Work Text:
The thing about Emily Charlton’s flat on a Tuesday evening was that it is usually sounded like peace, like rain and softness.
Tonight, it also sounded like a cat being methodically tortured.
"Bronwyn, darling," Emily called out from the kitchen island, where she was furiously typing an email on her laptop while simultaneously trying to sip a glass of Pinot Grigio. "Is the violin supposed to screech like that, or are you trying to summon a demon?"
"It’s Bach, Mom," Bronwyn groaned from the living room. At twelve years old, Bronwyn possessed approximately ninety percent of Emily’s attitude and one hundred percent of her dramatic flair. She dropped her bow onto the music stand with a loud clack. "And my fingers hurt. The recital is in three weeks and I’m going to look like an idiot."
"You won't look like an idiot," Roark chimed in from the floor, where he was surrounded by a small army of Lego Star Wars minifigures. "But you might make the audience’s ears bleed."
"Shut up, Roark!"
"Both of you, stop," Emily said, though there was no real bite to it. She rubbed her temples. God, she was tired. The agency was running her ragged, her ex husband Beinji had already called twice this week to explain why he couldn't pick the kids up for his weekend, and the impending school recital was looming over them like a dark cloud.
Then, the front door clicked open.
Emily didn't even look up. Only one person had the key and the absolute audacity to walk in without knocking.
"Tell me someone has carbs," Andy Sachs announced, kicking off her boots by the door. She looked windswept and comfortable in a pair of oversized jeans and a soft knit sweater, a far cry from the Chanel clad girl Emily used to terrorize at Runway.
"Andy!" Roark immediately abandoned his Legos, scrambling to his feet to tackle her waist.
"Hey, buddy," Andy laughed, catching him easily and ruffling his hair. She looked over his head at the kitchen island, her eyes instantly softening as they landed on Emily. "Hi, Em."
Emily felt a familiar, treacherous little flutter in her chest. It had been happening for over a year now, this stupid, warm, melting feeling whenever Andy showed up. They had drifted back into each other's lives after Andy left journalism to do freelance consulting, and somehow, the former "Six" had become the anchor of Emily’s world.
"There's leftover Thai in the fridge," Emily said, trying to keep her voice perfectly crisp and utterly unaffected. "And if you can make Bronwyn’s violin sound like an actual instrument instead of a dying bird, I’ll buy you a vineyard."
Andy grinned, dropping her bag on the armchair. "Can't be that bad. Let's see it, Bron."
Bronwyn sighed, picking up the violin again, she positioned the instrument under her chin and drew the bow across the strings. A harsh, scraping note echoed through the apartment.
"See?" Bronwyn whined. "The G string keeps slipping, and I can't get the shift into third position right for the solo part. It just sounds... clunky."
Andy walked over, squinting at the sheet music on the stand. "Ah, The Bach Concerto in A minor, classic choice."
Emily watched from the kitchen, taking a slow sip of her wine. "Don't pretend you know what that means, Sachs. You think Bach is just a type of beer."
Andy rolled her eyes, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Actually, Emily, I happen to know a thing or two about classical music." She turned back to Bronwyn. "May I?"
Bronwyn handed over the violin and the bow.
Emily expected Andy to just hold it awkwardly, maybe pluck a string to make Roark laugh. Instead, Andy tucked the violin under her chin with an ease that made Emily’s breath hitch. She adjusted her posture, her shoulders dropping into a relaxed, perfectly aligned stance. She lifted the bow.
And then, she played.
It wasn't a tentative, squeaky note. It was a rich, warm, flawless melody that instantly filled the living room. Andy’s fingers moved with total confidence across the fingerboard, her wrist fluid and relaxed as she played the exact passage Bronwyn had been struggling with. The music was bright, crisp, and heartbreakingly beautiful.
Roark’s jaw dropped. Bronwyn’s eyes went wide.
In the kitchen, Emily froze, her wine glass halfway to her mouth. She stared at Andy, really stared at her, the way Andy’s eyes narrowed slightly in focus, the gentle tilt of her head, the easy grace of her movements. It was mesmerizing, infuriating.
Andy finished the phrase with a flourish, a soft smile on her face, and lowered the violin. "Your G string is a little flat, sweetie. Let’s tune it up."
"You play the violin?!" Bronwyn practically shrieked. "Since when?!"
"Since I was seven," Andy said lightly, twisting the peg to tune the string. "My grandmother was a music teacher. I played all through high school and college. I was actually in the university orchestra."
Emily finally found her voice, marching out from behind the counter. "You have got to be kidding me. You’ve known my children for three years, you’ve lived in my pocket for two, and you never mentioned you were a musical prodigy?"
Andy looked up, her brown eyes crinkling with amusement. "You never asked, Emily. Besides, it doesn't really come up when we're arguing about media strategy or what to order for dinner."
"I am under a massive amount of stress regarding this recital," Emily said, crossing her arms, trying to ignore the way her heart was thumping against her ribs. God, Andy looked attractive holding a violin. It was ridiculous. "You could have contributed this vital piece of information sooner."
"Well, I'm contributing it now," Andy said softly, her gaze holding Emily’s for a second too long before she turned back to Bronwyn. "What do you say, Bron? Want some help practicing?"
Bronwyn nodded so hard her hair flew into her face. "Please. Mom is entirely helpless. Her only advice is 'make it sound prettier.'"
"Hey!" Emily protested, though she couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips.
"Come on," Andy said, pulling up a chair next to the music stand. "Let's break down that third position shift. It’s all in the thumb, okay? Watch my hand."
Emily walked back to the kitchen, but she didn't open her laptop again. Instead, she leaned against the counter, holding her wine glass, and just watched.
The living room was bathed in the warm, golden light of the lamps. Andy was leaning in close to Bronwyn, her voice low and patient, correcting the angle of the twelve year old’s elbow. Roark had crawled closer, resting his chin on his hands, completely captivated.
Emily felt that sudden, sharp ache in her chest, not a bad ache, but a full, heavy feeling that frightened her. For years, it had just been her and the kids against the world. Benji had checked out long before the divorce papers were signed, leaving Emily to handle the tantrums, the broken toys, the scraped knees, and the lonely evenings all by herself. But looking at Andy right now, sitting on her faded rug, teaching her daughter how to play Bach... it made help mind wonder to places she didn’t quite know yet.
Oh God, Emily thought, taking a long gulp of wine. I am so deeply, utterly screwed.
Over the next two weeks, the Charlton revolved entirely around the Bach Concerto in A minor. Andy started coming over three or four nights a week, she’d show up right around 5:30 pm, usually carrying grocery bags or a box of pastries from the bakery down the street. She’d kick off her shoes, throw her hair into a messy bun, and immediately get to work with Bronwyn.
Emily found herself looking forward to those evenings with an intensity that bordered on pathetic. She’d find herself rushing through her final meetings at the agency, barking orders at her assistants just so she could leave by 5:00.
One rainy Thursday, Emily came home to find the apartment completely quiet, save for the rhythmic clicking of a metronome.
She walked into the living room and stopped.
Andy and Bronwyn were sitting knee to knee on the floor, Bronwyn was holding the violin, her face pinched in deep concentration, Andy was holding the bow, guiding Bronwyn's right arm in a slow, smooth up and down motion.
"Feel the weight of the bow in your fingers," Andy was saying, her voice a quiet, soothing hum. "Don't force it. Let the hair do the work. Good. Just like that."
Bronwyn drew a long, pure, beautiful note. A massive smile broke out across the girl's face. "I did it!"
"You did it," Andy cheered, leaning forward to high-five her. "See? You’re not clunky at all. You’re brilliant."
Bronwyn beamed, looking prouder than Emily had seen her look in months. Emily felt a lump form in her throat, she stepped into the room, clearing her throat to break the spell. "Well. Look at this. An actual orchestra in my living room."
"Mom!" Bronwyn scrambled up. "Andy taught me how to do the vibrato thing! Watch!"
Emily spent the next ten minutes watching her daughter proudly show off her progress. When Bronwyn finally went to her room to do her homework, Emily turned to Andy, who was still sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa with a content sigh.
"You're a saint, Sachs," Emily said, walking over and offering Andy a hand to pull her up.
Andy took her hand, her grip was warm and firm. Instead of letting go immediately when she stood up, Andy stayed close, her thumb brushing lightly against the back of Emily's knuckles for a fleeting, electric second.
"She's a great kid, Em. She just needed a little confidence," Andy said softly, looking down at Emily with those big, honest eyes. "She’s a lot like you, you know, stubborn. Wants everything to be perfect right away."
"I am not stubborn," Emily sniffed, though she didn't step back. "I am simply correct most of the time."
Andy laughed, a rich, throaty sound that vibrated right through Emily’s chest. "Right. My mistake."
"Dinner's going to be a disaster, by the way," Emily said, turning toward the kitchen to hide the blush creeping up her neck. "I attempted to make a lasagna. It looks like a construction site."
"I love construction site lasagna," Andy said, following her.
They ate at the kitchen island, all four of them. Roark spent twenty minutes explaining the entire lore of a video game Andy clearly didn't understand, but she listened to every single word, nodding and asking questions as if it were the most important topic of the century.
After dinner, while the kids were brushing their teeth, Emily stood at the sink, washing the dishes. Andy picked up a dish towel and began drying, stepping into the space right next to Emily.
Their shoulders brushed, it was a tiny, inconsequential contact, but Emily felt it like a jolt of electricity.
"Benji called today," Emily said quietly, keeping her eyes on a soapy plate.
Andy paused, the dish towel hovering, her tone shifted, instantly protective. "And? What's his excuse this time?"
"He says he has a client dinner in Chicago on Friday night. But he promises, he swears, he’ll fly back Saturday morning and meet us directly at the auditorium for the recital." Emily let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "He’s never made a Saturday morning flight in his life. He’s going to miss it. Again."
Andy set the plate down and turned to face Emily fully. "Hey." She reached out, her hand gently catching Emily's forearm. "Look at me."
Emily looked up.
"He might miss it," Andy said, her voice fiercely steady. "But Bronwyn is going to kill it anyway, because she has you, you're a phenomenal mom, Emily. You've raised two incredible, kind, funny kids completely on your own, while running a massive business. If Benji is too stupid to show up, that’s his loss, but don’t let him ruin this for her, or for you."
Emily stared at Andy. The kitchen was quiet, save for the distant sound of Roark arguing with Bronwyn about toothbrushes. Andy’s hand was warm on her arm, her eyes were so full of genuine, unfiltered admiration that Emily felt completely stripped bare.
She wanted to lean forward, she wanted to bridge the tiny gap between them and press her lips against Andy’s. She wanted to tell her that she wasn't doing this alone anymore, because Andy was here, and Andy was the only one who actually mattered.
"Thank you, Andy," Emily whispered, her voice cracking just a little.
Andy’s gaze drifted down to Emily’s lips for a fraction of a second, her breath hitching. The air between them grew thick, charged with a sudden, heavy tension.
"Anytime, Em," Andy murmured, her thumb doing that tiny, devastating brush against Emily's skin again. "Always."
Before anything else could happen, Roark ran into the kitchen. "Mom! Bronwyn hid my pajamas!"
The moment shattered, Andy stepped back, clearing her throat with a flushed face, and Emily immediately plunged her hands back into the soapy water, her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
_______________
Saturday morning arrived with the kind of frantic energy that only exists in households with children preparing for a public performance.
The apartment was a whirlwind of hairspray, ironed dress shirts, and the frantic searching for a missing violin rosin. Emily was pacing the living room in a stunning, sharp emerald green suit, professional, yet fiercely stylish, because she refused to look anything less than perfect.
"Roark! Put your shoes on! No, not the trainers, the loafers!" Emily yelled down the hall. She turned to Bronwyn, who was sitting on the sofa, clad in a pretty navy blue dress, looking pale as a ghost. "Darling, breathe. You look beautiful, and you're going to play beautifully."
"My hands are shaking," Bronwyn said, holding them out. They were, indeed, trembling. "What if I forget the shift? What if I drop the bow?"
Emily sat down next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You won't. Andy taught you. You've practiced it a thousand times."
Right on cue, Emily's phone buzzed in her hand. Her heart sank before she even looked at the screen. It was a text from Benji.
Benji: Em, so sorry. Flight out of O'Hare got delayed due to weather. I'm stuck on the tarmac. Tell Bronny I'm so proud of her and I'll make it up to her next weekend! Kiss the kids for me.
Emily closed her eyes, a wave of familiar, cold anger washing over her, weather. It was perfectly sunny in New York, and a quick glance at her weather app showed Chicago was clear too. He had clearly overslept or couldn't be bothered to catch the early flight.
"Is that Dad?" Bronwyn asked quietly, her voice small.
Emily looked at her daughter, she wanted to scream, to curse Benji into the next century. But she looked at Bronwyn’s anxious face and forced a bright, confident smile.
"Yes," Emily lied smoothly. "He's... stuck in terrible traffic on the way from the airport. He might be a bit late, sweetie. But you know what? It doesn't matter, Roark and I are going to be right in the front row, cheering loud enough to embarrass you."
Bronwyn’s shoulders slumped. She wasn't stupid, she knew what "stuck in traffic" meant when it came to her father. "Okay," she muttered, looking down at her shoes.
Emily felt a fierce, burning protectiveness flare up in her chest, she grabbed her purse. "Alright, team. Let's move. We have a recital to conquer."
The drive to the Manhattan School of Music auditorium was tense. Roark tried to keep spirits up by telling terrible jokes, but Bronwyn just stared out the window, clutching her violin case like a lifeline.
When they arrived, the auditorium lobby was a chaotic sea of parents, nervous children, and the tuning sounds of various instruments, Emily escorted Bronwyn backstage to the warm up room.
"You’re going to be brilliant," Emily said, kissing Bronwyn's forehead. "I love you."
"Love you too, Mom," Bronwyn said, giving her a tight, brief hug before joining the other kids.
Emily walked back out to the lobby, grabbing Roark’s hand, she checked her phone again.
"Come on, Roark," Emily said, keeping her voice upbeat. "Let's find our seats."
The auditorium was grand, with velvet seats and a massive wooden stage. Emily had pulled some strings weeks ago to ensure they had seats right in the dead center of the front row, giving them a perfect view.
As the lights began to dim, the auditorium filled up around them, the seat to Emily’s right remained stubbornly empty. She had reserved it for Benji, holding onto a ghost of hope, but now it just felt like a glaring monument to his absence.
The introductory remarks from the school director seemed to drag on forever, Emily barely heard them, she kept glancing back at the entrance doors at the top of the aisle.
The performances started, a little boy played a hesitant cello piece, a girl played a spirited piano sonata. Emily clapped politely for each one, but her nerves were shot.
"Next up," the director announced into the microphone, "we have Miss Bronwyn Charlton, performing Bach’s Violin Concerto in A minor."
Emily’s heart leaped into her throat.
Bronwyn walked out onto the stage, she looked so small under the bright stage lights, clutching her violin, the accompanist sat at the grand piano, waiting for her cue. Bronwyn took her position, lifting the violin to her chin, but Emily could see from the front row that her daughter's chest was heaving with shallow breaths. Bronwyn looked terrified, she froze, looking out into the audience, searching.
She looked at the empty seat next to Emily. Her bow trembled.
Emily leaned forward, gripping the edge of her seat, about to call out her name, suddenly, the heavy wooden doors at the back of the auditorium clicked open. A sliver of bright light from the lobby cut through the darkness.
A figure slipped inside, moving quickly and quietly down the side aisle.
Emily’s head snapped around, i was Andy.
She was breathless, her cheeks flushed pink from running, her hair a bit wild, she was wearing a beautiful, simple black wrap dress that made her look stunning. She didn't look at the rest of the audience, her eyes scanned the front rows until they locked right onto Emily.
Andy slipped into the row, murmuring quick apologies to the parents she stepped over, and slid into the empty seat right next to Emily.
"I'm here," Andy whispered, her breath coming in short gasps. "Traffic was an absolute nightmare, I ran six blocks in heels, did I miss it?"
"No," Emily breathed, her heart doing a spectacular, dizzying flip. "You're right on time."
Up on stage, Bronwyn had seen her, the change was instantaneous. The sheer terror on the girl’s face melted away, replaced by a massive, radiant grin. She gave Andy a tiny, subtle nod.
Andy raised her hands, giving Bronwyn a double thumbs-up and a reassuring, beaming smile, you got this, her eyes said.
Bronwyn took a deep breath. Her posture corrected, shoulders dropping, alignment perfect, exactly the way Andy had taught her on the living room floor. She nodded to the pianist.
The piano intro began, rich and steady, then, Bronwyn drew her bow. The first note was pure, resonant, and completely confident.
Emily felt tears immediately prick the corners of her eyes. She watched her daughter fly through the piece, her fingers navigating the fingerboard with an ease that seemed almost miraculous compared to two weeks ago. When the moment for the difficult third position shift arrived, Emily held her breath, she felt a sudden, warm pressure engulf her hand.
She looked down, Andy had reached over and gripped Emily’s hand, lacing their fingers together, Andy’s hand was warm, steady, and solid.
Up on stage, Bronwyn executed the shift flawlessly, the solo melody soaring beautifully through the rafters of the auditorium.
Andy let out a soft, joyful breath, her grip tightening around Emily’s hand, she turned her head to look at Emily, her eyes shining in the dim light of the theater.
Emily didn't look back at the stage. She couldn't. She looked at Andy, at the way the stage light caught the slope of her jaw, the genuine happiness radiating from her, the absolute devotion she had shown to Emily’s family.
I love her, Emily thought, the truth hitting her not like a lightning bolt, but like a warm, settling blanket. I am completely, entirely, beautifully in love with her.
She didn't let go of Andy’s hand, she squeezed back, pressing her palm firmly against Andy’s, their fingers completely intertwined. Andy’s smile softened, her thumb gently tracing the back of Emily's hand in that familiar, intimate gesture, keeping her eyes locked onto Emily’s for a long, profound moment before they both turned back to watch Bronwyn finish her piece.
The final note echoed through the hall, clean and vibrant. The auditorium erupted into applause. Roark was on his feet, yelling, "That's my sister!"
Emily and Andy stood up together, their hands finally separating only so they could clap furiously. Bronwyn beamed, bowing deeply, her eyes locked onto the two women in the front row who were cheering the loudest.
___________
"To the maestro!" Andy shouted, raising her glass of sparkling cider toward Bronwyn.
They were packed into a booth at a diner down the street from the auditorium, a post recital tradition that the kids had insisted on. The table was covered in an obscene amount of food: loaded fries, double cheeseburgers, and a massive chocolate milkshake with four straws.
"To Bronwyn!" Emily chimed in, clinking her glass of actual champagne against the kids' cider. "You were spectacular, darling, truly, I might actually let you practice in the living room from now on."
"Thanks, Mom," Bronwyn said, her cheeks still rosy with excitement. She looked over at Andy. "Thanks, Andy. I couldn't have done that shift without you, I saw you walk in and I just remembered what you said about the thumb."
Andy smiled, leaning over to press a sweet kiss to the top of Bronwyn’s head. "You did all the hard work, Bron. You were a total rockstar."
Roark, whose face was currently smeared with ketchup, looked up. "Are you going to come to my soccer game next Saturday, Andy? Dad said he’d try to make it, but..." He shrugged, his cynicism showing through. "You know."
Emily felt a sudden pang of sadness for her son, but before she could speak, Andy reached across the table, gently tapping Roark’s nose.
"Try to make it? No way," Andy said firmly. "I will be there, front row, I'll even make a giant, embarrassing sign with your name on it in glitter."
Roark’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Really? With glitter?"
"The bright pink kind," Andy promised solemnly.
Emily watched the exchange, her heart swelling to a size that felt almost dangerous. She looked at Andy, who was laughing as Roark began describing his favorite soccer moves. Andy looked so completely at home with them. It wasn't forced, it wasn't an obligation, she just belonged here.
By the time they got back to the apartment, the kids were exhausted from the adrenaline crash. Roark practically dragged his feet to his room, and Bronwyn carefully placed her violin back in its case with a newfound sense of reverence.
Emily ushered them both into bed, kissing them goodnight and lingering in the hallway for a moment, listening to the quiet, peaceful breathing of her children. When she walked back into the living room, the main lights were off, leaving only the soft, warm glow of the floor lamps. Andy was standing by the window, looking out at the city skyline, a half empty glass of wine in her hand.
Emily walked up quietly, standing just a step behind her. "They're asleep. Completely wiped out."
Andy turned around, a soft, sleepy smile on her face. "They had a big day." She set her wine glass down on the side table. "You okay? You look a bit quiet."
"I'm fine," Emily said, though her voice lacked its usual sharp edge. It was soft, almost vulnerable. She stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she could smell the faint scent of Andy’s perfume, something warm and vanilla. "I wanted to say thank you. Properly."
Andy waved a hand dismissively. "Em, you don't have to thank me…"
"Yes, I do," Emily interrupted, her tone firm, she reached out, taking both of Andy’s hands in hers. "Benji didn't get stuck on a tarmac, Andy. He just didn't show up. He always makes an excuse."
Andy’s expression shifted to one of deep sympathy, her hands squeezing Emily’s. "I'm sorry, Em. He's an idiot."
"He is," Emily agreed softly. "But today, when Bronwyn looked out at that empty seat... she didn't see an absence. She saw you. You ran six blocks in heels just to make sure she didn't feel alone. You've spent weeks on my living room floor making sure she felt confident. You're... you're incredible, Andrea."
Andy stared at her, her breath hitching slightly at the use of her full name. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly, turning thick and heavy with all the unspoken words that had been building between them for months.
"Emily," Andy whispered, her eyes searching Emily’s face. "I didn't do it just for Bronwyn. I mean, I love the kids, I really do. But..." She swallowed hard, taking a step closer, her chest almost touching Emily’s. "I did it because of you. I want to be her, for all of it, with you."
Emily’s heart was hammering so loudly she was certain Andy could hear it. "Andy... what are you saying?"
Andy took a deep breath, dropping one of Emily's hands so she could bring her palm up to rest against Emily’s cheek, her thumb gently stroked Emily's cheekbone, her touch incredibly tender.
"I'm saying I'm in love with you, Emily," Andy said, her voice shaking just a little, but her eyes completely steady. "I've been in love with you for a really long time. I love your fire, I love your ridiculous standards, I love the way you care so fiercely for your kids, I love everything about you."
A tear slipped down Emily’s cheek, caught instantly by Andy’s thumb, Emily let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob.
"You absolute fool," Emily murmured, her hands moving up to grip the lapels of Andy’s black dress. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you to say that? I've been losing my mind in this kitchen for months."
Andy’s eyes widened with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated joy. "You... you love me too?"
"Of course I love you, you idiot," Emily said, a brilliant, beautiful smile breaking across her face. "I'm entirely, hopelessly in love with you."
Andy didn't waste another second. She leaned in, her lips meeting Emily’s in a kiss that was sweet, deep, and full of a quiet, desperate relief. It wasn't the hurried, angry clash of their old Runway days, it was slow, warm, and tasted faintly of sweet champagne and the comfort of home.
Emily melted into it, her arms wrapping securely around Andy’s neck, pulling her as close as physically possible. Andy’s hands moved to Emily's waist, holding her steady, anchoring her.
When they finally parted, their foreheads rested against each other, both of them breathing softly.
“Just so you know,” Emily says quietly, “life with kids isn’t a fairytail, there’s going to be ugly screaming and crying and nights awake. She says, raising en eyebrow. “You need to be ready, because kids take 100% of your time”.
“I don’t care Em, as long as I’m here with you, with them, I’ll ugly scream with, if it is what it takes”Andrea smiles, looking at her. “And, actually, it isn’t 100% for the kids, you get 1% for yourself”, Andy whispered, a playful, dimpled smirk returning to her face. "Does this mean I get to keep coming over for dinner?"
"Only if you promise to never play that Bach piece again," Emily teased, her fingers gently playing with the hairs at the nape of Andy’s neck. "It was beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t know if I can keep listening to it on repeat."
"Deal," Andy laughed, kissing Emily quickly on the nose.
Emily leaned her head against Andy’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around her waist. As they stood there in the quiet, warm living room, looking out at the city, Emily felt a sense of peace she hadn't felt in years.
The seat next to her wasn't empty anymore. It was full. And it was exactly where it was supposed to be.