally available.

Instead, Andy settled on a far more reasonable plan. She would buy flowers, wait outside Elias-Clarke after work, and give them to Emily privately like a normal person instead of a deranged Hallmark protagonist.

Honestly, this still felt dangerously close to public humiliation. But at least this version reduced the likelihood of Nigel witnessing active courtship behavior in real time. Which mattered.

Because Nigel absolutely seemed like the type of man who would notice immediately, say something devastatingly perceptive, and then somehow turn romantic embarrassment into a recurring bit for the next six months.

Andy shuddered at the thought while stepping out into cold Manhattan air.

-

Okay. Flowers. Fine. She could do flowers.

Except approximately twelve minutes later, standing inside a tiny upscale florist three blocks from the Mirror, Andy realized she had made a terrible mistake.

Because apparently there were, too many flowers.

Buckets and arrangements crowded every available surface in soft explosions of color while instrumental jazz drifted quietly overhead. Roses. Tulips. Lilies. Peonies. Orchids. Tiny delicate white flowers Andy was fairly certain existed solely to intimidate people.

Andy stood motionless in the middle of the shop holding absolutely no useful thoughts whatsoever. Oh no.

A florist arranging stems behind the counter glanced up politely. “Can I help you find something?”

Andy smiled weakly. “Maybe?”

Then immediately looked back toward the flowers like they might personally rescue her from this situation.

Because suddenly every option felt catastrophically wrong. 

Red roses? Absolutely not. Too intense. Too “I’ve written poetry about your collarbones.” 

Lilies? Funeral-adjacent. 

Tulips? Maybe too soft somehow. Emily would probably glance at them once and say, “These look apologetic.”

Orchids? No. Emily already looked like she naturally belonged beside orchids. Buying them for her felt redundant.

Hydrangeas? Honestly sounded like a wealthy aunt.

Andy stared harder at a display of peonies trying to force emotional clarity into existence.

And, horrifyingly, somewhere in the back of her brain, Emily’s voice had begun providing commentary.

Those are aggressively pink, Andrea.

No, absolutely not. Those look like hotel lobby flowers.

Who willingly purchases carnations? Have standards.

Andy closed her eyes briefly.

The florist watched her now with growing concern. “You alright there?”

Andy opened her eyes immediately. “Yep.”

A beat.

Then, “…Do flowers ever become psychologically overwhelming?”

The florist blinked once. “Sometimes around Valentine’s Day?”

“Okay good.”

Andy turned slowly toward another display while internally spiraling harder.

Because the issue wasn’t really the flowers. The issue was that this mattered. And somehow that made every bouquet feel loaded with emotional consequences.

What if Emily hated them? What if she found them embarrassing? What if Andy accidentally selected flowers that communicated I’d like to marry you in a library during wartime?

God.

At this point the florist was approximately three minutes away from calling an exorcist. Andy had now spent nearly ten full minutes staring silently at flowers with the haunted expression of someone receiving psychic visions.

Then, sunflowers. Andy paused.

A small cluster sat near the front window, bright gold against the gray winter afternoon outside. Not elegant exactly. Not refined. Definitely not the sort of flowers Emily Charlton would personally choose.

Which was maybe why Andy liked them immediately. They felt warm. Open. Happy in an uncomplicated way.

And suddenly Andy could picture it perfectly. Emily pretending to hate them, sneering initially, and then secretly softening anyway.

Because the truth was Andy didn’t really want to buy Emily “impressive” flowers. She wanted to buy her flowers that felt like happiness.

And embarrassingly enough, lately happiness had started looking a lot like: Emily smiling at her over coffee, Emily texting weather warnings, Emily looking smug while criticizing subway infrastructure, and Emily texting: You looked nice this morning. Even unconscious.

Oh. Andy smiled helplessly before she could stop herself.

The florist visibly relaxed. “Ah,” she said knowingly. “Flowers for your crush?”

Andy blinked. “My what?”

The florist grinned slightly as she reached for the brown wrapping paper. “I see it all the time. People come in pretending they’re not nervous, then spend forever choosing flowers for someone they like.”

Andy looked horrified. “Who said I like someone?”

“Your face.”

“That is not evidence.”

“Sunflowers?” the florist asked lightly while beginning to gather stems together. “Good choice.”

Andy watched the bouquet slowly come together beneath the florist’s practiced hands. Bright yellow petals layered over one another like scraps of sunlight, their dark centers rich as spilled ink. Against the muted little shop—dusty wooden shelves, pale afternoon light, the faint smell of soil and fresh stems—the sunflowers looked almost impossibly warm, as though they carried their own piece of summer inside them.

And weirdly, the second the decision was made, she felt calmer. Because yes. Emily would absolutely judge them. She’d probably say: Sunflowers are aggressively optimistic.

Or:

These look like they belong in a farmhouse kitchen.

Or maybe:

Andrea, these are absurd.

But Andy also knew, somehow, that Emily would keep them anyway. Carefully. Probably in one of those terrifyingly expensive minimalist vases she undoubtedly owned.

The thought made something warm settle quietly beneath Andy’s ribs.

-

By the time she stepped back into the newsroom twenty minutes later carrying the bouquet wrapped in brown paper, Melissa looked up from her desk and physically froze.

A long silence followed.

“…Wow.”

Andy immediately tightened her grip on the flowers defensively. “Don’t start.”

Melissa slowly removed her glasses. “Are you about to get down on one knee tonight?”

Andy nearly dropped the bouquet. “WHAT?”

“I’m serious.” Melissa gestured wildly toward the sunflowers. “Andy, those are romance-movie flowers.”

“They are not!”

“They absolutely are.”

Andy hurried toward her desk in full panic mode while nearby coworkers immediately became interested in the situation.

One editor glanced over curiously. “Who’s getting proposed to?”

“Nobody,” Andy said too quickly.

Melissa leaned back in her chair looking delighted beyond reason. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you bought Emily flowers!”

Andy hissed immediately, “Lower your voice!”

“Why? I’m happy for you! Are you gonna surprise her at work?”

Andy dropped into her chair clutching the bouquet like evidence from a crime scene. “I’m not giving them to her at work.”

Melissa gasped dramatically. “You’re ambushing her after work?”

“I am not ambushing her!”

“That’s exactly what this is.”

Andy groaned and buried part of her face briefly against the brown paper wrapping.

Because now that the flowers physically existed, the entire plan suddenly felt more real, more romantic, and significantly more insane.

Across the desk, Melissa softened slightly beneath all the delight. “She’s gonna love them, you know.”

Andy looked up uncertainly. “You think?”

Melissa glanced at the bouquet again. Then back at Andy’s expression. And smiled knowingly.

“Andy,” she said carefully, “I think Emily Charlton could receive a parking ticket from you and still look at it like a love letter.”

-

Meanwhile, Emily Charlton was having what could professionally be described as a deeply homicidal day.

It had started at six-thirty that morning when Miranda summoned her into work nearly an hour earlier than usual for reasons that ultimately could’ve been communicated through email if anyone involved possessed human emotions.

Emily arrived sleep-deprived, under-caffeinated, and already prepared to resent everyone she encountered before sunrise. 

Unfortunately, Runway had apparently sensed weakness.

By eight-fifteen, three separate people had physically obstructed her path to the conference room. One assistant carrying garment bags nearly clipped her shoulder. Someone from accessories stopped directly in the middle of the hallway to answer a phone call. A stylist Emily vaguely recognized from Paris Week somehow managed to block an entire corridor despite weighing approximately ninety pounds.

Honestly, the entire building had become spatially offensive.

“Move,” Emily snapped while sidestepping another intern standing motionless near the elevators like abandoned furniture.

The girl jumped visibly. “Sorry!”

“Yes,” Emily replied briskly, not slowing down, “you are.”

Her coffee tasted burnt. Her inbox resembled a legal threat. And by eleven-thirty she had already developed a stress headache directly behind her left eye.

Which was before lunch collapsed entirely.

Emily had intended, foolishly, to eat at her desk for approximately six consecutive minutes while reviewing page arrangements for next month’s preview issue.

Instead Jessica from features appeared seemingly materialized from hell itself announcing, “Miranda wants another emergency run-through in twenty.”

Emily stared at her. “Of course she does.”

Jessica looked sympathetic for exactly half a second before fleeing the vicinity wisely.

So lunch became: 

1. half a protein bar,
2. three coffees,
3. and escalating spiritual violence.

By two o’clock Emily’s favourite pen ran out of ink mid-note during a merchandising call. This alone nearly pushed her into criminal activity.

She stared at the dead pen in complete betrayal. “…You unbelievable little traitor.”

Serena, seated across from her during the meeting, glanced over carefully. “Are you speaking to the stationery again?”

“This pen and I had an understanding.”

“Mm.”

“And now,” Emily continued darkly while reaching for another pen she already hated on sight, “it has abandoned me.”

Honestly, if the day continued deteriorating at this pace, Emily felt she should legally be allowed to bite someone.

Unfortunately, things somehow became worse around four-thirty.

Because Georgia—Miranda’s current second assistant and living argument against competency—vanished from the her desk while Emily stepped away to use the bathroom.

Not for long. Three minutes, maximum.

And yet somehow, upon returning, Emily walked straight into: 

• the desk phone ringing violently,
• two blinking hold lines,
• one abandoned coffee cup,
• and absolutely no Georgia anywhere in sight.

Emily stopped dead in horror. “Oh, bloody hell.”

The phone rang again.

Emily lunged for it just before it disconnected. “Miranda Priestly’s office.”

“Finally,” said a clipped French voice on the other end. “I’m calling from Saint Laurent about tomorrow’s fitting. We’ve tried reaching you several times today. Monsieur would like to call again later regarding the final confirmation—”

Emily physically closed her eyes. God. They had nearly missed Saint Laurent.

Murder, she thought calmly, was becoming increasingly reasonable.

By the time Georgia finally reappeared carrying an iced coffee and the expression of someone blissfully unaware of imminent death, Emily was already standing behind the desk radiating enough cold fury to preserve organs.

Georgia froze instantly. “…Oh.”

Emily stared at her. Not blinking. Not speaking. Simply staring with the full concentrated force of a woman imagining headlines about workplace manslaughter.

The poor girl visibly wilted. “I just went downstairs for—”

“You abandoned the desk.”

“I was only gone for—”

“You abandoned the desk,” Emily repeated sharply. “At four-thirty. During confirmations. Are you actively trying to get fired or are you naturally gifted?”

Georgia opened and closed her mouth silently.

Emily leaned one hand against the desk trying very hard not to commit actual violence before Miranda emerged from her office and somehow made everything worse simply by existing elegantly nearby.

“Emily.”

Emily straightened instantly. “Yes, Miranda.”

Miranda glanced once toward the phone line before looking back at Emily with faint irritation. “Why is Saint Laurent waiting?”

Emily smiled the tight exhausted smile of someone one inconvenience away from setting herself on fire for warmth. “I’m handling it.”

“You should already have handled it.” And then Miranda disappeared again, leaving devastation in perfectly tailored heels behind her.

Emily stood motionless for one long second afterward. Then inhaled slowly through her nose.

Georgia whispered carefully, “Should I call them back?”

Emily looked at her. “…No,” she replied with terrifying calmness. “I’ll do it myself. Since apparently delegation was my first mistake.”

By six-thirty that evening, Emily had officially reached the end of her psychological tolerance for humanity.

Her head throbbed behind her eyes. Her feet ached viciously from running across polished office floors in heels since dawn. The entire Runway office still smelled faintly of burnt espresso after someone in accessories had spilled coffee down the front of a garment bag and triggered a forty-minute catastrophe involving shouting, stain remover, and one assistant very nearly crying in the hallway.

Miranda had changed tomorrow morning’s schedule three separate times. Emily’s inbox had become a graveyard of revised call sheets, frantic confirmations, and messages marked urgent in increasingly aggressive fonts. Phones rang endlessly around her. Keyboards clattered. Somewhere nearby, a steamer hissed like an angry snake.

Honestly, it was a miracle she was still upright at all.

At this point, she was surviving almost entirely on caffeine, spite, and the steady internal chant of I love my job, I love my job, I love my job repeated with the desperation of a hostage situation, punctuated every few minutes by quiet swearing under her breath.

She had not had a single uninterrupted thought all day beyond one persistent, aching plea: I want to go home immediately.

Not even Andrea had properly crossed her mind since that morning, which honestly felt unnatural at this point.

Usually, somewhere during the day, Emily’s thoughts drifted toward her automatically. Andrea’s terrible jokes. Andrea’s ridiculous bedhead at six in the morning. Andrea asleep against her shoulder on the subway while the train rattled through dim tunnels beneath Manhattan. Andrea wandering around her apartment in her clothes, all clipped sleeves and soft sunlight and unfair levels of attractiveness for someone who looked half awake all the time.

Those thoughts normally arrived in little flashes throughout the day, providing brief moments of warmth between disasters.

But not today. Today there had only been ringing phones, overlapping meetings, impossible schedules, the sharp scent of coffee and steaming fabric hanging permanently in the office air, and an endless procession of people demanding things from her every thirty seconds.

Chaos. Phones. Meetings. Suffering. More chaos. More phones. More meetings. More suffering.

Honestly, she was starting to suspect Runway was less a fashion magazine and more a highly organized psychological experiment.

-

By the time Emily finally stepped out of Elias-Clarke and into the cold evening air, she felt spiritually flattened.

The city hit her all at once, sharp wind funneling between buildings, headlights smeared across rain-slick streets, the distant wail of sirens somewhere downtown. Her shoulders ached from tension. Her phone still buzzed intermittently inside her bag like it hadn’t yet accepted the concept of working hours ending.

All Emily wanted in that moment was a shower, complete silence, and the sweet mercy of unconsciousness. Maybe toast afterward, if she remained medically functional enough to operate a toaster.

Her heels clicked sharply against the wet pavement as she scanned the traffic for an empty cab, exhaustion settling deep into her bones. Around her, Manhattan moved in restless waves. People brushing past in dark coats, bursts of laughter spilling from restaurants, steam curling up from subway grates into the freezing air. Everything felt too loud, too bright, too fast.

Emily tightened her coat around herself and raised an arm toward another passing taxi that ignored her completely.

Then suddenly her phone rang. 

Andrea Sachs Calling.

Emily blinked once at the screen.

And despite literally everything, despite the catastrophic day from hell and the stress headache and Georgia’s professional incompetence and Saint Laurent nearly hanging up, something inside her softened immediately.

Ridiculous.

Emily answered while continuing toward the curb. “Hello.”

Andy sounded slightly breathless on the other end. “Hey.”

Emily’s shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly at the sound of her voice. “You’re alive.”

“Barely.”

“Mm. Same.”

Andy laughed softly through the phone, warm and familiar enough to tug unexpectedly at the center of Emily’s chest.

Then, “Uh,” Andy said carefully, “Em?”

Emily paused near the curb. “Yes?”

A tiny hesitation.

“Can you come through the alleyway next to Elias-Clarke?”

Emily stopped walking entirely. “…What?”

Traffic rushed loudly past while cold wind curled between buildings. Somewhere nearby, a taxi honked aggressively at another cab for existing incorrectly.

Emily frowned slightly into the phone.

“The alleyway,” Andy repeated, sounding suddenly nervous now. “On the east side of the building.”

Emily stared ahead blankly.

Several possibilities immediately presented themselves:

• Andrea had been mugged
• Andrea was hiding from someone
• Andrea had accidentally witnessed a crime
• Andrea was planning a murder
• or, somehow more concerningly, Andrea was attempting romance.

Emily narrowed her eyes slowly. “…Andrea,” she said carefully, “why are you speaking like someone arranging a covert political meeting?”

-

The alleyway beside Elias-Clarke was narrow and dim and entirely unremarkable in every conceivable way.

Concrete darkened by old rain. Rusted fire escapes overhead. The distant hum of Manhattan traffic spilling gold and static through the mouth of the street beyond. Somewhere nearby, steam drifted upward from a vent in slow ghostlike ribbons, vanishing into the blue-black evening cold.

Emily stepped cautiously around the corner fully prepared to discover:

• a medical emergency,
• a hostage situation,
• or possibly Andrea Sachs attempting espionage.

She had sounded strange on the phone. Breathless. Nervous. Like someone either about to confess a crime or commit one.

Instead—yellow.

Bright impossible yellow blooming suddenly against winter gray.

Emily stopped walking.

Andy stood halfway down the alley beneath the weak amber spill of a security light, both hands wrapped around a bouquet so vividly golden it almost hurt to look at after twelve consecutive hours of Runway monochrome and fluorescent suffering.

Sunflowers. God. They looked absurd there. Too alive for New York in February. Too warm. Too earnest.

And Andrea… Andy looked like she belonged beside them somehow. Wind curled softly through loose strands of dark hair. Her cheeks were pink from cold, eyes bright despite the hour, despite the city, despite Emily knowing with terrifying certainty she had probably waited out here longer than necessary just to catch her after work.

Then Andrea smiled the second she saw her. “Surprise?”

The word arrived light and hopeful into the cold evening air. And Emily felt something inside herself loosen instinctively at the sound of it. A knot untangling before she could stop it.

Then Andy’s expression changed. The smile faltered softly at the edges. Concern replaced it almost at once.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Emily became abruptly aware of herself then in fragments.

The dull headache still throbbing behind her eyes. The ache lodged deep in her shoulders from hours spent tense and braced for the next disaster. Exhaustion pulling at her limbs so heavily it felt difficult to even hold herself upright. The stale bitterness of burnt coffee clinging to the back of her throat. Her skin stretched too tight over nerves worn raw after an entire day spent stumbling from one crisis to another beneath Miranda’s impossible orbit.

And, suddenly, painfully, the realization of how she must look. She must look dreadful.

Her hair had long since fallen out of place, dark strands escaping around her face in limp tangles. The concealer she’d applied that morning had vanished hours ago, leaving the shadows beneath her eyes exposed and bruised-looking under the harsh lights. Her blouse was creased, sleeves rumpled from restless hands, and fatigue hung from her posture plainly enough that no amount of composure could disguise it anymore.

Andrea looked at her quietly for one suspended moment like she could see every exhausting hour written plainly across Emily’s face.

And somehow, somehow, that felt infinitely more intimate than being looked at beautifully.

“Oh,” Andy  said again, softer now.

The city noise seemed suddenly very far away. A cab horn somewhere in the distance.

The low rush of tires against wet pavement.

Music leaking faintly from somewhere down the block.

Andy stepped toward her carefully, bouquet still gathered against her chest.

“I, um…” She laughed once under her breath, nervous now in a way Emily rarely saw from her. “This was originally supposed to be romantic.”

Emily stared at her.

Cold air curled between them carrying traces of winter rain and paper coffee cups and New York evening smoke.

Andy glanced down briefly at the flowers before looking back up again. “Or reciprocal maybe,” she corrected quietly. “For the apartment. And the laundry. And… all the other things.”

Emily’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

The other things. As though care itself had become too large to catalogue neatly between them now.

Andy shifted her grip slightly on the bouquet, brown paper crinkling softly in her hands. “But honestly,” she admitted after a moment, voice gentler now, “you look like you had a terrible day.”

Emily almost laughed at the understatement of it. Instead she stood very still.

“And now,” Andy continued softly, “I mostly just hope these make it a little better.”

She looked directly at her with that awful earnest expression Emily was becoming increasingly defenseless against and said gently, “I like you better when you look alive.”

Emily’s heart stopped completely. Because nobody said things like that to her. Not really.

People have told her that she was stunning, or shape, or intimidating, or expensive, but nobody looked at Emily Charlton standing half-dead in an alley after a catastrophic Runway workday and said: I want you happy.

Then Andy held the bouquet out toward her then with quiet uncertainty.

And Emily—God.

The sunflowers glowed absurdly bright beneath the alley light. Golden petals unfolding outward like tiny captured pieces of sunlight against the cold blue-gray evening. Dark velvet centers. Wild stems gathered carelessly together beneath brown paper wrapping dampened slightly from winter air, warm and open and completely unlike anything Emily would’ve chosen herself.

They were not elegant flowers.Nor refined or fashionable. And definitely not the sort of flowers that belonged in Elias-Clarke elevators or perched beside couture gowns or arranged neatly across marble penthouse countertops.

These flowers belonged in open windows. In kitchens flooded with morning light. In places where people laughed loudly and forgot appointments and loved each other without embarrassment.

Andrea flowers.Warm flowers. Hopeful flowers.

Emily felt something sharp and unbearable move quietly through her chest.

Because suddenly, all at once she could see it. These flowers sitting in her apartment beside the enormous windows, spilling color into all that careful, polished restraint with their impossible sincerity.

And horrifyingly, horrifyingly, her throat tightened hard enough to hurt. She had to look away before the sting gathering behind her eyes betrayed her completely.

Absolutely not.

She was not going to dissolve emotionally in an alleyway beside Elias-Clarke because Andrea Sachs had shown up carrying sunlight in her hands.

Still, for one fleeting humiliating second, some deeply pathetic part of her briefly considered collapsing dramatically against the nearest wall and allowing herself one tiny moment of feminine Victorian distress.

To lean backward against the wall. To close her eyes. To let someone else take care of her for once.

Unfortunately, the wall was dirty, Manhattan alleyways contained bacteria unknown to science, and she still possessed dignity.

Barely.

So instead Emily did what came naturally in moments of emotional crisis. She insulted the flowers.

“Good God,” she said faintly while accepting the bouquet carefully into her arms. “These are aggressively yellow.”

Andrea laughed immediately. Soft relief flooding visibly through her shoulders.

The sound rang warm through the cold alley air, soft and relieved and so achingly fond Emily’s chest tightened all over again.

Emily lowered her gaze back toward the flowers in her arms.

The petals brushed warm against her coat sleeves. Bright little impossible suns gathered together against the gray cold evening.

Honestly, they looked ridiculous. Happy. Earnest. Slightly chaotic. Andrea flowers.

Alive in a way the entire city suddenly seemed not to be.

“They look,” Emily swallowed once before muttering quietly, “like they belong in a farmhouse kitchen.”

Andy smiled. Emily could hear it in her voice before she even looked up.

“Yeah?”

Emily finally lifted her eyes.

Andy stood there watching her with that same impossible softness she always seemed to reserve specifically for Emily. Open-faced. Hopeful. Terribly earnest.

God. Emily smiled before she could stop herself. Small, exhausted, the expression barely there at all, pulling faintly at the corners of her mouth as though she no longer had the energy for anything larger. Her entire body still ached with fatigue, nerves frayed thin beneath her skin, the weight of the day hanging stubbornly from her shoulders. But it was real.

And Andy’s entire face changed instantly at the sight of it.

Like sunlight physically breaking through cloud cover. Like relief. Like she had been waiting for exactly that.

The expression hit Emily with enough force to make her briefly forget how to breathe. Because no one had ever looked relieved by her happiness before. No one had ever looked at Emily Charlton like her smile itself was something precious.

The cold evening air suddenly felt too thin in her lungs.

“You’re absurd,” Emily murmured weakly, though she no longer knew whether she meant Andrea or the flowers or herself.

Andrea only laughed softly again.

And for one impossible fragile second, standing there in the freezing alley with the bouquet warm against her chest and Andrea Sachs looking at her like she mattered more than deadlines and meetings and Runway disasters ever could, Emily felt the entire miserable awful day loosen its grip around her throat.

Then—

“Emily?”

The voice shattered everything instantly.

Serena. Emily physically closed her eyes. Of course. Of course the universe would immediately punish vulnerability.

Somewhere near the street entrance came the sharp familiar rhythm of heels against pavement. “Emily, are you still out here? Miranda needs the revised—”

Andy’s eyes widened immediately. “Oh shit.”

Emily looked up just in time to catch panic overtaking her expression all at once.

Because yes. Obviously. Being discovered exchanging flowers behind Elias-Clarke like emotionally compromised lesbians in a period drama would be fatal. It would would result in approximately one public execution, three months of humiliation, and Nigel becoming permanently unbearable.

Andy stepped backward instantly. “I should go.”

“Yes,” Emily agreed quickly, pulse suddenly spiking for entirely different reasons now.

But before either of them could move, Andy stepped forward suddenly.

Quick. Warm. Certain.

And kissed her softly on the cheek.

The touch was impossibly light—barely more 

than the ghost of pressure against her skin, cold lips warmed from the winter air. So fleeting Emily could have convinced herself she imagined it entirely if not for the way her entire body reacted at once.

Time seemed to stretch strangely around the moment. The city noise dulled somewhere behind her, distant and muffled beneath the sudden rush of blood in her ears. Heat bloomed outward from the place Andrea had touched, sharp and electric, traveling down her throat, her chest, her ribs, until she felt unbearably aware of her own heartbeat.

Half a second. Less, maybe.

And still Emily felt it everywhere. In the sharp catch of breath she couldn’t quite steady afterward. In the warmth lingering stubbornly against her cheek despite the cold evening air. In the sudden weakness low in her chest, as though something there had quietly given way beneath the softness of it. In the violent, dizzying awareness of Andrea standing so close to her at all.

Andrea pulled away immediately afterward, looking startled by her own bravery, breath catching visibly in the cold air between them.

Then she smiled again. Small and crooked, slightly breathless, unbearably fond. “You look prettier when you smile,” she whispered.

And then she was gone. Fled. Vanishing back toward the street in a blur of dark wool and yellow taxi lights and winter-evening motion before Emily’s brain could properly recover.

Emily stood motionless beneath the alley light. Flowers gathered against her chest. Heartbeat stumbling somewhere painfully high beneath her ribs. Her cheek still warm where Andrea had kissed her. The sunflowers glowed gold in her arms against the dark.

Behind her, Serena finally rounded the corner in less than thirty seconds. Which, frankly, felt deliberate. Serena moved through Runway the way storms moved across oceans, beautifully dressed and somehow always arriving at the worst possible moment.

“Emily?” her voice echoed from somewhere around the corner. “Miranda’s asking whether—”

Then she stopped. Because there stood Emily Charlton in the middle of a freezing Manhattan alleyway holding the most offensively cheerful bouquet Serena had ever seen in her life.

The yellow flowers blazed against the gray-blue wash of the winter evening, vivid enough to seem unreal beneath the alley lights. They looked painfully alive in Emily’s hands, all soft brightness and stubborn warmth, absurd beside the severe black wool of her coat and the exhaustion carved plainly across her face.

Serena’s eyes widened slowly. “Oh,” she said.

Emily, meanwhile, was still standing perfectly motionless trying to recover from Andrea kissing her cheek, Andrea fleeing immediately afterward like a criminal, and the fact her entire nervous system had apparently dissolved into static.

Her heartbeat still hadn’t recovered properly. The place Andrea’s mouth had brushed against her cheek still felt warm. Which was medically impossible. And yet.

Serena’s gaze flicked from Emily’s face, noticeably softer now, to the flowers in her hands.

Then back again.

A slow smile spread across her mouth. Dangerous. Immediate. Predatory. “…Are those from one of your suitors?”

Emily looked at her. Normally she would deny everything instantly. Ruthlessly. Publicly. Probably with enough icy dignity to freeze Serena where she stood.

But tonight her defenses felt strangely loose around the edges. Unsteady. Andrea had apparently kissed holes directly through her emotional armor.

So instead Emily glanced once down at the bouquet in her hands. Beneath the alley light, the sunflowers seemed strangely out of place, too vivid for the colorless bite of the evening. Their broad faces tilted upward carelessly, unapologetically bright against the steel-gray city, carrying the lingering impression of late August fields into the middle of a Manhattan winter.

The sort of flowers that arrived without irony. The sort of flowers that believed very earnestly in sunlight.

Her thumb brushed absently against one velvety petal.

Then, very carefully, she said, “…Mm. Something like that.”

Serena went completely silent. Which was honestly more alarming than screaming.

Emily could physically feel the other woman attempting to process the fact that Emily Charlton, Emily Charlton, was standing in an alley after work looking visibly emotionally compromised over flowers.

Emily decided immediately she would rather die than continue this interaction. “What did Miranda need?” she asked briskly.

Serena blinked once back into professionalism. “Right. The revised seating confirmations for tomorrow.”

Emily handed over the folder tucked beneath her arm with efficient impatience. “There. Crisis resolved. Goodbye.”

Serena accepted the folder automatically but still looked deeply fascinated. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m cold.”

“You hate sunflowers.”

“I do not hate sunflowers.”

“You once called them agriculturally aggressive.”

Emily narrowed her eyes. “And I stand by that.”

Serena looked one second away from ascending spiritually. “You have been behaving very unusually lately.”

“Goodnight, Serena.” Emily turned immediately before this could deteriorate further and strode toward the street with what remained of her dignity trailing several feet behind her like loose silk.

Behind her Serena called, barely containing delight, “You’re smiling! Love it!”

Emily ignored her violently. But the terrible thing was, she was.

-

The cab ride home felt strangely unreal.

Manhattan slid past outside in blurred ribbons of gold and rain-streaked light while soft jazz crackled faintly through old speakers near the driver’s seat. The city looked softened by evening, wet pavement reflecting headlights like smeared watercolor beneath the dark.

And there in Emily’s lap sat the bouquet. Ridiculous flowers. Absurd flowers. Happy flowers.

Emily cradled them carefully anyway.

Every now and then the cab rolled beneath warmer streetlights and the yellow petals seemed to glow brighter against the dark interior. Little bursts of captured sunlight resting against her black coat.

Andrea had chosen these. Sunflowers—unapologetically bright, slightly chaotic things that carried warmth with them wherever they existed. The kind of flowers that should have felt childish in Emily’s carefully ordered world.

Instead, they felt painfully sincere.

Emily leaned back slowly against the seat, exhaustion finally catching up to her now that the adrenaline of the day had faded. Her head still hurt faintly behind one eye. Her shoulders ached. Her feet felt murderous.

And yet. The ache inside her chest felt different suddenly. Softer.

The cab turned sharply downtown. Emily glanced absently toward the rear-view mirror, and caught sight of herself.

Oh. Good heavens. She looked…there was unfortunately no dignified word for it. 

Whipped. Completely. Hopelessly. Visibly whipped.

Her mouth still curved faintly at one corner in that soft involuntary way she usually only allowed herself alone. Her eyes looked warmer somehow beneath the exhaustion. Younger, almost. Like something inside her had quietly come alive again.

Emily stared at her own reflection in horror.

The driver caught her eye briefly in the mirror too and smiled politely like he was witnessing something private and tender unfolding quietly in the backseat. Emily immediately looked away toward the window.

Absolutely not. This was humiliating.

-

Home felt different tonight. Warmer somehow.

Emily stepped inside her apartment with the bouquet still tucked carefully against her chest while city noise dulled softly behind the closing door.

For once she didn’t immediately straighten anything. Didn’t hang up her coat properly. Didn’t align her shoes neatly beside the entryway. Didn’t reorganize the stack of mail sitting crooked on the console table.

Instead, her bag fell onto the sofa. Her keys somewhere onto the marble counter. And Emily just stood there for a moment in the middle of the apartment, quiet beneath the low amber light spilling through rooms too polished, too careful, too still.

Then the sunflowers caught the light. And suddenly the whole apartment changed.

They looked almost outrageous there, all that gold against charcoal walls and glass and silver and the cold perfection Emily had spent years building around herself. Bright open faces turned toward the light, petals messy at the edges, stems too long and wild for the crystal vase she would eventually place them in. Like someone had carried sunlight indoors and left it blooming in the middle of winter.

Andrea Sachs. Of course she would bring warmth into places without even trying.

Emily slipped off her heels slowly and carried the bouquet into the kitchen. Then paused thoughtfully beside the cabinets.

No. Not just any vase. The thought arrived quietly, almost embarrassingly soft. She wanted the good one. Which was ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.

And yet moments later she found herself carefully pulling her favorite vase from the highest shelf—heavy clear glass, elegant and understated, the one she usually reserved for arrangements expensive enough to require professional lighting.

She rinsed it carefully beneath warm water while the apartment stayed hushed around her, the only sound the steady rush from the sink and the faint rustle of petals whenever she moved them. One by one she trimmed the stems, slow and precise, fingertips damp, yellow blossoms brushing softly against her skin like passing sunlight.

The sunflowers opened beautifully inside the vase.

Their stems curved where they pleased, leaves spilling unevenly over the rim, golden faces turning naturally toward the kitchen light. Emily adjusted one flower slightly, then stopped herself before she could fix too much.

Too symmetrical would ruin them. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? They weren’t meant to look curated. They looked warm.

Like joy left carelessly on someone’s doorstep. Like sincerity. Like laughter in the middle of winter. Like Andrea Sachs standing beneath glowing streetlights with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, holding out sunflowers as though giving someone happiness was the easiest thing in the world.

Emily swallowed once unexpectedly hard.

Then she finally stepped back. The bouquet glowed warmly beneath the kitchen lights, golden against the dark marble countertops and shadowed apartment around them.

Beautiful. Not in the polished expensive way Emily usually preferred. Just beautiful in a way that felt alive. And somehow, somehow, that felt worse.

Because now every time Emily looked at them, she would remember Andrea standing nervous and hopeful in the cold, Andrea kissing her cheek, Andrea fleeing before Emily could fully recover, and Andrea saying:

You look prettier when you smile.

God. Emily pressed one hand briefly over her eyes. This woman was becoming alarmingly catastrophic.

-

Later, standing in the bathroom beneath soft white lighting, Emily slowly began removing her makeup.

Cotton pad. Micellar water. Routine. Usually the process calmed her. Ordered her thoughts neatly back into place after long chaotic days.

Tonight it did absolutely nothing. Because every few seconds her mind kept replaying: the warmth of Andrea’s mouth against her cheek, the look on her face when Emily smiled, those ridiculous flowers glowing gold against gray evening light.

Emily sighed quietly and looked up toward the mirror.

Oh dear. She still looked devastatingly affected. Not at all polished or composed. And certainly not Emily Charlton, terrifying executive assistant and professionally repressed woman of steel.

No. She looked like someone who had been adored unexpectedly. Which was frankly intolerable.

And yet beneath the embarrassment, beneath the panic of feeling too much too quickly, something warm kept unfolding quietly inside her chest anyway. A slow ache beneath her ribs. The strange, unbearable lightness of catching herself smiling alone in an empty bathroom and not quite knowing when it had started.

Emily looked at herself for another long moment before reaching for her phone. The screen lit softly in her hand.

For a second, her thumb only hovered above the keyboard. Then finally:

Thank you for the flowers.

She stared at the message after sending it, jaw tightening faintly. Too sincere already.

A few seconds passed before another followed.

They’ve improved my mood considerably.

Emily exhaled quietly, eyes drifting toward the bathroom door. 

And then, before good judgment could fully return:

The kiss was also… unexpectedly effective.

The second she hit send, absolute horror flooded her bloodstream.

“Oh God.”

Emily shoved the phone face-down onto the counter instantly like it had physically attacked her.

No. No no no. Why would she send that? Who allowed that? What kind of emotionally compromised behavior was that?

Andrea was going to become unbearable.

Emily groaned softly and stripped off her blouse and the rest of the layers with aggressive embarrassment before stepping toward the shower.

Steam filled the bathroom slowly afterward, warm water rushing down marble and glass while somewhere out in the apartment sunflowers glowed quietly beneath kitchen light like little pieces of captured sun.

And beneath the hot water, exhausted and smiling helplessly despite herself, Emily Charlton realized with slow terrifying certainty. She was in very serious trouble.

-

The shower ran endlessly around her.

Warm water spilled from above in silver ribbons, soft against overheated skin, against tired shoulders wound tight from twelve impossible hours beneath fluorescent lights and impossible expectations. Steam drifted thick through the bathroom, clouding mirrors, blurring edges, turning the entire room into something softer. Dreamlike. Somewhere out in the apartment, beyond the fogged glass and warm light and folded silence of home, sunflowers sat blooming inside her favorite vase.

Emily stood beneath it with her eyes closed. And Andrea remained everywhere.

In the warmth lingering still against her cheek where that kiss had landed so fleetingly she could’ve mistaken it for imagination if her heartbeat hadn’t betrayed her afterward. In the memory of bright yellow petals glowing against gray Manhattan dusk. In the quiet unbearable sincerity of simply wanting her to be happy.

God. The memory moved through her like warmth spreading slowly through frozen hands.

The water slid slowly down her face while something inside her chest ached with the strange tender soreness of frozen things beginning, carefully, to thaw.

Emily tilted her head back beneath the water with a quiet exhale.

Because the terrible thing was, today had been awful. Objectively awful.

A day built entirely from sharp corners and exhaustion and impossible expectations. Phones ringing endlessly. Miranda slicing through everyone’s nervous systems before breakfast. Mistakes piling one atop another until Emily had felt stretched painfully thin beneath the sheer relentless weight of competence.

All day she had held herself together the way she always did. Perfectly. Efficiently. Beautifully. Steel wrapped carefully in silk.

Emily Charlton did not break down. Did not cry at work. Did not fall apart simply because life became difficult.

She wore herself like armor. Sharp eyeliner. Sharper tongue. Perfect posture. Perfect timing. Perfect control.

People looked at her and saw steel. Sharpened so finely by ambition she had become almost untouchable. Cold, perhaps. Difficult Certainly. Armored from throat to ankle in immaculate self-control. A woman impossible to wound.

And maybe that was partly true.

But standing there now beneath clouds of steam and soft rushing water, stripped bare of cashmere and lipstick and all the polished machinery of herself, Emily allowed herself, just briefly, to acknowledge the quieter truth underneath it all.

That deep down, beneath all the armor and sharpness, beneath the carefully cultivated frost and immaculate restraint, she was still simply a girl.

A girl barely outgrown from sixteen. From twelve. From six.

A girl who had once stayed awake far too late reading fairytales beneath blankets with a flashlight tucked under her chin because she liked the parts where people were chosen gently and loved deliberately.

A girl who had once watched old romance films alone in bed believing, with aching earnestness blooming quietly inside her ribs while heroines were loved tenderly onscreen.

And perhaps adulthood had worn those dreams down over the years, smoothing their sharpest edges beneath ambition and exhaustion and the endless performance of becoming someone untouchable, until they no longer looked like dreams at all but small, private things folded so deeply into her chest she had almost convinced herself they no longer existed.

Steam curled thickly through the bathroom, softening the mirrors, blurring the hard marble lines of the room while water slipped endlessly down her skin in slow, quiet streams. Emily pressed one hand against the wet tile wall and closed her eyes for a moment, the heat settling heavy around her, loosening something she usually kept pulled painfully tight.

Because the truth was, what she wanted had never actually been complicated. Not really.

It wasn’t grand gestures or impossible declarations or extravagant displays performed loudly enough for everyone else to witness them. Not flowers delivered dramatically beneath the fluorescent scrutiny of the Runway office while Miranda Priestly looked on with detached judgment and half the staff pretended not to stare.

She wanted to be known gently, in all the quiet places people usually overlooked. Not admired from a distance or desired like something beautiful kept carefully behind glass, but understood in the small, intimate rhythms of ordinary life. In kitchens washed gold with early morning light before work, in exhausted phone calls made after impossible days, in the silent noticing of things she never said aloud.

The way she forgot to eat when she was overwhelmed. The way her mouth flattened when she was pretending not to be hurt. The way she smiled less lately.

And then to be loved there, precisely there, in those hidden and aching little spaces.

In someone arriving with sunlight wrapped in brown paper because they had seen the sadness settling quietly around her and could not bear to leave it untouched. In warmth offered patiently, without performance or demand, until the cold she carried began loosening little by little.

Like frozen hands slowly coming back to life between someone else’s palms.

Emily swallowed once, throat suddenly tight.

Maybe that was why Andrea frightened her so much. Because Andrea never seemed to push. She simply arrived softly into spaces Emily had long ago locked shut and warmed them slowly with patience and terrible jokes and unbearably earnest eyes.

A head on her shoulder in the subway. Coffee slid wordlessly across a table. Sunflowers glowing gold in winter dark.

Bit by bit. Bit by bit. Like someone coaxing life carefully back into cold things.

The water ran warm down Emily’s face while steam curled thick around her like fog.

And somewhere beneath the exhaustion and embarrassment and the quiet, aching want she kept trying not to name, another thought began unfolding softly inside her chest, slow as steam curling against glass.

Maybe love had never been meant to arrive all at once. Maybe it was never lightning or destiny or the sort of breathtaking certainty stories always promised. Maybe it came together gradually instead, woven carefully through ordinary moments so small they were almost invisible until one day you looked back and realized they had formed something enormous around you without your noticing.

Through breakfasts shared half-awake in quiet kitchens. Through late-night texts sent simply because someone had crossed your mind. Through perfume sprayed absentmindedly onto another person’s wrists before they left your apartment. Through sunflowers wrapped in brown paper and carried home carefully in tired hands as though they were something precious.

Maybe fairytales had simply described the wrong kind of magic. Not castles or princes or impossible destiny, but tenderness. The kind that lived in noticing. In remembering. In being handled gently by someone who saw every sharp edge you carried and did not flinch from them. Someone who looked directly through all the polished armor and careful composure and loneliness hidden beneath it, and stayed anyway.

Emily let out a small, helpless laugh beneath the water, the sound disappearing almost immediately into the steam curling thickly through the room.

God.

Twenty-year-old Emily Charlton would probably be appalled by her now. By the flowers in the kitchen. By the soft look that kept appearing on her face whenever she thought about Andrea. By the fact that one kiss and a bouquet of sunflowers had managed to unravel composure she had spent years building so carefully around herself.

And yet, perhaps not.

Perhaps twenty-year-old Emily, all sharp ambition and impossible expectations and loneliness hidden beneath cleverness even then, would understand this version of her better than anyone else ever had. Because beneath all that striving, beneath the perfectionism and the steel and the desperate need to become untouchable, there had always been something painfully hopeful living inside her anyway.

Something tender she had spent years trying to outgrow.

Water slid warm against her skin while steam gathered heavier across the mirrors, softening the entire bathroom until the marble and glass blurred at the edges, dreamlike and distant. Emily leaned back beneath the spray and closed her eyes, and immediately Andrea’s laughter returned to her again, bright and warm and impossibly alive inside her mind.

And with it came the quiet realization she had been circling all evening without fully allowing herself to touch it. Maybe she had never truly wanted perfection at all. Not really.

What she had wanted, what she had always wanted, perhaps, was simply to be held carefully inside someone else’s understanding. To have another person learn the strange, difficult shape of her heart patiently, gently, without asking her to become easier to love first.

And beneath the rushing water, alone with the warmth of that thought curling slowly through her chest, Emily Charlton allowed herself one small, terrifying hope she had spent years pretending no longer belonged to her.

That perhaps love, soft and ordinary and frighteningly tender, might still be worth wanting after all.