Chapter Text
The cursor on Andy's screen was like a tiny, disapproving metronome; it had been blinking for so long that she'd started to imagine it was judging her.
You're supposed to be transcribing, it seemed to say. Miranda's notes. The Fall issue. The work you were supposed to be doing. Remember?
She remembered. She just couldn't focus.
Because her eyes were glued to an Emily Charlton, twenty feet away, arranging a seating chart for a charity gala. Andy would much rather watch her girlfriend than do literally anything else.
A familiar, frenetic energy packed the workspace—ringing phones, shuffling documents, and the muted echo of Miranda's voice behind her glass doors. But Emily existed in a bubble of perfect concentration. Andy couldn’t help but feel a little insecure about her scrapyard of a desk as she scanned the organised library of Emily’s: pens aligned at right angles, sticky notes colour-coded, and a single orchid that she watered exactly every three days. Even her breathing seemed measured.
Andy watched her with quiet, helpless affection, the way someone might watch a cat in a sunbeam.
Fierce, she thought. That was the first word that came to mind when she thought of Emily. Fierce in the way a cat was fierce: all coiled grace and protrudable claws, ready to strike if provoked. Just this morning, Emily had reduced a vendor to stammering apologies over the phone, her voice so cold that Andy had felt a chill from across the room. "No," Emily had said, flat and final. "We will not be using your table linens. They look like someone sneezed on them. Goodbye."
She'd hung up and turned to Andy with a perfectly innocent, neutral expression. "What?"
"Nothing," Andy had said. "I just love you."
Emily had rolled her eyes, but her ears had gone pink.
That was the thing about Emily Charlton. She bit back always, constantly, with surgical precision. But she mostly saved her teeth for other people. Andy had somehow become the exception. Well, the faux exception. She was still a victim of Emily's sharp teeth; Emily just didn't draw blood anymore. Not the kind that showed, anyway. The purple love mark hidden just under Andy's collar told a different story, but that was beside the point.
A junior editor, a nervous kid whose name Andy could never remember, approached Emily's desk. He was holding a tablet and wearing the expression of a mouse who'd been involuntarily volunteered to ask the cat for directions.
"Emily? I have the revised guest list from the—"
"No."
He blinked. "But I haven't even—"
"Whatever you're holding, the answer is no. Unless it's a written apology from the florist for the centrepieces that looked like a funeral for a clown. Is it that?"
"I—no, it's just the—"
"Then no. Go away."
The boy complied. Emily's pen never stopped moving.
Andy bit her lip to keep from smiling. Fierce, she thought again. And precise, always precise.
She thought about last night. They'd been curled up on Emily's couch—Emily's apartment was nicer because Emily had better taste and a higher salary—watching some documentary about Japanese calligraphy that Emily had insisted was "relaxing”. Andy had spent most of it watching Emily instead of the screen. The way Emily's fingers traced patterns on Andy's arm, absent and tender. She noticed how Emily’s breathing slowed when she was truly relaxed. She'd looked up at Andy at one point, caught her staring, and said, "What?" not with irritation but with something softer, shy (which Emily would never confess to being).
"Nothing," Andy had said. "You're just pretty."
Emily had shoved her. "Shut up."
But her lips had curled up into a real smile, not the tight-lipped thing she gave to everyone else. Andy had counted Emily's real smiles since she had been given her first one. That one had been number seven of the week.
Gentle, Andy thought now, watching Emily adjust a place card by two millimetres. If she wants to be, and she never wants anyone else to know.
But Andy knew. Andy had seen Emily at 2 a.m., hair a mess, makeup off, curled into a ball of vulnerability that she'd never show the world. Andy had seen her cry and then pretend it hadn't happened in minutes. Andy had seen her laugh, really laugh, at something stupid Andy had said and then try to hide it behind her hand like laughing was embarrassing.
Emily Charlton was a cat. Prickly and proud and impossible. But she purred when you scratched behind her ears, even if she'd never admit it.
Andy's phone buzzed on her desk. She glanced down.
Emily: You're staring. Again.
Andy's head snapped up. Emily was still facing her computer, still arranging names on a chart, still the picture of absorbed concentration. She hadn't turned around. She hadn't looked up.
How did she do that?
Andy typed back, grinning.
Andrea: I’m admiring, not staring
Emily: Same thing. Stop it. People will notice.
Andrea: Let them. You're my girlfriend. I'm allowed to look.
Emily: You're not allowed to get me fired. Miranda doesn't approve of distractions.
Andrea: Yeah, I’d say you’re a distraction.
A pause. The three dots appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.
Emily: I hate you.
Andrea: And yet you're dating me.
Emily: A temporary lapse in judgment.
Andrea: You held my hand at the movies last week. You initiated.
Emily: I was cold.
Andrea: You held my hand under the blanket when no one could see.
Andrea: That doesn't count as cold.
Emily: Finish your transcription, Sachs.
Andy laughed out loud, then clapped a hand over her mouth. A few people glanced her way. She ducked her head, pretending to be deeply absorbed in Miranda's notes.
She didn't stop smiling, though.
She snuck a look at Emily one more time. Emily had turned slightly, just enough to catch Andy's eye. And there it was—the almost-smile. The one she thought no one noticed. It made Andy's heart soar and dance in her chest.
Emily looked away first, her focus shifting back to her seating chart. But her ears were pink. Andy could see it even from across the room.
Gentle, Andy thought. Privately. When the armour comes off.
Andy thought back to the first time she'd realised she was in love with Emily. It had been a Tuesday. They were working late, and Emily had been even more stressed than usual. A shipment had gone missing that day; Miranda had yelled at her. She'd been snapping at everyone, Andy included.
And then, at midnight, when everyone else had gone home, Emily had walked over to Andy's desk and set a cup of tea next to her keyboard. The good tea, the kind Emily kept hidden in her desk drawer.
"You haven't eaten," Emily had said, avoiding eye contact. "There's a granola bar in my bag. Don't make it weird."
Then she'd walked back to her desk and swept it under the rug.
Andy had eaten the granola bar and drunk the tea. She remembered thinking, Oh no. I'm in trouble.
She'd been right.
Now, sitting in the bullpen, watching her girlfriend terrorise a junior editor and arrange place cards meticulously, Andy felt that same warmth spread through her chest; it had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with Emily.
Her phone buzzed again.
Emily: You're doing it again.
Andy looked up. Emily was still facing her computer, but her shoulders had relaxed slightly.
Andrea: Doing what?
Emily: Looking at me like that.
Andrea: Like what?
Emily: Don't act oblivious.
Emily: The guilt on your face says it all.
Andy snorted.
Emily: I heard that.
Andrea: How do you hear everything?
A long pause. Andy watched Emily's screen from across the room, waiting for the dots to appear.
Emily: A magician never reveals her secrets.
Andrea: Great.
Emily: Now finish your transcription, or I'm telling Miranda you spent an hour staring at me instead of working.
Andrea: She'd believe you. You're more terrifying than I am.
Emily: Finally, something you understand.
Andy grinned. She turned back to her screen, and this time, she actually started transcribing. The words came easier now, Emily's texts still humming in her head.
She typed: "The cerulean dress is anemic, find out why. The lighting in the accessories shoot looks like a morgue; fix it. The seating chart for the gala needs to be more dynamic. Emily is handling it right now."
Andy paused, her mind drifting back to her girlfriend.
Emily managed to handle everything. She was the most competent person Andy had ever met, and she made Andy tea when she forgot to eat, and she pretended not to care, but she did. More than anyone else.
I'm going to marry her someday.
She erased the thought from her mind quickly. But much like pressing too hard on paper, the ghost line of the thought was permanently etched beneath the surface.
Her phone buzzed once more.
Emily: You're smiling at your screen. It's strange.
Andrea: I'm thinking about you.
Emily: That's not off-putting at all.
Andrea: Don’t worry, they’re all affectionate thoughts.
Emily: They better be.
Andy laughed quite loudly (again). Several people turned to stare, but she didn't care.
Andrea: See you at home?
Emily: Don't be late.
Emily: Pick up Thai.
Emily: Please.
Andy smiled. Ever since they began dating, Andy made it her mission to make Emily eat more. Although it gave her a good figure, Andy knew it wasn’t healthy to starve oneself to the point of fainting. And Andy made sure to tell Emily how beautiful she looked every day.
Andrea: The one where you always say you don't want spring rolls and then eat half of mine?
Emily: Shut up.
Andrea: I believe the phrase you’re looking for is, "Thank you, Andy, for always ordering extra because you are the best girlfriend ever!"
Emily: Shut up, Sachs.
Andy saved her transcription, closed her laptop, and started packing her bag. She couldn't wait to get home, curl up on the couch with Emily, watch her pretend not to be affectionate, and count more real smiles.
She glanced across the bullpen one last time. Emily was still at her desk, still focused. But her hand was resting on her phone, and Andy could have sworn she saw her smile.
Just a flicker.
Gentle when she wants to be, Andy thought again.
She couldn't wait to see what that looked like tonight.
Their apartment (a.k.a. Emily’s apartment) smelt like Thai food and the expensive candle Emily kept on the coffee table. Something called "Fireside Library" that cost more than Andy's monthly grocery budget. It worked, though. The whole place felt warm and close, a cocoon against the November chill outside.
Andy set the takeout bags on the kitchen counter while Emily kicked off her heels with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her bones. It was the sigh of someone who had spent eight hours navigating Miranda Priestly's moods and the fashion world.
"Rough day?" Andy asked, already pulling out containers.
"I had to tell a grown man that his 'vision' looked like a toddler ate a box of crayons and threw up on a runway." Emily padded barefoot toward the couch, her blouse half-unbuttoned, her ponytail drooping. "He wept, Andy. He actually wept real tears. I don't get paid enough for other people's tears."
"You don't get paid at all. Miranda pays you."
"Same difference." Emily collapsed onto the couch, sprawling across the cushions with a dramatic flourish, her arms dangling toward the floor. "I just need spring rolls and silence for ten minutes."
Andy smiled and did exactly that. She plated everything and carried it all to the coffee table.
Emily grunted in acknowledgement. That was as close to "thank you" as she got when she was this tired.
They ate in comfortable silence. The television played an old black-and-white movie that neither of them was watching. Outside, the city hummed quietly with sirens, traffic, and the distant wail of a subway train. Inside, the air was quiet, filled only with the soft clack of chopsticks and the occasional, muffled chuff as Emily swiped a spring roll, convinced Andy was looking away.
Little did she know, Andy was always looking at her.
She watched Emily now. The way her eyes, usually so sharp, had gone soft with exhaustion, her fingers curled around her noodle container like she was afraid someone would take it from her. Even in this, her chewing seemed efficient; it was ridiculous.
Fierce, Andy thought. Precise. Tender. Unreserved, only with those she chose.
Andy waited until Emily had finished eating, the containers were pushed aside, and Emily had curled into the corner of the couch with her legs tucked under her. Then, Andy took a breath.
"I have something for you."
Emily's eyes narrowed immediately. "What kind of something? If it's another rescue animal, I swear—"
"It's not something crazy." Andy reached into her work bag and pulled out a small, flat package wrapped in brown paper. "Close your eyes."
"Absolutely not."
"Em, please."
"No. You're going to do something embarrassing. I can see it on your face."
Andy laughed. "My face is perfectly normal. Now, close your eyes."
Emily stared at her for a long moment, assessing, suspicious. Then, with an exaggerated sigh that suggested she was making a tremendous sacrifice, she closed her eyes.
Andy unwrapped the package quickly. Her heart was beating faster than it should have been. It was just a small, silly thing.
"Okay. Open."
Emily opened her eyes.
In Andy's palm was a small framed photograph. Not of them, for they didn't have many photos of them, because Emily hated having her picture taken. It was a photograph of a bird. A bright, yellow canary with a small, round head and frilled feathers on its chest. It was sitting on a rope perch.
Emily stared at it. "You got me a picture of a bird."
"I got you a picture of your bird." Andy said, "The one you told me about from when you were a kid."
Emily went very still.
Andy had found out about the bird three months ago, late at night, when Emily had been half-asleep and too tired to guard her words. She'd murmured something about a canary named Mustard who used to rest on the top of the chair in her room and follow her everywhere. Mustard had died when Emily was fourteen, and she'd never had another pet because none of them would be Mustard.
Emily probably didn’t remember telling Andy. Or if she did, she never mentioned it.
Andy had spent weeks tracking down a photo. She'd found Emily's older sister on social media, sent a carefully worded message, and explained who she was. The sister had been surprisingly kind. She had said, "Emily never talks about her, but I know she misses that bird," and had sent Andy a scan of an old photo.
Andy had cropped it and framed it.
"This is—" Emily's voice cracked just a little. "Where did you get this?"
"I reached out to your sister. I hope that's okay."
Emily didn't answer; her hands went very still in her lap. She was staring at the photograph, her face unreadable.
Andy felt a flicker of panic. "It’s okay if you hate it—"
"I don't hate it."
The words came out thick. Emily blinked rapidly, then looked away, her jaw tight. Andy watched as she swallowed twice, fighting for control.
Oh, Andy thought. Oh.
Emily Charlton did not cry. Emily Charlton yelled and snapped and bit back. She did not cry, especially not in front of other people. But her eyes were shining, and her lower lip was trembling, and she was failing to hide it.
"Emily." Andy set the frame on the coffee table and moved closer. "Hey, look at me."
"I'm fine." Emily's voice was a thin wire. "I'm not—I don't—it's just a bird."
"It's not just a bird. It’s Mustard."
"Stop. Just—stop being so sweet to me. I can't."
Emily calling her sweet was the only thing on Andy’s mind at that moment.
She reached out and took Emily's hand, and Emily let her. That was how Andy knew how much this meant to her; Emily never let her hold her hand when she was upset unless she really needed it.
"I know you don't like people seeing you feel things," Andy said quietly. "But you don't have to hide from me."
Emily stared at their joined hands. Her thumb moved, softly tracing a small circle on Andy's skin. She always did it whenever she was nervous.
"You remembered," Emily whispered. "I told you that once. When I was half asleep. And you remembered."
"Of course, I remembered. You said she used to chirp at you and eat from your hand." Andy smiled. "You even told me about how you saved up to buy a book about canaries and how she was the only creature who you felt ever loved you unconditionally."
Emily made a sound. Not quite a laugh, nor a sob.
"I hate you," she said.
"You don't."
"I hate that you remember things I don't even remember saying."
"I love that." Andy squeezed her hand. "I love everything about you, Emily. Even the parts you try to hide. Especially those parts."
When Emily looked up, her eyes were wet. She was too stubborn to let the tears fall, but they were there, clinging to her lashes, making her blue eyes look almost silver.
"You're going to make me cry," Emily said. "And if I cry, I'll be angry. And if I'm angry, I'll make you sleep on the couch."
"I'll risk it."
"I don’t want you to."
But she didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into Andy slowly, like she was still deciding whether to allow it, and let her head rest against Andy's shoulder. Andy wrapped an arm around her, pulled her close, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"I love you," Andy said.
Emily didn't say it back because she didn't have to. Andy could feel it in the way Emily's hand clutched at her shirt, the way her breathing slowed, the way she went soft and pliant against Andy's side.
The photograph sat on the coffee table, Mustard staring out with her beady little eyes. Emily glanced at it, then away, then back again. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"She was a menace," Emily said quietly. "She used to sit on my homework and refuse to move. And when I got upset, she’d chirp at me like she was laughing at me."
"She sounds perfect."
"She was a bird, Andy, not a saint."
"She sounds like you."
Emily lifted her head just enough to glare. "Do not compare me to a bird—a yellow one at that."
"Too late. You basically fly from task to task, and you’re impossible to cage." Andy snorted.
Emily's ears went pink. She shoved Andy, but there was no force behind it. "I'm going to sleep."
"It's nine o'clock."
"I'm exhausted. And you're insufferable." Emily stood up, then paused. She looked down at Andy, then at the photograph, then back at Andy. Her expression shifted to something so unlike the Emily she saw every day; it was just so raw.
"Thank you," Emily whispered like the words cost her something. "For giving me a reminder of her."
Andy stood up too. She took Emily's face in her hands, cupping her jaw, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "You don't have to thank me. I just want to love you."
Emily rolled her eyes, but she didn't pull away.
"Fine," she said. "But no more sentimental gifts. I have a reputation to uphold."
"Your reputation is safe with me."
"It better be."
They walked to the bedroom together, Emily's hand tucked into Andy's. The photograph stayed on the coffee table, Mustard’s dark eyes watching them go.
An hour later, they were curled up in bed. The lights were off, the city lights outside flooding through the window, serving as a light source. Emily was tucked against Andy's chest, her head resting in the hollow of Andy's shoulder, one hand splayed across Andy's stomach like she was anchoring herself.
Andy played with Emily's hair the way Emily liked but would never ask for. Emily's breathing had gone slow and deep, but Andy could tell she wasn't asleep yet. There was still a tension in her shoulders, a tightness in the way she held herself.
"You happy?" Andy whispered.
Emily was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly, Andy almost missed it: "Stupidly."
Andy smiled into the dark. She pressed a kiss to Emily's forehead, then another to her temple, then another to the corner of her mouth.
"Good," Andy said. "You deserve to be stupidly happy."
Emily made a small sound in response. Her body relaxed, finally, all at once, like a string had been cut. She melted against Andy, boneless and warm.
Andy kept playing with her hair. Kept whispering small things like "I love you", "You're safe", and "I'm not going anywhere" until Emily's breathing evened out completely.
"I love you," Andy said one more time, just to be sure Emily heard it before sleep took her.
Emily didn't respond. But her hand curled tighter around Andy's t-shirt, and that was answer enough.
Andy closed her eyes. She thought about the photograph. The way Emily had almost cried was so pure. The words 'stupidly happy'? They might have been the most honest thing Emily had ever said.
I did that, Andy thought. I made her stupidly happy.
She smiled, held Emily closer, and let herself drift off.
The last thing Andy remembered before sleep was the warm weight of Emily against her side, the soft rhythm of her breathing, and the faint smell of her expensive shampoo.
She had already been asleep the moment it changed.
She only knew that when she woke up, the weight was different.
Andy woke to the smell of Emily's shampoo and the weight of nothing against her.
Nothing?
Andy's eyes were still closed. Her brain was still thick with sleep, moving through molasses.
Emily was light, but not air-light. Emily was lean and angular, all sharp hips and bony elbows. Emily took up space in bed, sprawled like a bear who had claimed a sunbeam and dared anyone to move it.
Andy's eyes snapped open.
The bed was empty beside her. The sheets were rumpled, and the pillow still had the indent of Emily's head, but Emily herself was gone. Andy blinked, confused. Emily did get up before Andy, but usually she’d wake her up too. Otherwise, Emily slept like the dead, curled into a tight ball of resentment at the universe for requiring rest at all.
"Emily?" Andy's voice came out hoarse. No answer.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, scanning the room. The bathroom door was open, the light was off, Emily's phone was still on the nightstand, plugged into the charger, and her silk robe was draped over the chair where she'd left it last night.
That was wrong. If Emily had gotten up, she would have put on her robe. "I refuse to be cold in my own apartment, Sachs."
Andy's gaze dropped to the floor.
And her heart stopped.
On the floor beside the bed, in a tiny pile, were Emily's pyjamas. The silk button-down and the matching shorts were in a crumpled heap. And inside the pile, there was a little movement. A small lump, barely visible beneath the cream-coloured silk, shifting slightly with each breath. The fabric rose and fell in a rhythm of someone sleeping.
Not someone. Something.
Andy's hand trembled as she reached down. She hooked her finger under the collar of the pyjama top and lifted it gingerly, like she was defusing a bomb.
The fabric fell away.
And there, curled in the centre of the pile, was a cat.
A small cat. A light-coloured body contrasting with the chestnut-red patches threading through its coat was a British Longhair. Its paws were tucked neatly under its body. Its tail was wrapped around its nose. Its eyes were closed, and its breathing was slow and even, and it was under Emily’s pyjamas?
Andy stared. Is it normal for cats to have cherry-cola-coloured spots?
The cat slept on.
This is a dream, Andy thought. I'm still asleep. I fell asleep on the couch watching ‘The Apartment’, and now I'm having a stress dream about cats.
She pinched herself. Hard.
“Ow!”
The cat did not disappear.
Andy's breathing went shallow. She looked at the empty space where Emily should have been. She looked at the ball of a pyjama shirt in her hand. She looked at the cat. Then, she looked at the pyjamas again.
"Emily?" she whispered. “Emily? Where are you?”
The cat did not react.
"Emily!" Louder now, edged with panic. “Are you still here?”
Nothing.
Andy scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over her own feet. She stood in the middle of the bedroom, pyjama-clad and barefoot, staring at the small creature still sleeping peacefully in the puddle of silk shorts.
Okay, she told herself. Okay. Think. Don't panic. Panic is not helpful. Panic is what Emily would not do, and Emily is—
Emily was a cat.
No, Andy's brain corrected. Emily is missing. There is a cat in her pyjamas. These are two separate facts that are definitely not connected.
"Emily?! Where are you? Why is there a cat here?!"
The cat's eyes opened.
They were a greyish-blue. The colour like a winter sky. They were sharp and clear and immediately, unmistakably, annoyed.
They were Emily's eyes.
Andy screamed.
It wasn’t a little scream. Not a dignified, Runway-appropriate squeak either. A full-body, from-the-diaphragm, horror-movie shriek that tore out of her throat and echoed off the bedroom walls.
The cat's ears flattened, its body going rigid. It stared at Andy with an expression of pure, unadulterated what is wrong with you.
"EMILY!" she screamed again, because apparently her vocabulary had reduced to one word.
The cat with the Emily eyes hissed. Actually hissed, mouth open, tiny sharp teeth on display, the way cats did in cartoons before they arched their backs and became fuzzy little demons.
Andy scrambled backward and landed on the floor with a thump. Her phone clattered off the nightstand, and she grabbed it. 6:30 AM.
The Fall preview. Miranda. 7:00 AM.
“Shit! I have to be at work in thirty minutes!”
The cat stood up. It shook itself once, a full-body ripple that started at its nose and ended at the tip of its tail. Then it sat down, wrapped its tail around its paws, and glared.
Andy had been glared at by Emily Charlton hundreds of times. For all kinds of reasons: wearing the wrong shoes, misplacing a sample, even for breathing too loudly during a Miranda conference call.
She had never been glared at by a cat before.
It was worse.
Stop screaming. You're being dramatic. You’re fine. Calm down.
Andy opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
The cat blinked slowly. Once. Twice. It was the cat equivalent of rolling your eyes.
"What have you done with my girlfriend?"
The cat yawned.
"There is a cat," Andy said to the empty room. "And my girlfriend is missing. I'm going to wake up now. Any second now. Any—"
The cat stood up, stepped out of the pyjama pile with deliberate care, and walked across the floor toward Andy. Its paws made no sound on the hardwood. It moved like liquid shadow, all grace and silent purpose.
It stopped in front of Andy's crossed legs.
Then it reached out one paw and tapped her knee.
Tap.
Andy looked down at the small paw. At the tiny chocolate-tipped toes. At the claws that were just barely visible, sheathed for now but ready.
She bites back, Andy thought hysterically. Even as a cat. She bites back.
"What is happening?" Andy's voice was small now. Shaky.
The cat sat down again. It looked at her for a long moment. Then it lifted one paw and tapped Andy's knee another two times.
Tap. Tap.
Then it turned and walked to the nightstand. It jumped up effortlessly with fluidity before pouncing back down and standing next to Andy's notepad and pen in between its teeth.
"Hey, scary kitty," Andy said. "Whatcha doing there? I need to go find my girlfriend right now and go to work because Miranda will literally murder us if we're late."
The cat's tail flicked. She bent her head, picked up the pen in her mouth, and scratched out:
emily
The script was surprisingly clean on the paper, an italicised semi-cursive that was similar to Emily’s French-inspired cursive words. It was almost like the cat had practiced writing in cursive.
“Wait, what? How did you—”
Andy's brain, which had been spinning in useless circles, finally caught on to something solid.
As she leaned closer, the cat took a few steps back, maintaining its distance. “Did… Emily bring me a super cat?”
The cat flicked its tail at Andy in annoyance and picked the pen up again. It drew an arrow under the word it had written, pointing toward itself.
Andy squinted at the cat.
"Blink once for yes," Andy said slowly. "Are you Emily?"
The cat blinked once.
Andy's heart, which had been hammering like a jackhammer, somehow found room to crack open. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Emily. What happened? How—why—"
The cat blinked twice.
don't panic
There was no way she could make it in time, but this was far more important than work.
“I can’t just go to work! You’re a cat!”
u can & will.
call in sick
“We have the Fall preview today! Miranda needs us!” She paused. “You have to turn back.”
Cat-Emily shook her head, picking the pen up and writing: cant
“Then I’ll have to go,” Andy said, "but I can’t just leave you here!”
going with u
"You want me to put you in my bag and carry you into the office like you're a stack of papers?"
Cat-Emily blinked once.
“That’s insane.”
move
It wasn’t like Andy had a better idea.
She looked at her phone again. 6:46 a.m. She was going to be late, and Miranda was going to fire her, and Emily was going to be a cat forever, and it would all be Andy’s fault somehow.
“Fine.”
Andy scrambled off the floor, nearly slipping on the pyjama shorts. She yanked her bag open, grabbed the first outfit she saw, and put it on.
“Work bag. Where is it?”
Emily watched the chaos unfold in front of her, tail flicking, before climbing into Andy’s work bag that was by the sofa.
Andy made sure to grab a notepad, pen, and Emily’s phone before heading out the door with her girlfriend in her bag.
Fifteen minutes later, Andy was in a taxi with Emily.
After calling the office to call in sick for Emily, she sat quietly with the bag on her lap.
It was partially zipped, just enough for air but not enough for escape. Emily had curled into a tight ball, using the sweater at the bottom of the bag as cushioning. Every few seconds, the bag vibrated with a tiny purr.
Andy peeked inside the bag, whispering, “When we get to the office, I am leaving you a pen and paper, and you’re gonna explain everything: how this happened, why you never told me, and how to fix it.
Emily looked up at her, blinking once.
The taxi driver cleared his throat, meeting Andy’s gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I can’t help but notice that you’re talking to your bag.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Andy got off when the taxi stopped, arriving at the Elias-Clarke building at 6:58 a.m. With two minutes to spare. She swiped her card, ran through the turnstile, and jammed her finger into the elevator button.
The doors finally opened, and she stepped inside with three other people (none of whom she recognised, thank goodness) and pressed the button for the Runway floor.
The bag meowed when Emily shifted, the sound slipping out unintentionally.
Andy coughed loudly to cover it. “Sorry,” she said to the people in the elevator, "allergy season, y’know.”
It was November.
The man next to her edged away.
The elevator dinged. Andy practically fell out of it and speed-walked to her desk. Sliding the bag underneath and out of sight, she collapsed into her chair.
Andy reached into her bag, opening the notepad before placing it in front of Emily. She adjusted the zipper so she could see what Emily was writing.
“Can you hear me when I whisper like this?”
Emily turned around to look at Andy and blinked once.
“Great.”
bag stifling
“Well, you told me to bring you with me.”
im ur gf
“Sorry, I can’t help you.”
ill tell miranda
“She’ll never believe a cat.”
Emily turned to glare at her, narrowing her blue eyes. But the darkness of the bag made her pupils dilate, the intended effect of exasperation mistaken for adorableness.
“Aww, you look adorable.”
i hate u
“No, you don’t.”
Silence.
Andy smiled despite herself. She reached down and slipped her hand into the bag, finding soft fur and warmer skin beneath. Emily’s head butted against her palm. A tiny, reluctant purr started up.
Gentle, Andy thought, when she thinks no one is looking.
"Good morning, Andrea.”
Andy’s hand froze in the bag; she looked up.
Nigel was standing three feet away, holding a cup of coffee and wearing a tight, frozen smile, though the fleeting pinch in his brow betrayed his confusion.
"Good morning, Nigel," Andy said, her voice suddenly steady. She withdrew her hand from the bag casually, like she hadn't just been petting a cat under her desk.
"Is Emily running late?" he asked, glancing at the empty desk.
"She, uh—" Andy's brain scrambled. "She was burning up with a very high fever. A-and, also, to make it even worse, her cat passed away. And I figured I could handle it since there’s already so much weight she has to carry, so I insisted she stay home."
Nigel's eyebrow arched. "Her cat?"
"Yes." Andy’s eyes found the strawberry-scented spray on her desk. “Strawberry. Very old cat. She's devastated."
“Hm, I didn’t know she had a cat.” Nigel stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned and walked away without another word.
Andy exhaled. She looked down at the bag.
cover story was bad, Emily wrote on the notepad. i wouldnt name it strawberry
“It was the first thing I saw.” She picked up the spray and sprayed herself with it. “See?”
idiot
“I’m your idiot?”
The bag was silent.
The morning was a nightmare of near-misses.
At 8:15 AM, a junior editor stopped by Andy's desk to ask about a shipment. While Andy was distracted, the bag wiggled. The editor looked down. "Is there something in your bag?"
"My lunch," Andy blurted out.
"It's moving."
"It's... alive. It's a live lunch. It’s a new thing… for extra freshness."
The editor left. Andy reached into the bag and poked Emily. Emily bit her finger.
“Ow. Stop moving.”
i need to stretch
“Well, I need you to not get me reported.”
At 9:30 AM, Miranda called Andy into her office to go over the Fall preview seating chart. Andy had to leave the bag under her desk. When she came back fifteen minutes later, the bag had been shifted three inches to the left, and there was a small scratch mark on the inside of it.
bored
“You scratched my bag.”
looks better
At 11 AM, Andy's stomach growled. She hadn't eaten breakfast or coffee. She was running on adrenaline and fear and the constant awareness that her girlfriend was a cat in a bag at her feet.
She leaned down.
“Are you hungry? I’m thinking of going to the cafeteria to get something for us.”
yes
“I’m taking you with me.”
She carefully picked the bag up, looking inside to see Emily staring up at her.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
When they got to the cafeteria, Andy searched for something suitable for a cat to eat. Even though it was Emily in a cat’s body, she didn’t want to risk poisoning her cat stomach.
They reached the salad bar, and Andy eyed the vegetables before her eyes fell on some shredded tuna.
Taking a small plastic container meant for dressing, she put some of the fish inside.
Then she grabbed an egg salad sandwich for herself and swiftly headed back to her desk.
She placed the little container inside the bag in front of Emily.
what is that
“It’s tuna.”
looks vile
“You don’t have to eat it.”
She watched Emily stare at the pile of pink. Before taking a bite, Emily looked up to see what Andy was doing. Emily’s eyes were increasingly widened, probably by the scent of the fish.
“Aww, look at your dinner-plate eyes.”
She could feel Emily’s glare shooting daggers at her. A moment later, Emily dived in. Nomming sounds and purring emerged from the bag.
tasted odd Emily wrote later. u owe me
“I owe you nothing. You turned into a cat without warning.”
happens when im too happy
Andy read that line three times. Her chest ached.
“You were too happy last night? Because of the photo?”
A long pause. Then: fine
“Emily.”
dont make it weird
“I'm not. I just—”
never speak of this
Andy smiled down at the bag. She slipped her hand inside and found Emily's warm, furry body. She scratched behind her ears.
stop Emily wrote, but her paw pressed into Andy's palm, and her purr started up again.
Andy thought. I made her stupidly happy.
She looked across the bullpen at Miranda's office. The Fall preview was in two hours. She had a cat in a bag and a girlfriend who turned into a feline when overwhelmed by joy.
And somehow, despite all of it, she was smiling.
At 11:00 AM, disaster struck.
Andy had to go to the sample room to pull dresses for the preview. She couldn't take the bag, but she couldn't leave it under her desk, either. Someone might look inside.
So she did the only thing she could think of.
She carried the bag into the supply closet, set it on a shelf, and zipped it nearly all the way closed.
"Stay," she whispered. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. I'll be back in ten minutes."
The bag was silent.
Too silent, Andy thought. But she didn't have time to argue. She closed the supply closet door and ran to the sample room.
It took her twelve minutes to find the right dresses. When she came back to the supply closet, the door was slightly ajar.
Her heart stopped.
She pushed the door open.
The bag was still on the shelf. The zipper was open. And the cat was gone.
"Emily?" Andy hissed. "Emily!"
A soft meow came from behind a stack of printer paper. Andy followed the sound and found Emily sitting on a box of file folders, tail curled around her paws, looking impossibly smug.
EXPLORE, she had written on a stray sticky note, using her claw.
“You can’t explore! Someone could have seen you!”
STEALTH
“You're a cat!”
EXACTLY
Andy grabbed her and shoved her back into the bag. "We are never doing this again," she whispered. "When you turn back into a human, we are having a very long conversation about boundaries."
A meow.
Andy zipped the bag and carried it back to her desk, heart pounding. She made it just as Miranda's voice echoed through the bullpen.
"Andrea. My office. Now."
The rest of the day was a blur.
Andy ran samples to the preview room. She answered Miranda's questions about the seating chart. She took notes during a meeting with the art department. All while a cat sat in a bag at her feet, occasionally reaching out a paw to tap her ankle.
ok? Emily wrote at 2:00 PM, when Andy had a rare moment to breathe.
“I'm exhausted.”
doing well
“Did you just compliment me?”
dont get used to it
At 4:00 PM, the Fall preview ended. Miranda retreated to her office. The bullpen emptied. Andy sat at her desk, head in her hands, and felt the weight of the day crash down on her.
The bag wiggled. Emily's head poked out of the zipper.
Meow.
“We made it.”
home
Andy laughed. It was tired and shaky and a little hysterical.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go home."
She stood up, slung the bag over her shoulder, and walked to the elevator. As the doors closed, she looked down at the small furry head peeking out at her.
"I love you," she said quietly. "Even when you're a cat. Especially."
Emily's eyes softened and dilated. She reached up one paw and touched Andy's arm.
Then she ducked back into the bag and purred all the way down to the lobby.
They had survived the office.
That was the thought running through Andy's head as she unlocked the apartment door, bag slung over her shoulder with a cat inside. They had survived Miranda. They had survived the sample room, the supply closet, all the close calls. Emily had not scratched anyone. Andy had not been fired.
It was, by any reasonable measure, a miracle.
The door swung open. Andy stepped inside, dropped the bag on the floor—gently, because Emily was still in there—and leaned against the wall with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her bones.
"Home," she announced.
The bag wiggled. Emily's head poked out of the zipper, blue eyes blinking in the dim light of the apartment. Her whiskers twitched.
Meoooow.
Andy unzipped the bag fully, and Emily leapt out with a graceful bound. She landed on the floor, arched her back in a long stretch—front paws extended, tail high—and then shook herself like she was trying to remove the memory of the entire day.
"You're welcome," Andy said dryly, placing the notepad and pen on the floor.
i didnt say thank u
"You were thinking it."
thinking about how u owe me
Andy laughed and kicked off her shoes. The day had been endless—waking up to a cat, smuggling Emily into work, pretending everything was normal while Miranda barked orders and Emily wrote passive-aggressive notes from inside a bag. But now they were home. Now the apartment was quiet, and the city lights were starting to glitter through the windows, and Andy could finally breathe.
"I'm gonna see what’s in the fridge."
As she stood before the fridge, she felt Emily brush her legs, her soft fur grazing Andy’s skin.
“It’s plain, but we’ve got some chicken breast.”
She looked down at the cat at her feet, watching as it blinked once at her.
“Alright.”
---
An hour later, after Emily had had her chicken and Andy her chicken sandwich, Andy sat on the couch, cross-legged, Emily’s fur in one hand and a pen in the other. Emily was curled on the cushion beside her, tail wrapped around her paws, watching Andy eat with the same judgemental expression she'd worn all day.
"You know," Andy said, "you could just tell me what you're thinking. Instead of writing it down like a furry Victorian novelist."
cats cant talk
"Meow. Once for yes, twice for no."
not mewing
"You meowed all day today."
i coughed
"You coughed like a cat."
blame it on the bag
Andy grinned and offered Emily a piece of a banana. Emily sniffed it delicately, then ate it from Andy's fingers with a dainty precision that was so Emily it made Andy's chest ache.
"I can't believe I'm feeding my girlfriend banana while she's a cat," Andy said.
life is strange
"You're telling me."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. A news channel was on the television, something that Emily had chosen by tapping her paw on the remote. There was only the soft sound of Andy chewing and the occasional scritch-scratch of Emily's claws on the sofa.
sorry
Andy looked down. "For what?"
for today
u almost got caught
Andy set down her chopsticks. She turned to face Emily properly, reaching out to stroke the soft fur between her ears. Emily leaned into the touch, eyes half-closing.
"Hey," Andy said softly. "You don't have to apologise. It's not your fault you turn into a cat when you're happy."
humiliating
"It's adorable."
isnt
"You purr, Emily. You purr, and you headbutt me, and you reorganise my desk with your little paws. It's the most adorable thing I've ever seen."
Emily's tail flicked. She bent to the notepad again, pen scribbling furiously.
tell anyone & ill end u
"Your secret is safe with me. But you should know..." Andy reached for her phone.
no
"I didn't take pictures today. I swear."
lies
"I'm not. I was too busy not getting fired." Andy paused. "But I do want to take pictures of you.”
andy
"I love how your dark patches are the same colour as your hair."
always been
“You’re so cute.”
dying of embarrassment
"Not before you turn back into a human. Then you can kill me yourself."
Emily glared. But her tail was curling around Andy's wrist, and her purr had started up again—that low, involuntary rumble that Andy had come to recognise as I'm annoyed but also content.
They spent the next few hours doing nothing in particular.
Andy read aloud from an article about fall fashion that Emily kept interrupting with written corrections ( wrong colour, misquoted miranda, i would never wear that). Emily played with a piece of string Andy had found in a drawer, chasing it across the floor with a ferocity that would have terrified anyone who knew her only as the ice queen of Runway. Andy laughed until her stomach hurt.
At one point, Emily jumped onto the kitchen counter and knocked a spoon onto the floor. She looked at Andy with wide, innocent eyes.
gravity
"Gravity didn't do that. You did that."
no i didnt
"You're a menace."
:)
Andy couldn't argue with that.
---
By midnight, they had settled on the couch again. The plates were cleared away, and the lights were dimmed. Andy was lying on her back, head propped on a cushion, and Emily was curled on her chest in a small, warm, purring weight that rose and fell with Andy's breathing.
"I could get used to this," Andy murmured, scratching behind Emily's ears.
im not staying as a cat
"I know. But the purring! And the cuddles! You never cuddle when you're human."
i do
"You tolerate my presence. There's a difference."
Emily's paw tapped Andy's chin, not hard. Just a gentle reminder that she was there, that she was listening, that she loved Andy even if she couldn't say it out loud.
Andy's phone buzzed. She ignored it. The world outside could wait. Right now, she had a cat on her chest and a heart full of warmth, and she didn't want to move.
"Emily," she said quietly.
The cat's ear twitched.
"I'm glad I make you stupidly happy."
A pause. Then Emily's head butted against Andy's chin. Her purr got louder.
me too
The change started slowly.
Andy felt it before she saw it: a warmth spreading through the fur on her chest, a shimmer in the air like heat rising off pavement. Emily's body began to tremble, her purr stuttering into something else; it was deeper.
"Emily?" Andy sat up quickly. "Emily, what's happening?"
Emily's eyes went wide. She tried to scramble off Andy's chest, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. Her fur wasn’t like fur anymore but like something shifting, something becoming.
She started to write, but the pen fell from her mouth.
Andy quickly wrapped the throw blanket around her.
And then the light came.
Not bright, nor blinding. Just a soft glow, like the first hint of sunrise. It enveloped Emily's small body, and Andy watched—mouth open, heart pounding—as the cat's form began to stretch and grow. Fur became skin, paws became hands, and her tail dissolved into nothing.
The glow faded.
And Emily Charlton was sitting on Andy's lap, naked, tangled in the throw blanket that Andy had wrapped around her during the transformation. Her hair was a mess, her eyes were dazed, and her cheeks were flushed.
"Hi," Andy whispered.
Emily blinked. Once. Twice. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.
"...Hi," she said. Her voice was hoarse and human. It was wonderful.
Andy burst into tears.
"Hey—hey, don't—" Emily's arms came around her, pulling her close. "Why are you crying? I'm back. I'm fine. Stop crying."
"I'm not crying," Andy sobbed. "I'm just—you were a cat—and then you were glowing—and I thought—"
"You thought what? That I'd be stuck as a cat forever? That’s silly." Emily pulled back just enough to look at Andy's face. Her blue eyes softened, turning tender. "Sachs, I've been doing this since I was a little girl. I always come back."
"I know. I just—" Andy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Wait, you have? Were you a kitten before? That’s so cute!"
Emily rolled her eyes.
“I love you. And I don't want to lose you, even to a cat."
Emily's expression shifted. The usual sharpness softened into something Andy had only seen a few times before: in the dark, when Emily thought she was asleep, when she whispered things she'd never say out loud.
"You're not going to lose me," Emily said. Her thumb traced Andy's cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "Actually, I was thinking..."
She stopped and looked away. Her ears went pink.
"You were thinking what?" Andy prompted.
Emily took a breath, then another. She looked around the room with disguised frenzy, then she reached over to the coffee table, grabbed an empty soda can, and ripped the tab off with her hands.
Andy stared.
"Emily, what are you—"
"Shut up. I'm doing something." Emily held the small metal tab between her fingers. It was silver and slightly bent, completely ordinary except for the fact that it was about to change Andy's life. "Andrea Sachs."
"That's my name."
"Don't interrupt." Emily's hands were shaking. Andy had never seen Emily's hands shake before. "Today was... today was bizarre. You carried me to work in a bag, you fed me chicken while I was a cat, and you didn't run away when I turned into a furry gremlin and hissed at you."
A beat.
"I was scared. I always am when it happens. But you—" Emily's voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "You didn't panic. Well, you did panic. You screamed. Uhm, it was quite loud. But you didn't leave; you figured it out and took care of me."
"Well, that's what girlfriends do."
"I know, but you did it without hesitating, and you didn’t make me feel like there was something wrong with me." Emily held up the soda tab. "I don't have a ring. I didn't even know I was going to ask until about thirty seconds ago, but I have thought about it before. And after today, watching you carry a cat through New York City because you refused to leave me alone, I realised I don't want to spend another day without knowing you're mine."
Andy's heart stopped.
"So," Emily said, her voice barely above a whisper, "will you marry me? And you’d better say yes because I just ripped a soda tab off a can, and if you say no, I'm going to have to throw myself out the window."
Andy didn't answer with words. She couldn't. Her throat was too tight, her eyes too full of tears. Instead, she grabbed Emily's face with both hands and kissed her.
It was messy and tear-stained and perfect. Emily made a surprised sound against her mouth, and then she was kissing back—fierce and gentle all at once, her fingers tangling in Andy's hair, the soda tab pressing against Andy's cheek.
When they finally broke apart, both gasping, Andy laughed.
"You didn’t answer my question," Emily stated, ducking her head.
"Yes," Andy said. "Yes, it's a yes, you absolute disaster of a woman. Yes."
Emily's face broke into a smile, wide and unguarded, and so beautiful it made Andy's chest hurt. She grabbed Andy's left hand and slid the soda tab onto her ring finger. It was too big, of course. It slipped and wobbled, and Emily's hands were still shaking, and neither of them cared.
"It's temporary, obviously," Emily said. "I'm going to get you a real ring."
"I love it," Andy said. "I love you."
Emily kissed her again. Shorter this time, softer. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright.
"I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I wanted to, but it kept slipping my mind," Emily blushed. "I think I'm okay with turning into a cat. If I have you to take care of me."
Andy snorted. "That's the most romantic thing you've ever said."
"You must tell no one."
"Your secret is safe with me." Andy looked down at the soda tab on her finger. It caught the lamplight, glinting silver and cheap and perfect. "We're really engaged."
"We are."
"You proposed with a soda tab."
"Shush."
"I'm going to tell this story at our wedding."
"I will kill you before the wedding."
"No, you won't. You love me."
Emily glared. But her hand was intertwined with Andy's, and her thumb was tracing small circles on Andy's skin.
Then, she said quietly. "I really do."
---
They fell asleep on the couch, tangled together under the throw blanket. The soda tab was still on Andy's finger. Emily's head was on Andy's shoulder. The television had gone to static, filling the room with soft white noise.
Andy was almost asleep when Emily murmured something against her neck.
It sounded like “I’m stew two be nappy."
"What?" Andy whispered.
"Never mind." Emily's voice was thick with exhaustion.
Andy smiled into the dark. "I’ll turn you into a cat again.”
“In your dreams.”
“Good night, Em.”
She felt Emily's body relax, felt her breathing even out, and felt the weight of her settle into something deep and peaceful. And then, just before sleep claimed her, Andy pressed a kiss to the top of Emily's head.
Andy woke to warmth.
Not skin. Fur. Soft, familiar fur pressed against her stomach. A small, compact body curled in the hollow of her belly, a purr vibrating through the blanket.
Her eyes snapped open.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
She looked down. Curled against her side, wrapped in the throw blanket, was a cat-shaped loaf. White and red threaded through the fur. Paws tucked under its body. Tail wrapped around its nose.
Blue eyes opened, sharp and annoyed. Emily's eyes.
"Not again," Andy sighed.
The cat hissed.
Andy sat up, nearly knocking the cat off the couch. She grabbed her phone. 5:00 AM. It was Sunday, and work wouldn’t be in another two hours.
"Emily," Andy said, her voice pitched somewhere between exasperation and affection. "You said you only turned into a cat when you were stupidly happy. You were already engaged and already happy. What happened?"
The cat blinked slowly. Then she hopped off the couch, padded over to the coffee table, and picked up the notepad with her mouth. She scratched out two words:
ur fault
Andy stared at the notepad. Then at the cat. Then at the soda tab still on her finger, loose and silver and ridiculous.
"I made you too happy again?"
The cat's tail flicked. She wrote:
u jinxed it
"I was being romantic!"
well it worked
Andy buried her face in her hands. She could hear Emily's purr from across the room, low and smug.
When she looked up, the cat was sitting on the coffee table, tail curled around her paws, blue eyes watching her with an expression that was almost tender.
Meoooow.
Andy's heart cracked open.
"I love you too," she said, reaching out and scooping Emily into her arms, holding the small furry body against her chest. Emily's head butted against her chin, the notepad in her mouth pressing against Andy’s chest. Her purr vibrated through Andy's entire body.
"We're going to have to buy a lot of notepads," Andy said.
A paw rested against her forearm.
Andy shook her head, smiling. She looked down at the cat that was her fiancée, her ridiculous, impossible, furry fiancée, in her arms and felt something swell in her chest.
"You look so lovable," Andy cooed, receiving a light bite from the feline. “Hey, you don’t want me to drop you, do you?”
She carried Emily into the kitchen, set her on the counter, and started pulling out ingredients for breakfast. The soda tab glinted on her finger. The cat purred. And somewhere in the other room, on a bookshelf sorted by colour, a yellow canary named Mustard watched over them both.
Stupidly happy, Andy thought.
She couldn't wait for the rest of their lives.