Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first thing Andy noticed when she woke up was that her mattress had suddenly expanded to the size of a football field. Or she’d shrunk.

She tried to knit her brows together in deep, intellectual concern, the kind suitable for a Northwestern graduate, but her forehead felt suspiciously loose. Everything felt heavy and weightless all at once, as if her soul had been scooped out and repackaged into a vat of warm butter.

Morning sunlight poured through the blinds, firing off blinding golden shafts across her comforter. She opened her mouth to sigh, attempted a long, luxurious stretch… and violently inverted herself.

“…Ow.”

Except human speech didn't happen. What actually escaped her throat was a noise so indignantly squeaky it sounded like someone had stepped on a rubber duck.

Andy froze. Okay. Weird. Severe sudden-onset throat infection, obviously. Or a stroke. Or she was still suffering from the sheer psychological toxicity of yesterday’s meeting.

She tried stretching again, slower, only to realise her limbs were entirely missing their normal hardware. Instead of the familiar, pale pull of her arms, two ridiculously plush, oversized, butterscotch-coloured paws were stuck out in front of her face.

...Paws?

She blinked. The world was strangely wide-angled, and her chin was practically embedded in the sheets. She squinted at the paws. They remained paw-shaped.

“...”

No.

She squeezed her eyes shut, counted to three, and snapped them open. The paws had not magically converted back into human fingers. In fact, one of them twitched.

“Wh—”

“Wuff.”

Dead silence. Her entire nervous system hit a brick wall.

No. No, no, no. She was a serious journalist. She wore sensible shoes. She read The New Yorker. She did not make noises like a chew toy.

She opened her mouth, determined to articulate a full, grammatically correct sentence. “What the actual hell?”

“WOOF!”

The tiny, high-pitched yap bounced off the bedroom walls with staggering volume.

“Woof.” (“…What.”)

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped hummingbird. Panic surged, and she tried to bolt upright, which was a fatal error. The faded oversized shirt she’d slept in immediately collapsed over her like a fallen circus tent.

Suddenly wrapped in fifty yards of stifling gray cotton, Andy flailed wildly beneath the fabric. Where was the neck hole? Why was there so much thread count?! After ten seconds of blind terror, frantic kicking, and a series of increasingly embarrassed yip-yip-yips, her head finally burst through the collar.

The shirt now draped off her like a king-sized bedsheet. Her sleep shorts were gone entirely, puddled near the foot of the bed like a discarded parachute.

“WUFF!” she demanded at the ceiling. (“What is happening to me?!”)

“WOOF!” (“Oh, shut up!”)

Every attempt to reason with her situation sounded like a furious squeaky shoe.

Andy began spinning in manic, disoriented circles, searching for a rational explanation. A gas leak? Carbon monoxide poisoning? A hyper-specific stroke?

Her apartment looked infuriatingly ordinary. Her alarm clock blinked 7:06 AM in familiar neon red. Her stack of unread novels sat peacefully on the nightstand. Her sensible, non-Runway slippers were right where she’d kicked them off last night.

Everything was completely normal. Except...

She scrambled to the edge of the mattress and looked down.

The drop to the floor, usually a minor step, now looked like the Grand Canyon. The polished hardwood stretched out miles below her, gleaming with terrifying, knee-shattering indifference.

“Yip.” (“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”)

Maybe if she slid down backwards? Lowered herself by her... claws?

She leaned forward, caught a dizzying whiff of yesterday's floor cleaner, a smell so sharp it almost knocked her over, and recoiled.

Nope. Absolutely not. She’d break every tiny, delicate bone in her body. Then again, if her bones had been swapped for whatever fluffy disaster was happening right now... did physics even apply?

“Ruff.” (“…Screw it.”)

She launched herself off the edge.

For one glorious, horrifying millisecond, she was convinced she was about to become a small patch of red grease on her cheap rug.

Then she hit the floor with a soft, pathetic fwump. Zero pain. She’d basically bounced. Well. That was almost more terrifying than dying.

Andy scrambled to get her footing, immediately lost control of her rear wheels, and toppled sideways into her own ribcage.

“Yip?” (“What?”)

She tried again. Front legs went left. Back legs filed a formal grievance and went right. She collapsed in a humiliating tangle of limbs.

“Yip!” (“No, no, no.”)

She’d been walking upright for twenty-three years! Bipedalism was supposed to be humanity's baseline achievement!

Grouting her teeth, or what felt like a mouth full of needle-sharp puppy fangs, she planted all four... pads... firmly on the floor.

One. Two. Three. Four. She stood. Balanced. Oh, thank God. She took one triumphant step toward the wall. Her hindquarters promptly forgot the assignment, drift-sliding on the slick wood, and she face-planted directly into the baseboard with a dull clack.

“Awooo..?” (“…Seriously?”)

After three more drunken-sailor attempts, she developed a rhythm, which was to say, a high-friction, uncoordinated waddle. Dragging her massive cotton shirt behind her like a bridal train, she dragged herself to the full-length mirror resting against the wall.

Good. Answers. She’d look in the glass, see a mildly dehydrated human woman, and laugh about this over cheap coffee.

She reached the base of the mirror. Tilted her head up. And screamed.

“WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!”

A tiny, impossibly round golden retriever puppy screamed back from the glass.

It had massive, glossy dark eyes, absurdly oversized velvet ears that drooped over its cheeks, floppy paws the size of coffee saucers, and coat so outrageously fluffy it looked like a high-end plush toy.

The puppy’s jaw dropped in sheer horror. So did Andy’s. The puppy’s ears flattened in panic. Andy felt two warm, soft flaps fold back against her skull.

Slowly, shakily, Andy raised one butterscotch paw. The golden menace in the mirror raised its paw.

“...”

The creature was wearing her exact, soul-crushing panic.

“Woof.” (“Oh my God.”)

“WOOF!” (“Oh my GOD.”)

Andrea Sachs, first assistant to the ruthless Miranda Priestly, aspiring serious journalist, holder of a Journalism degree, had somehow transformed into an adorable, highly pettable domestic canine.

And worse...She glanced back at the glowing red numbers on her clock. 7:18 AM.

She was supposed to be at work in forty-two minutes with Miranda’s no-foam, extra-hot, skim latte with an extra shot of espresso.

“Arf.” (“Oh, Emily is going to kill me.”)

Andy sat in front of the mirror for a solid sixty seconds, staring into the dark, glossy eyes of her own canine soul.

This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. Serious, career-oriented adults did not simply wake up transformed into livestock on a Tuesday. Unless she had suffered a sudden violent psychotic break. Or died in her sleep from an overdose of stress-induced cortisol. Or…no. Panicking was an inefficient use of billable hours. She had spent nearly a year surviving under the iron-heeled tyranny of Miranda Priestly. She knew how to problem-solve under extreme psychological distress.

Think, Sachs. What would Human Andy do?

Call in sick. Simple. Miranda wasn't exactly known for her maternal empathy, but even she couldn't reasonably expect a second assistant to manage a couture garment bag when she lacked opposable thumbs and was roughly six inches tall.

Andy nodded to herself in firm, corporate agreement. “Yip.” (“Exactly.”)

“Yip yip.” (“…Right.”)

She marched purposefully toward her desk. Well, she attempted a march. It came out looking more like a clumsy, uncoordinated waddle, her back end swishing wildly with every stride as if her tail had developed its own independent political agenda.

Her laptop sat exactly where she’d left it last night, closed neatly on the wooden surface. Perfect.

She trotted up to the desk chair. Looked up.

…

The chair was a towering monolithic fortress. Yesterday, she’d casually slumped into it. Today, it looked like K2.

“Arf!” (“Oh, come on.”)

She planted her front paws against one of the chair’s rolling wheels and stretched up as far as her fluff would carry her. Not even close. She backed up three steps, braced her tiny hindquarters, and launched herself into the air. She missed the cushion by a mile, hitting the leather side with a dull thud and landing in a pathetic, butterscotch-colored heap on the floor.

“Ruff.” (“…Again.”)

The second attempt was somehow worse; she caught her chin on the edge and slid back down like a cartoon character. By the fourth jump, Andy was convinced gravity had singled her out for personal torment.

She sat down on her plush little butt with a frustrated huff. Think. Think.

Her glossy eyes swept the room and locked onto the small wooden stool tucked beneath her bookshelf, the one she used to reach her collection of classic literature.

A manic, sharp-toothed grin spread across her furry face.

“Ruff.” (“Ooh.”)

She scampered over. The stool was nearly her height. No matter. She wedged her tiny, velvet-soft shoulder against one of the wooden legs.

And shoved.

Nothing happened. She dug her claws into the rug and shoved harder. The stool scraped forward half an inch with an earsplitting screech that rattled her ridiculously sensitive dog ears.

“Rrrf…” (“Urgh…”)

Again.

Scrrrraaaape.

Again.

Scrrrraaaape.

It took five long minutes to drag the stupid piece of furniture across the hardwood floor. By the time it was in front of the desk, Andy’s ribs were heaving violently.

She blinked. Why was her mouth so hot? Why was her lower jaw running completely automated software?

Her pink tongue dropped out of her mouth, flopping unceremoniously over her lower fangs like a strip of deli ham.

“Wooof???” (“…Seriously?”)

Instead of sweating like a dignified human being, she was sitting on her carpet, hyperventilating with her mouth hanging open like an overeager golden retriever waiting for a tennis ball. She snapped her jaw shut. The tongue immediately flopped right back out.

This is humiliating.

“Huff. Huff.” (“Oh my God.”)

She sounded like a squeaky toy trapped in a wind tunnel.

Catching her breath, or whatever this ungodly animal panting was, she clambered onto the stool, used it as a launching pad to reach the chair, and finally scrambled onto the desk itself.

“Yip.” (“Ha.”)

She ignored her own vocal cords, planted her paws on the brushed aluminum, and nudged the laptop lid open with her wet snout.

The screen flickered to life, bathing her face in white light. Andy instinctively flinched back.

“Arf…?” (“…Whoa.”)

The display was terrifyingly massive. She’d never realised fifteen inches of screen space could look like a IMAX theater. The trackpad was the size of her paw-pad, the little battery icon looked like an actual brick.

Okay. She just needed to construct one coherent email to Emily.

She padded cautiously across the smooth trackpad. The keys beneath her were almost as wide as her feet. She raised one butterscotch paw, positioned it carefully over the 'E', and pressed down.

`rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr`

“...”

She lifted her leg, but the weight of her entire furry mass had jammed the key down into the chassis.

“Oh.”

Panicking, she shuffled sideways to fix it. The cursor wildly shot across the screen. Her back right paw landed squarely on the middle row.

`asdfghjklpoiuytrewq`

The email client minimised. A bright red error box popped up.

Andy stared at the screen. She stared at her own tiny, completely useless paws. Then, slowly, with all the grace of a defeated cartoon character, she lowered her chin flat onto the hot key row.

“...”

The computer let out a hollow, rhythmic error chime.

`BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.`

“Woo.” (“This is the worst day of my entire life.”)

She couldn’t type. She couldn’t hold a pen. She couldn’t even tap her smartphone screen without triggering a four-way conference call.

Okay. Shift perspective. Who would actually help her? Miranda? Absolutely not. Miranda would have her humanely put down for being a distraction. Nigel? Maybe, but she didn’t have his home address memorised, and she couldn't exactly check her contacts.

So… Emily.

Emily would think she had completely lost her mind. Emily would hurl insults at her. But Emily knew where Andy lived, and more importantly, Andy had memorised Emily’s address from a month of running frantic, late-night deliveries of dry cleaning and green juices.

It was only several blocks away. I'll go to Emily's.

“Yip!”

Good. Phenomenal. She was a woman of action.

She hopped down from the desk—Desk to Chair to Stool to Floor—landing with four soft plops. She trotted toward the front door, feeling remarkably accomplished.

Halfway across the rug, she froze dead in her tracks. …Wait.

She looked down at her chest. I’m naked.

“...”

“Woof.”

Technically, she was entirely unclothed. On the other hand, she was covered in a thick layer of dense, unbelievably soft golden fur. Did fur count as pants? Would the NYPD arrest a puppy for public indecency?

No. Because she was... Andy sighed internally, her fluffy ears drooping. A dog. Dogs didn't wear trousers.

“Ruff…” (“…Fine.”)

She trotted the rest of the way to the heavy wooden door and looked up at the brass handle.

It was sitting at skyscraper height.

She reared up on her hind legs, stretching her front paws out as far as they’d go. She was off by at least two feet. She jumped, flailing her legs uselessly in the empty air.

“Arf.” (“No.”)

Another jump. She scraped the doorframe.

“Arf!!” (“No!”)

A frantic, scramble-jump. She landed flat on her tail.

“YAP!” (“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”)

She glared at the handle with venomous, pure human hatred. The apartment was no longer her sanctuary, it was a high-concept prison tailored specifically to torture short, quadrupedal mammals.

She spun in two sharp, furious circles, her tail whipping around behind her. Think. There had to be an exit.

Her nose twitched as a draft hit her, a sudden breeze carrying the faint smell of wet garbage and stale hallway carpet. Her eyes darted to the narrow transom window beside the front door. She’d cracked it open last night to let the muggy air out.

It wasn't a big gap. Just a few inches.

Andy looked at the gap. Then she looked back across the room at the wooden stool she’d just spent ten gruelling minutes hauling to her desk.

“Woof.” (“…No.”)

The stool sat there in silent, inanimate mockery.

“Awwrrr” “(…I literally just dragged you.”)

The stool offered zero concessions.

With a long, soul-crushing sigh, Andy trudged back across the apartment, braced her tiny shoulders against the wood once more, and began the tiring process all over again.

Scrrrraaaape.

Pant.

Scrrrraaaape.

Pant.

By the time she’d wrestled the heavy thing beneath the transom window, her tongue was hanging all the way down to her chest. This better work.

“Huff… huff…”

She scrambled up the steps, balanced precariously on the top, and jammed her front half through the crack in the window. The cool air of the hallway hit her snout. Please don't get stuck. Please don't let me die in a window frame.

She gave one violent, indignant wriggle, her little hips wedging briefly against the frame—

Pop.

She tumbled head-over-tail through the gap, landing on the hallway carpet in an unceremonious, fluffy pile of paws and ears.

“Arf…” (“…Ow.”)

Andy scrambled to her feet, shook her entire body out, sending a flurry of loose golden fluff flying through the air; and gave one last, bitter look at her front door.

Then, steadying her clumsy four-legged waddle, Andy set off down the carpeted hallway to break into Emily’s apartment.

Hopefully, Emily was an animal lover. Because if not, Andy was about to become a very expensive pair of leather gloves.

The hallway was empty. Good. Step one accomplished.

Andy hurried toward the building's main entrance with as much corporate purpose as four stubby, uncoordinated legs could manage. The heavy glass lobby door had thankfully been propped open by a guy delivering groceries, and she slipped past his ankles into the crisp morning air.

Fresh Manhattan oxygen hit her snout.

And instantly, her head exploded. Coffee—dark roast, burnt hazelnut syrup. Fresh everything bagels. Damp asphalt still sweating off last night’s drizzle. Exhaust fumes. A woman in a trench coat soaked in expensive jasmine perfume. Three pigeons harboring bad intentions. A panic-stricken street squirrel. Another dog—a French bulldog with severe digestive issues. And somewhere, impossibly far away, someone frying sausage and onions.

Andy skidded to a dead stop on the pavement.

“…”

How could she smell all of that?! At the exact same time?!

New York had always smelled like an unholy cocktail of garbage and ambition, but now every individual scent was a violent, thousand-watt sensory assault. It felt like someone had shoved a surround-sound speaker straight up her nostrils.

She let out a sharp, high-pitched sneeze.

A fat squirrel sitting on a nearby trash can paused, an acorn clamped in its jaw, and locked eyes with her.

For one terrifying second, a dark, primal force commandeered Andy’s brain:

MURDER THE TAIL MONSTER. PURSUE AT ALL COSTS.

Andy physically shook her furry head. No.

“Yip.” (“I am a serious journalist. I am NOT chasing rodents.”)

Her paws had already taken three twitchy, eager bounds forward before her human brain managed to slam on the emergency brakes. Absolutely not. She had a career to save.

She squared her tiny, velvet shoulders and resumed her trek down the sidewalk. Or… she attempted to.

Normally, Andy could power-walk through Manhattan foot traffic like a woman possessed, weaving through tourists with surgical precision. Today, however, her legs were roughly the length of a plastic butter knife.

She trotted. And trotted. And trotted.

She looked up at a mailbox to gauge her progress. She had traveled approximately six inches.

“Wuff.” (“What?”)

No. Physics had to be broken.

She accelerated into a frantic, blurred waddle, her tiny paws drumming against the concrete. Which, unfortunately, only meant her legs were moving faster, not that she was actually going anywhere. Pedestrians loomed above her like concrete skyscrapers, their casual strides covering half a block while Andy scampered frantically beneath a terrifying sky of leather wingtips and stilettos.

Someone nearly crushed her under a boot.

“Watch it!” she squeaked, though it came out as an indignant "ARF!"

A courier's bicycle thundered past, its tires towering over her like monster truck wheels.

This is mathematically impossible. She’d never reach Soho at this rate. Her tiny puppy heart would give out before she even crossed 14th Street.

She paused at the curb, peering up through the forest of legs at the traffic light. Just then, a heavy diesel engine rumbled to the curb. A big blue MTA bus hissed to a stop, its digital marquee blinking: M102 – SOHO / DOWNTOWN.

Andy’s ears perked up. Oh!!! She didn't need to walk, she just had to hijack public transit!

The bus doors folded open with a loud burst of compressed air. Commuters trickled aboard. Andy waited until the last pair of business slacks stepped up, then darted silently between the guy's loafers.

Nobody looked down. Nobody noticed. She was so absurdly small that she simply dissolved into the background shadow of shoe leather.

The doors hissed shut. Success.

Andy waddled triumphantly into the aisle and collapsed straight onto her stomach.

“…Huff.” (“Phew.”)

Her pink tongue instantly flopped out, sprawling across the grimy, cool rubber floor like a slice of bologna as she gasped for air.

From Andy’s perspective, she was a hardened commuter taking a well-earned break after surviving a harrowing commute.

From everyone else’s perspective, a butterscotch-coloured golden retriever puppy, consisting of 90% fur and 10% floppy ears, had somehow boarded the M102 completely unescorted and melted into a furry puddle in the middle of the aisle.

A woman in scrubs looked down. Her tired eyes instantly melted. "Oh my gosh..."

Andy pretended not to hear her.

A teenager snapped a picture on his polaroid. "Yo, look at this little guy."

Andy ignored them. She was far too busy trying to calculate whether turning into a quadruped qualified for short-term disability insurance.

The bus lurched forward. Andy slid three feet backward across the slick rubber floor.

“Yip!” (“Oh!”)

She frantically scrambled to regain her footing, scrambling like a cartoon character on ice before settling back down with zero percent of her intended dignity.

Okay, she thought, steadying herself. Emily will know what to do. Or maybe she knows a doctor. Or a vet? Wait... would a vet know more about this than a human doctor?

She really didn't like where that train of thought was leading.

The bus lurched to another stop. More shoes boarded. Including a pair of tiny, light-up Lightning McQueen sneakers attached to a toddler.

The kid couldn't have been older than three. He looked miserable, until his eyes landed on the fuzzy heap in the aisle.

His entire face erupted into pure unadulterated joy.

"Mama!" he shrieked, pointing a sticky finger. "PUPPY!"

Andy slowly raised her head. Oh no.

"PUPPY!"

Before Andy could initiate an evasive manoeuvre, the toddler charged.

“Arf!” (“No, wait—”)

Too late. Two chubby, uncoordinated hands swooped down and scooped her right off the floor.

Andy left the ground with a startled squeak, airborne for a terrifying second before being clamped violently against a sticky, juice-stained Elmo t-shirt. The toddler squeezed her with the terrifying, bone-crushing intensity known only to small children who love animals.

It wasn't painful, exactly. Just… suffocatingly tight.

“Rrrf!” (“Oh my God, my ribs—”)

The boy buried his entire face directly into the fur on her neck. "Soft!"

“Woof! Ruff! Yip yip!” “I know I’m soft, but I’m currently on a tight schedule, so if you could—!”

His mother gasped, rushing over. "Oliver! Gentle! Be gentle with the puppy!"

She carefully pried her son's iron grip open. Andy inhaled a desperate lungful of bus air, relieved, until the toddler immediately shifted strategies.

He didn't squeeze this time. He just started scratching her. Right behind her velvet ears. Andy went dead still.

“…”

“…”

She hated to admit it. She wanted to file a formal complaint. But… Oh. Oh, wow. That was… shockingly effective.

Without her consent, Andy’s head tilted slightly, leaning into the little boy's sticky fingers. The kid giggled hysterically. "She likes it!"

Andy snapped out of it, horrified. “Huff!” (“I do NOT!”)

Then, her back right leg took matters into its own hands. It lifted into the air and began violently thumping against the floorboards of its own accord.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Andy stared at her own rogue limb in absolute betrayal. No. Stop it. We are a Northwestern graduate!

Thump. Stop! Thump-thump-thump.

The toddler squealed with delight. "Mama! Puppy happy!"

Andy squeezed her eyes shut, resigning herself to her fate.

Somewhere in on Madison, Miranda was undoubtedly looking at her watch, wondering why her coffee wasn't on her desk. And Andrea Sachs, aspiring hard-news journalist, was currently stuck on a public bus, having her brain short-circuited by a toddler's ear scratches.

This was, without a single shred of doubt, the most humiliating day of her life.

By the time familiar Soho landmarks began sliding past the bus windows, Andy nearly wept tears of pure, fluffy relief.

She knew this neighbourhood. This was the land of unnecessarily hostile coffee shops charging nine dollars for oat milk. The boutiques that displayed a single minimalist handbag worth more than her net worth. The aggressively pressure-washed sidewalks.

Emily had once spent fifteen minutes standing in the breakroom, violently complaining that the florist downstairs had dared to substitute white lilies with cream lilies.

“Yip.” (“I'm in Soho!”)

Progress. Real, tangible progress.

The bus lurched into its deceleration pattern. Andy scrambled to all four feet, her tail giving two involuntary swishes against the rubber floor. Time to make her move.

She trotted toward the front exit with the calm, quiet authority of a seasoned Manhattan commuter.

Then she remembered a small, terrifying detail. It was 7:45 AM. Rush hour.

The bus doors folded open with a sharp hiss of compressed air, and immediately, a suffocating wall of human flesh surged forward.

Businessmen balancing trays of artisanal drip coffee. NYU students weighed down by massive backpacks. An aggressive woman holding a dry-cleaning bag over her head like a shield. A guy screaming into a Bluetooth headset.

Andy was instantly swallowed whole beneath a terrifying forest of moving limbs.

“…Welp.”

The exit was gone. The horizon was entirely obscured by footwear. Loafers. Italian leather. Dirty Converse. Stilettos that could easily puncture a puppy skull.

The bus gave its warning chime, two high-pitched beeps indicating the doors were about to close. Panic spiked through Andy’s tiny, overactive bloodstream.

“Yip! Yip! Yip!” (“I need to get off! Move!”)

Nobody looked down. The crowd just pushed tighter.

“Yip!” (“Excuse me, I am missing my stop!”)

She tried to squeeze between a pair of pinstriped trouser legs, only for a leather wingtip to descend mere inches from her tail. Someone accidentally stepped straight over her. another person nearly kicked her in the ribs.

“Arf!” (“So sorry, pardon me—”)

She darted around a massive leather briefcase, only to find herself pinned against the fare box by a wall of denim.

“Yip! Yip! Yip!” (“No, no, no—!”)

Suddenly, a child’s piercing voice echoed through the bus:

“MUMMY!”

Andy looked up, her velvet ears pinned back in distress. A girl of about eight was hanging off the handrail, pointing a finger directly down at her.

“THE PUPPY IS TRAPPED! IT’S TRYING TO GET OFF!”

The bus came to a screeching, atmospheric halt. Half the vehicle looked down at once.

There was a suspended beat of pure silence. Then—

“Oh my god.”

“She IS trying to get off!”

“Look at her tiny face!”

“Poor baby!”

The sea of angry commuters instantly parted. Pinstriped trousers scrambled backward. High heels flattened against the walls.

“Let the puppy through!”

“Careful, don’t step on her!”

“Hold the doors! Hold the doors!”

Someone physically grabbed the rubber edge of the bus doors to stop them from closing. A man in a tailored Tom Ford suit gestured grandly toward the sidewalk like a chivalrous butler.

“After you, little miss.”

Andy stood frozen in the middle of the aisle.

“…”

The little girl beamed down at her, waving frantically. “Go on!”

Andy had just been granted an entire human red carpet. A dedicated VIP corridor through Manhattan morning traffic. All because twenty strangers believed she was an extraordinarily civilised canine navigating public transit on her own terms.

“…Wuff.” (“This is so deeply humiliating.”)

Lowering her head in shame, she scurried down the center aisle as fast as her stubby legs could carry her.

“Aww, look at her little waddle!”

“She’s so smart, oh my god!”

“Is someone filming this? Please tell me someone is filming this.”

A camcorder slid into view. Then another. Andy pointedly looked at the rubber floorboards. If she didn't make eye contact with the lenses, the videos didn't exist. That was basic media law.

She took a leaping bound off the final step and landed fwump onto the Soho sidewalk. The doors hissed shut behind her.

As the bus began to pull away, the little girl pressed her face against the glass, waving enthusiastically. “Bye, puppy!”

Andy, entirely against her own will, turned around. “…Woof.”

The girl gasped in delight. “SHE SAID BYE!”

The bus vanished around the corner. Andy immediately pressed her face flat against the cold brick wall of a boutique for three seconds, wishing the earth would swallow her whole.

Then she shook out her fur, straightened her nonexistent collar, and turned around. Focus, Sachs. Mission: Emily.

She trotted down the cobblestone street, passing the bakery Emily swore made the only non-toxic croissants in the city, then the dry cleaner who lived in perpetual terror of ruining Miranda’s silk scarves.

Finally, she arrived. Emily Charlton’s apartment building.

Andy looked up. Waaaay up. The brownstone rose into the morning sky like a medieval tower. She tracked the windows upward until her eyes landed on a second-floor pane glowing with soft, warm light behind drawn linen curtains.

Emily was still home.

Relief swept over her. “Ruff.” (“Oh, thank God.”)

She hadn't left for the office yet. Maybe she was looking for a lost shoe. Maybe she was obsessively re-steaming a blouse. Maybe she was, …wait. Why was her puppy brain suddenly making excuses for Emily?

Andy trotted up to the entryway, then abruptly stopped.

“…”

The security panel. The brass keypad sat comfortably at average human eye level. From Andy’s current perspective, it was practically mounted on the moon.

She reared onto her hind legs, pressing her front paws uselessly against the cold stone facade. Not even close. She jumped, flailing in mid-air like a flying squirrel. Still a foot short.

She glared up at the intercom button.

“Ruff??” (“…Seriously?”)

She barked at the speaker in desperation.

“Woof!”

Silence.

“WOOF!”

Nothing. And even if Emily did answer... what was the play here? Emily would press the buzzer, walk downstairs, open the door, and find a fifteen-pound lump of golden fluff sitting on the welcome mat.

She certainly wasn't going to look down and think: Ah, yes. The bone structure is unmistakably Andrea.

Andy let out a heavy, suffering dog sigh. There was nothing to be done.

She trotted over to the sunny spot beside the doorway. Before she could stop herself, her body took over: she circled clockwise once, circled counter-clockwise twice—

Did I just... why did I do that?! She blinked, horrified by her own body’s automated programming, then collapsed onto the cool stone, curling her fluffy tail over her nose.

And she waited.

Every few minutes, the heavy door swung open as residents headed out. Almost every single person stopped to stare. An elderly woman in a cashmere coat actually knelt down on the pavement to scratch behind Andy's ears.

"Are you lost, sweetheart? Are you waiting for your human?"

Andy lifted her head, staring into the woman's eyes with the hollow, haunting gaze of an overworked editorial assistant.

“…Woof.”

"Oh, how precious!"

Andy was not trying to be precious. She was trying to secure emergency shelter before Miranda realised her coffee was twenty minutes late.

So she sat. Staring at the front door. Staring at the glowing window upstairs. Praying that Emily would come sweeping out those doors soon. Because if anyone in the city of New York possessed the cynicism required to handle this absolute nightmare...

Well. It wasn't Emily. But Emily was all she had.

Andy waited. One minute. Three minutes. Five minutes.

The door spun every now and then, depositing impeccably dressed Soho residents out onto the cobblestones like a conveyor belt of high-fashion extra-terrestrials. None of them were Emily.

Just as Andy began to panic, wondering if Emily had somehow slipped out through a secret service elevator or taken a broomstick straight to work, the glass door spun again.

There she was. Emily Charlton emerged into the Manhattan sunlight exactly as she always did, sharp, flawless, and terrifying.

Sheer black tights encased miles of leg ending in lethal four-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos. A tailored camel Burberry trench coat was cinched violently tight at her waist. A structured Kate Spade handbag swung from the crook of her elbow like a shield, and her red hair was sculpted into a masterpiece that defied both gravity and wind.

Her makeup was an exercise in extreme intimidation, winged eyeliner sharp enough to slice glass, pale pink lipstick, and a dusting of shimmering blue eyeshadow that somehow looked like a five-thousand-dollar runway piece rather than a mistake.

Her face wore an expression of deep, soul-crushing exhaustion, suggesting she had already been personally offended by at least four inferior human beings before eight in the morning. In other words... standard Emily.

Andy’s entire dog body lit up like a Christmas tree.

“YIP!” (“Oh thank GOD!”)

The moment Emily’s leather heel hit the pavement, Andy launched herself forward like a fuzzy missile.

“Yap! Yap! Yap!” (“Emily! Over here!”)

“YIP! YIP! YIP!” (“Emily! Emily! Look down! It’s me, Andrea!”)

Emily froze mid-stride. Slowly, with immense reluctance, her gaze drifted down the front of her trench coat.

Her sharp blue eyes landed on a tiny, fifteen-pound ball of butterscotch fluff that was currently vibrating so hard its rear end was swinging in wide, erratic circles.

There was a long beat of pure silence.

Emily’s lips parted. "Oh, bloody hell."

Andy’s tail thrashed against the concrete. “Yap!” (“Yes! Hi! You recognise me!”)

Emily let out a long suffering sigh through her nose, her shoulders dropping half an inch. "A stray puppy. Splendid."

“Bark!” (“No! Not a stray! Your co-worker!”)

Without missing a beat, Emily adjusted the strap of her handbag, lifted her chin, and stepped right around Andy as if she were a discarded Starbucks cup.

Andy’s jaw dropped. She immediately scrambled around to keep pace. “Yap!” (“Emily! Wait!”)

“Arf!” (“Emily! Stop walking!”)

“YIP!” (“I am literally Andrea Sachs! Look at my soul!”)

Click. Click. Click.

Emily’s heels slammed against the pavement with military precision.

Behind her—Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

Tiny, padded puppy feet scampered in a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm.

Emily’s eyebrows twitched. The tapping continued.

She stopped dead. The tapping stopped.

Slowly...very slowly... Emily pivoted on her heel.

The puppy immediately skidded to a halt, looking up at her with enormous, glossy brown eyes, its velvet ears flopping forward in hopeful desperation. The fuzzy tail instantly resumed its violent, motor-driven wagging.

"...No," Emily warned, pointing a pale finger down at the rug of fur.

Andy took one enthusiastic step closer. “Yip!”(“Hi!”)

Emily made an aggressive, sweeping shooing motion with her hand, looking around to make sure none of her neighbours saw her interacting with the fauna. "Shoo. Go away." 

Andy blinked her round eyes.

"Shoo!" Emily repeated, flapping both hands now like she was trying to ward off a pigeon. "Off you go. Shoo!"

Andy stared up at her. “Woof?” (“…Emily, please. I don’t have thumbs.”)

"For God's sake," Emily groaned to the heavens. She turned around and marched off once more.

Click-click-click. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Click-click-click. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

Emily slammed her heels down and stopped for a third time. She turned her head, peering over her shoulder with an expression of pure disbelief.

The puppy stopped too, instantly sitting back on its hind legs and tilting its head at a forty-five-degree angle.

“...”

“...”

Andy attempted a smile. Or whatever human expression her puppy mouth could manufacture. Her pink tongue slipped out the side of her fangs, flopping lazily over her chin.

Emily looked physically ill. "Oh, don't do that. Don't make that face."

Andy wagged her tail even harder, her front paws doing a little dance on the cool concrete.

Emily let out a noise of pure defeat and took off down the block. The puppy immediately fell into step beside her left boot.

This absurd parade continued for half a block until a city sanitation worker sweeping near the curb paused, resting his hands on his broom handle.

"Morning, Miss Charlton," he called out cheerfully.

Emily offered the tightest, most surgically restricted smile known to modern science. "Morning, Arthur."

The man gestured with his chin toward the little golden retriever trotting furiously alongside her heels. "Looks like your new friend doesn't want you going to the office today."

Emily stopped so abruptly that Andy nearly slammed her wet nose straight into the sole of a Jimmy Choo.

"It is NOT my puppy," Emily hissed, her voice dropping an octave into crisp anger.

The worker chuckled. "If you say so."

"It ISN'T!"

The man leaned his broom against his trash cart and crouched down, extending a leather glove toward the dog. "Hey there, little buddy."

Andy trotted over politely. Well, as politely as a Northwestern graduate turned quadruped could manage. “…Woof.”

"There's a good girl," the worker murmured, gently scratching the warm, velvety patch right behind Andy’s left ear.

Andy’s eyelids fluttered shut for one sweet second.

“…”

No. Resist it. You are an adult woman with a degree in Journalism.

The man moved his fingers, hitting the exact pressure point behind her ear canal.

“…Mmmhh.” A tiny, involuntary sound of bliss escaped Andy’s nose. Her back right leg immediately lifted off the ground and began thumping air. TRAITOR. TOTAL BODY BETRAYAL.

The worker grinned, looking up at Emily. "She's adorable."

Emily looked personally insulted, as if he had just dumped a bucket of trash onto her trench coat. "I fail to see how that is remotely relevant to my current schedule."

"Looks like she's chosen you, Miss Charlton."

"I assure you," Emily spat through tightly clenched teeth, her blue eyeshadow shimmering in the morning sun, "the animal has made a dreadful, catastrophic error in judgment."

Andy barked indignantly, her tail slapping against the pavement. “Yip!” (“I have NOT! I need shelter!”)

The  worker laughed out loud. "See? She understands every word you're saying."

Emily closed her eyes and raised her chin, silently pleading with the universe to strike her down on the spot. "I have done absolutely nothing to invite this harassment."

Another enthusiastic wag from Andy. Another high-pitched yap.

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose right between her eyes, ruining a fraction of her foundation. "This is unbelievable."

She snapped her hand away, squared her sharp shoulders, and exploded into a high-speed power-walk down the sidewalk.

Click. Click. Click.

Her heels moved with horrifying speed, cutting through the morning crowd.

Andy instantly broke into a determined, full-body waddle to stay parallel with the camel trench coat. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!

She was... actually building muscle memory. Earlier that morning, her back half and front half had been running on entirely different operating systems. Now, her paws were finding a natural rhythm. Front. Back. Front. Back.

Her animal instincts were taking the wheel faster than her human intellect could process, which was deeply unsettling.

Still, keeping pace with Emily on a mission was an Olympic sport. Emily walked like she was trying to outrun a plague. Andy practically had to sprint, her floppy ears bouncing against her cheeks with every stride.

“Arf!” (“Wait up!”)

Emily glanced down for the twentieth time.

The puppy was still there. Still running. Still looking up at her with those insanely large, golden-brown eyes, panting with unbothered, cheerful determination.

Emily let out the heavy, soul-deep sigh of a woman who had just realised her entire morning routine had been permanently hijacked.

"You are," Emily announced to the sidewalk, her voice dripping with dry British venom, "quite possibly the most obnoxious, persistent creature I have ever encountered."

Andy beamed up at her, her tail giving a triumphant swish. “…Yip!” (“Thank you!”)

Emily blinked down at her, her brows knitting together in genuine confusion.

“…I wasn't complimenting you, you bizarre little rodent.”

Andy, having no human vocal cords to explain that she understood the insult perfectly and was simply choosing to take it as progress, just kept trotting right beside Emily's designer shoes. Right where she belonged.

The taxi stand materialised at the end of the block, gleaming in the morning sun like a sanctuary.

Andy nearly let out a doggy sigh of salvation. Thank God. Emily wasn't walking all the way to Elias-Clarke in four-inch heels after all.

There was a short queue, but it dissolved quickly as yellow cabs pulled up in a steady stream. Emily checked her watch. Checked it again. Tapped one sharp, perfectly manicured, coral-painted fingernail against the leather strap of her handbag with rising irritation.

The moment a taxi rolled to the curb, she surged forward.

"Finally."

The driver leaned across the seat, cranking down the window. "Morning."

"Elias-Clarke," Emily said briskly, yanking open the rear door.

Andy froze. This was it. Her golden opportunity.

Emily leaned into the cab. "And please step on it, I'm already late."

The driver nodded. "Yep."

For one glorious, tragic second, Emily left the door wide open behind her.

OPPORTUNITY.

Andy launched her entire body forward. Her tiny paws barely made a sound as she executed a flying leap through the open door, landing squarely on the plush vinyl back seat. The upholstery squished pleasantly beneath her paws. Mission accomplished.

Emily climbed in right behind her, completely oblivious, still frantically digging through her bag for a compact mirror. She slammed the door shut.

The taxi merged smoothly into the roaring river of the traffic.

Andy settled comfortably against the cool leather seat, her tail giving a self-satisfied thud. Excellent. Phase two of Operation: Get Emily To Fix My Life was proceeding smoothly.

Emily finally clicked her handbag shut, took a breath, and turned her head.

Their eyes met.

“…”

“…”

Emily's screech was an impressively high-pitched, upper-class British masterpiece.

"WHAT THE—!"

Andy wagged her tail so hard her whole spine wiggled. “Yip!” (“Hi! We made it!”)

Emily physically recoiled, flattening herself against the far door as if Andy were a biological weapon. "Oh my God!"

The driver glanced up in the rearview mirror, his eyebrows shot high. “Everything all right back there, miss?”

"NO!" Emily pointed an accusatory, trembling finger. "THE DOG!"

Andy let out a cheerful yap. “Yip!” (“It’s me! Andrea!”)

"When on earth did that get in here?!" Emily demanded of the universe.

The driver blinked into the mirror. "...The puppy?"

"Yes, the puppy!" Emily threw both hands in the air. "It wasn't in the taxi when I opened the door!"

Andy tilted her head. Technically... she’d boarded before Emily. She was the primary passenger.

Emily glared, looking personally betrayed by physics. "Oh, do not look at me like that, you furry menace."

Andy continued to stare with massive, unblinking brown eyes.

Emily let out a sharp, frustrated breath and leaned down, holding her hands out. "Right. I am terribly sorry, darling, but you cannot come to Runway."

Andy stiffened. “Woof.” (“No way. Absolutely not.”)

Emily slid both hands beneath Andy's fluffy chest and lifted.

Andy immediately extended all four legs straight out into the air, spreading her toes as wide as physically possible. It was an astonishingly effective manoeuvre, she instantly transformed into a rigid, golden starfish.

Emily stared down at her, her brows furrowing. “…Really?”

She pulled harder. Andy wriggled, twisted, and, acting on frantic puppy instinct, began to climb. Straight up Emily's legs.

"Wait—"

Tiny, surprisingly sharp claws found purchase on sheer black tights.

Emily gasped in pure horror. "Oh, absolutely NOT—"

Andy ignored the panic entirely. She scrambled higher, using Emily’s trench coat as a climbing wall until she reached the warm, soft expanse of Emily’s lap. There. High ground. Safe.

Without consciously thinking about it, Andy’s body initiated safety protocol, she circled clockwise once. Then counter-clockwise twice.

“...”

Andy paused mid-spin, briefly horrified by her own automated dog programming. Why did I do that?!

Never mind. She collapsed into a tight, neat little ball right against Emily's stomach.bWarm. Soft. Secure. Perfect.

Emily stared down at the butterscotch-coloured lump currently occupying several thousand dollars' worth of high-fashion attire. “…Goodness gracious.” 

Andy slowly peeked up. Enormous brown eyes. Floppy, velvet ears. A face of pure, manipulative innocence.

“…Wuff?” (“Please don't throw me out. Miranda will execute me.”)

Emily tried peeling her off by her scruff. Andy somehow doubled her mass, anchoring herself deeper. Emily tried lifting her by the middle. Andy clung to the belt of the trench coat with heroic determination.

"This is absurd," Emily muttered, though her grip was loosening.

Andy tucked her wet nose straight beneath the crisp lapel of Emily's coat, letting out a muffled sigh.

“Yip.” (“I know.”)

The taxi driver chuckled, watching the saga in his mirror. "Seems like your puppy's picked you, miss."

Andy went completely still.

Picked her? No. That wasn't... she had simply needed transit! Emily just happened to be... Warm. And familiar.

And she smelled... Andy’s nose twitched involuntarily. She smelled unbelievable. A subtle layer of expensive perfume, dry-cleaned wool, dark roast coffee, a hint of hairspray, and a soft floral scent beneath it all that Andy had never noticed back when she had human nostrils.

It was overwhelming. Comforting. Deeply, absurdly reassuring.

“...”

No. Stop it. You are Andrea Sachs. You are not imprinting on Emily Charlton like a newborn duckling.

"The thing adores you," the driver added with a wide grin.

Emily didn't look up, her hands hovering helplessly over Andy’s back. "It absolutely does not."

"It climbed straight into your lap!"

"It climbed onto the nearest available elevated surface," Emily snapped through gritted teeth. "Which happened to be me. It is a purely uneducated coincidence."

Andy shifted slightly, nestling an inch deeper into Emily's waist.

Emily felt the shift instantly. “…Stop that.”

Andy hadn't meant to move. Her body had just... demanded to be closer.

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

Emily made one final, half-hearted attempt to lift her off. Andy answered by pressing her fuzzy forehead directly into the curve of Emily’s neck, letting out a long, shuddering puppy sigh.

“...”

“...”

Emily stared down at the small creature. The puppy had somehow managed to wrap itself seamlessly into the curve of her waist, looking like a custom-made accessory. Its rapid, panicked breathing was already slowing into a steady, rhythmic rise and fall.

Andy hadn't even realised how utterly exhausted she was. The morning’s sheer, mind-bending terror of dragging heavy wooden stools, escaping through transom windows, navigating the concrete jungle, surviving public transit, chasing Emily across Soho...

Her human brain finally short-circuited under the weight of it all.

She rested her chin flat on Emily’s forearm. “Mmrrf.” (“…Please.”)

Emily stared at the puppy for a very long, quiet moment.

Then... her sharp shoulders dropped. Not dramatically, just a tiny, defeatist slump. She leaned back against the leather seat of the cab. “…Fine.”

It sounded less like permission and more like a total unconditional surrender.

Emily turned her head, looking pointedly out the window at the passing skyscrapers.

Andy relaxed completely. A tiny, deeply contented whine bubbled up from her chest.

The gentle, rumbling vibration of the taxi engine. The soft, warm rise and fall of Emily’s lap. The steady, comforting rhythm of her heartbeat beneath the heavy wool coat.

Despite everything, despite being a quadruped, despite having zero idea how to un-dog herself, despite the terrifying certainty that Miranda was going to have her stuffed, Andy felt... Safe.

She was fast asleep before the taxi hit the next green light.

A few blocks later, Emily looked down. The puppy had curled even tighter against her, one plush butterscotch paw resting heavily on the sleeve of her trench coat.

Emily let out a resigned breath, her fingers twitching before gently resting, just barely, against the soft fur between the puppy's ears.

“…You have got to be kidding me.”

She made no move to wake her.

The gentle rhythmic rocking of the taxi eventually ground to a halt.

Andy stirred, blinking sleepily against the stark morning light. For one glorious, golden second, she forgot everything, the stress, the job, the sudden collapse of her human identity.

Then she looked down. Four stubby, butterscotch-coloured paws. Right. Puppy. Still a dog.

The taxi settled against the curb. Beside her, Emily shifted, reaching across her waist to unfasten her seatbelt. The sharp metallic clack jolted Andy fully awake

"Yip!" ("Oh!")

Emily glanced down out of the corner of her eye. "Ah. So you're alive."

Andy stretched, her entire tiny spine popping as every micro-muscle protested after her surprisingly comfortable nap.

The door swung open, flooding the cab with the cold, chaotic noise of Manhattan. Andy executed a neat little hop straight onto the pavement before Emily could even swing her legs out.

Fresh air. Diesel fumes. Honking horns. The towering, glass-and-steel monolith of the Elias-Clarke building glittered above them like a high-fashion fortress.

“Wuff.” (”We made it.”)

Emily emerged a moment later, using two fingers to smooth an invisible wrinkle from her trench. She slammed the taxi door shut with practiced violent precision, and the cab melted back into the yellow sea of traffic.

Andy waited obediently on the sidewalk, sitting squarely on her fluffy rear end.

Emily looked down at her. Andy looked up at Emily.

Emily took three steps toward a potted tree near the entrance. Andy trotted faithfully after her, paws clicking on the granite. Emily stopped. Andy stopped.

Emily let out a sigh so long and laden with despair it could have won an award. "Oh, honestly..."

Then, to Andy's complete and utter shock—Emily crouched. She actually lowered her centre of gravity. In sheer black tights. In four-inch Jimmy Choos. On a grimy New York City sidewalk.

Andy wasn't sure anyone in history had ever witnessed Emily Charlton voluntarily lower herself below eye level with another living organism.

Emily reached out with infinite caution, as if approaching a unexploded bomb. Her pale hand disappeared into the thick butterscotch fur right behind Andy's floppy ear. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

...Oh. Oh, wow. That was... really... exceptionally... nice.

Before Andy’s Northwestern-educated brain could issue a formal veto, her eyelids drifted halfway shut. Her back right paw gave one traitorous, involuntary twitch against the concrete. No. Stop. Maintain professional boundaries.

Emily's voice softened just a fraction. "Listen to me, you bizarre little rodent."

Andy opened one glossy brown eye.

"You cannot come inside," Emily murmured, scratching the spot behind her ear canal. "You absolutely, under no circumstances, can enter this building."

Scratch.

"I work in fashion."

Scratch.

"My boss barely tolerates human beings."

Scratch.

"A puppy in the editorial department would quite literally finish me."

Andy tilted her fluffy head, her ears fluttering. “Bark.” (“No! You don't get it!”)

“Woof!” (“I have to go to work too!”)

A tiny smile flickered across Emily's face, not a real smile, obviously, but the ghost of one. The kind of look she usually reserved for a perfectly sample-sized Chanel coat.

"Oh, sweetheart," Emily sighed, her tone dripping with patronising pity. "You don't understand a single word I'm saying, do you?"

Andy barked with maximum authority. “Yap!” (“I understand EVERY word! I'm Andrea!”)

“WOOF!” (“Look at my eyes! It’s me!”)

Emily let out another suffering breath. "I know. It's tragic."

She gave Andy one final, lingering scratch before withdrawing her hand and standing back up to her full, imposing height. "Stay here."

Andy blinked. “…”

"Stay."

Emily brushed a speck of dust off her knee, adjusted the strap of her open handbag, and turned toward the revolving glass doors.

... Stay?! ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Andy looked around frantically. How was a six-inch-tall canine supposed to clear security?!

Then, her glossy eyes locked onto Emily's handbag. The heavy leather tote was dangling right at eye level, swaying gently against Emily's hip. The top zipper hadn't been pulled shut, likely from Emily frantically hunting for her cab fare earlier.

It was wide open. Accessible. Waiting.

“...”

Andy looked at the bag. Then at Emily’s retreating back. Then back at the bag. Oh. Genius.

Without a single second thought, or any regard for basic physical safety, Andy coiled her tiny hind legs like steel springs.

SPRING. BOING.

She launched her entire butterscotch body into the air and vanished straight into the interior of the tote.

The landing was unexpectedly plush. The bag was a cavernous, high-end ecosystem, soft leather lining, a leather-bound planner, an overstuffed makeup pouch, a packet of tissues, and an alarming quantity of expensive liquid-ink pens.

Andy wriggled violently, wedging her hindquarters between Emily's leather planner and a giant bottle of hand sanitiser. Perfect. Hidden. Concealed. Absolute tactical brilliant—

"WHAT ON EARTH?!"

Emily’s horrified, high-pitched shriek reverberated through the leather walls of the bag like a bomb detonation.

The entire tote lurched violently to the left as Emily instinctively grabbed it. Andy threw her front paws over the edge of an inner pocket, holding on for dear life.

"No, no, no, absolutely NOT—!" Emily shoved her hand into the bag, her nails sweeping around blindly.

Andy flattened her ears and squished herself into the bottom corner.

"Oh, get out of there!"

“Arf!” (“No!”)

Emily tried to scoop her out by the scruff, but Andy somehow transformed her tiny body into a low-gravity anchor, wedging her back legs under the heavy planner. Emily tugged. Andy held firm. Something about tiny puppy claws meeting expensive suede lining created a physics-defying vacuum seal.

Emily looked up at the sky, her blue eyeshadow gleaming in the sun. "Oh, for the love of God—!"

Andy slowly poked just her black button nose and two giant, glossy brown eyes over the leather rim of the handbag. Their eyes met. Emily stared.

Andy blinked, a slow, shameless, weaponised puppy blink. “…Yip.” (“…Please?”)

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose, right between her eyes. "This is a nightmare. I am having a stroke."

She tried one more time to yank the dog free, but Andy refused to budge. She was now one with the designer leather. She was an accessory.

Emily muttered something dark and British under her breath. Andy caught exactly one word: “…Bloody…”

After another futile, embarrassing struggle on the sidewalk, Emily’s sharp shoulders finally collapsed in complete defeat.

She looked around. Several high-powered executives had paused to watch the drama. A woman in a Michael Kors coat was openly grinning, and a guy in a suit chuckled as he walked past.

Emily's ears turned bright, vibrant pink. "Oh, splendid," she muttered through gritted teeth. "Exactly the audience I wanted for my professional downfall."

She looked back down into the depths of her bag. Andy was still there, completely comfortable, peering out like a golden loaf of bread. Emily closed her eyes for precisely two seconds, counting to ten in Italian.

Then, with the hollow, apocalyptic resignation of a woman marching straight toward her own execution, she tucked the handbag securely under her arm.

"If Miranda asks," she whispered into the bag in a dangerously terrifyingly calm voice, "I have never seen you before in my life. You are a hallucination."

Andy perked her ears up, her tail giving a muffled thump-thump against the leather planner. 

Success. Emily wasn't leaving her on the street. She was taking her inside. Into Elias-Clarke. Up the elevators. Straight to Runway’s floor.

Andy snuggled deeper into the interior pocket, resting her chin on a soft packet of tissue paper. Honestly... as far as illegal corporate entries went, this was a surprisingly comfortable ride.

Emily, meanwhile, turned on her heel and glided toward the revolving glass doors, wearing the rigid, terrifying expression of a woman stepping onto the scaffold.

Nestled deep inside the leather belly of Emily's handbag, Andy finally had a chance to catch her breath.

The suede lining was buttery soft, warm, and dark. It smelled faintly of high-end leather polish, paper, expensive lipstick......and Emily.

Andy paused, her black button nose twitching. She’d never realised people had distinct, layered scent signatures before. It wasn't just perfume. Beneath the surface cosmetics, Emily herself smelled warm, clean, and impossibly sharp. Fresh laundry, dark roast coffee, trace of scented hairspray. And something deep, floral, and deeply familiar that Andy couldn't quite name. It was... absurdly comforting.

Andy shook her furry head, frowning in the dark. Focus, Sachs. You are a human being with a bachelor’s degree.

“Mmrf.”

She carefully surveyed her temporary tactical bunker. Emily's structured planner occupied the left wall. A compact mirror. A pale pink lipstick. Enough high-end gel pens to supply an entire newsroom. Several crushed receipts from an overpriced juice bar. And... a tiny, elegant glass perfume bottle resting in a side pocket.

Curious, Andy shuffled closer, pressing her wet snout against the cool glass. The delicate lettering on the label looked enormous from puppy height. She sounded the words out in her head:

I-r-r-e-s-i-s-t-i-b-l-e. By... Furla.

Andy blinked. “…Aw.”

That was... suspiciously accurate. Emily was rather irresistible today. Her hair was perfect, her trench coat was immaculate, her—

Andy froze dead in her tracks, her ears pinning back in absolute horror. “...”

NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. Where on earth had that thought come from?! Emily Charlton was demanding, overcritical, chronically malnourished, and perpetually on the verge of an stress-induced breakdown. She was frequently terrifying. Andy had spent the last several months of her life doing Olympic-level mental gymnastics just to avoid being yelled at by her.

She was not irresistible.

“…I am officially blaming the canine neurochemistry,” Andy decided, thoroughly satisfied with that excuse. She gave the perfume bottle a firm nudge with her nose, settling it back into its pocket.

Outside the bag, Emily's four-inch Jimmy Choos began clicking briskly across a vast expanse of polished stone. The lobby. Andy recognised the distinct, cavernous echo instantly.

Then—Beep. Beep.

The familiar chimes of the turnstiles. Employee access cards. Security check.

A sudden shadow fell over the open top of the handbag.

“Oh.”

Emily's hand descended into the leather abyss. Andy flattened her belly against the bottom of the bag, holding her breath as elegant fingers began blindly hunting through the contents.

Planner... lipstick... compact... crumpled receipt... pen...

Emily’s pinky finger brushed dangerously close to Andy's tail. Andy held her breath, trying to compress her fluff into zero mass.

Finally, the sharp plastic edge of the employee badge.

Beep. Whoosh.

The glass security barrier slid open. Emily withdrew her hand, and Andy let out a dramatic, shuddering dog sigh.

“…Huff.” (“That was terrifying.”)

A dozen pairs of shoes clicked around them as they moved deeper into the building. The distinctive, melodious ding of the executive elevator bank echoed through the lobby, followed by the soft hiss of sliding doors.

People filed inside. Andy could hear the low hum of overlapping morning chatter, complaints about the subway, gossip about fashion week, someone sipping a smoothie.

Then... a familiar scent drifted into the top of the handbag.

Sweet. Vanilla. Jasmine. Something deep, smoky, and dangerously expensive underneath.

Andy's nose twitched violently. “…Serena.”

She knew that perfume anywhere. Addict by Dior.

Before her brain could issue a warning, curiosity commandeered her body. Andy poked her nose, two giant brown eyes, and two floppy butterscotch ears straight over the leather rim of the bag.

Sure enough. Standing directly beside Emily was Serena, tall, perfectly styled blonde hair, sharp black blazer, an Iced Latte in one hand and a nokia in the other.

Serena casually glanced sideways. Her eyes widened. “…Emily?”

Andy offered a wide, tongue-out puppy smile. “Yip!” (“Hi!”)

Serena blinked, taking a slow sip of her latte. "Emily." A pause. "...There is a live dog in your handbag."

Emily went entirely, petrified-wood still.

Slowly... she turned her head. Her eyes locked onto the two golden ears sticking proudly out of her Kate Spade tote like a pair of organic radar dishes. “...”

Andy blinked back with pure, unbothered innocence.

Emily's face morphed into an expression of gothic horror. Before Andy could even process the danger, a hand shot into the bag.

“No—!”

Fwump.

Emily firmly, relentlessly shoved Andy's head back down into the depths of the bag. The leather flaps collapsed over her, plunging her back into darkness.

"Stay," Emily hissed through her teeth, her voice a terrifying vibrate. "Stay down!"

Andy scowled in the dark. “…Mmph.” (“I can’t see anything down here!”)

From somewhere high above—

“...Emily?” Serena sounded delightfully amused.

A long, suffocating silence stretched over the elevator car.

Then, Emily let out a stiff breath. "It has been," she began, her British accent rising two octaves in pure strain, "an exceptionally difficult morning."

"Oh?"

"I left my apartment."

"Mhm."

"There was a puppy on the pavement."

"...Right."

"It stalked me."

"Naturally."

"I attempted to shoo it away."

"Clearly, that failed."

"It hijacked my taxi."

Serena snorted so hard her coffee cup rattled.

"It climbed straight into my lap," Emily continued, her voice trembling with mortification.

"Oh my god."

"It refused to be relocated."

"I can see why."

"It then launched its entire body into my handbag like a cannonball."

Andy’s tail gave a proud, involuntary thrash in the dark.

Thump. Against the planner. Thump. Against the lipstick. Thump. Against Emily’s hip.

Emily felt every single beat. She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the elevator wall. "...It's wagging."

Serena burst out laughing, a full, unrefined laugh that made two fashion assistants near the front turn around. "Oh, Emily. This is incredible."

"This is not funny!" Emily hissed. "This is an OSHA violation!"

"It is extremely funny. I have never seen you taken hostage by an animal before."

"I was not taken hostage!"

Another happy, thumping tail slap against the leather. Thump-thump-thump.

Emily sighed, a long, defeatist sound. "...I may have been taken hostage."

Serena leaned down, peering over Emily's arm toward the bag. "Can I see it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because she'll pop her head out again like a bloody jack-in-the-box!"

As if on cue, Andy pushed her snout back up into the light, inhaling the sweet air.

Emily's gaze dropped instantly. "No."

Down went the hand. Down went Andy.

"Honestly," Emily whispered frantically into the bag, "do you possess zero instinct for self-preservation?!"

Andy blinked up through the crack in the leather. “…Woof woof.” (“I literally came here to do my job!”)

Serena was grinning like a maniac now. "I think she's obsessed with you."

"I reject that hypothesis entirely!"

"I've never seen an animal cling to someone like that. It’s like she thinks you're her mother."

Emily muttered something deeply British, thoroughly profane, and entirely unprintable under her breath.

The elevator hummed smoothly upward, accelerating past the teens, the twenties...

Ding. The doors slid open.

The frantic, high-octane symphony of the editorial floor flooded into the elevator. Phones ringing incessantly. Stilettos clacking at breakneck speeds across white marble. Assistants shouting about garment bags. The unmistakable, terrifying smell of high fashion and impending doom.

Emily stepped out, her stride resuming its usual aggressive, military cadence. Inside the handbag, Andy held her breath and turned into a statue.

She felt her tiny heart leap into her throat. Home! Well... conceptually.

She wasn't Andrea Sachs on the outside anymore. She was a fifteen-pound ball of butterscotch fluff hiding in an unzipped tote bag. But somehow, against all logic, reason, and human physics, she had made it to work.

The handbag swayed gently as Emily strode straight toward the holy of holies: Miranda Priestly’s outer office.

Click. Click. Click.

Then the motion stopped.

Emily lowered the handbag carefully onto a solid, wide surface. Her desk. A second later, the world inside the tote plunged into shadow.

“...”

Andy scowled. Wait, what?

She shuffled forward, carefully poking her black button nose and two glossy brown eyes out through the top leather flap. Oh. Under the desk.

There they were, the sleek, polished wooden desk legs, a tangled snake of computer cables, a silver mesh wastepaper basket, and the shadowy underside of Emily Charlton’s immaculate workstation. She’d tucked the tote neatly out of sight against the modesty panel. Honestly? Tactical perfection.

Andy looked around, mesmerized. From a quadruped's perspective, the floor looked positively cavernous. Office chair legs stretched upward like a forest of polished metal, designer heels zipped past in a blur of red soles and snakeskin. Nobody was looking down.

Then—Woah! Holy shit!

Two startlingly blue, hyper-focused eyes appeared beneath the edge of the desk.

Andy jumped so hard her hind legs slipped on the leather planner.

Emily. She had crouched just enough to peer into the shadowy under-desk realm. Her eyes were narrowed into the lethal slits she usually reserved for fresh interns who were about to be fired. So, Andrea.

"Do," Emily whispered in a thin tone.

A pause.

"Not."

Another pause.

"Leave."

Andy wagged her tail once. Then twice. Huh. She’s getting better at controlling the tail. Progress.

Emily’s sharp gaze lingered for one more second. "I am dead serious, dog."

Andy nodded enthusiastically, or executed the closest approximation a butterscotch puppy could manage.

Emily vanished back into the upper world. A second later, only her slim, black-tensed calves were visible as she took her seat. Papers rustled violently. A mechanical keyboard clacked at lightning speed.

The workday had officially begun.

Andy nestled deeper into the handbag, resting her chin on the makeup pouch. This wasn't bad at all. She would just stay put, keep her ears open, and figure out how to communicate her situation later. Easy.

Several peaceful minutes passed.

Then—click. Click. Click.

Heels. Not standard assistant heels. Miranda heels.

Even from the floor, hidden beneath a desk, Andy felt the shift in atmospheric pressure. The entire office seemed to drop five degrees. The frantic phone chatter instantly hushed.

Emily stood up so fast her desk chair rolled back three feet.

"Good morning, Miranda."

Miranda Priestly had arrived.

Andy’s floppy ears zipped straight up like radar dishes.

A familiar, chillingly soft voice cut through the air. "Emily."

A beat of silence.

"Where is Andrea?"

Andy went rigid in the handbag.

Another beat.

"Did she get human trafficked?"

Andy nearly blew her own cover by wheezing into a tissue packet. Human trafficked?! That was... oddly specific. Was Miranda actually concerned, or just annoyed by the scheduling conflict?

Emily, meanwhile, sounded like her lungs had completely collapsed. "I—um—I'll call her immediately. She... she must be running late."

Good. Perfect, Andy thought, relaxing a little. Emily would dial, it would go to voicemail, and—

Wait. No. I'm right here! I can solve this right now!

Andy heard the crisp sound of Emily lifting the landline receiver and frantically punching in numbers.

Andy bounced up onto all four paws inside the bag. “Woof! Ruff!” (“I’m here! I came to work!”)

Emily’s fingers froze on the keypad. “...”

Andy barked louder, throwing her chest out “WOOF!” (“Look down! I’m right under the desk!”)

An apocalyptic silence blanketed the entire floor.

Miranda’s voice sliced through the stillness like a diamond blade. “...Emily.”

“...Yes, Miranda?” Emily’s voice was high enough to shatter glass.

“Did you just bark at me?”

Emily visibly ceased functioning as a biological entity. "I... I..."

Andy, entirely misreading the room, barked again with absolute joy. “WOOF!”

"Oh dear God, stop—" Emily hissed, reaching down.

Too late. Andy pushed against the side of the handbag in her excitement. A fifteen-pound puppy moving at high speed was more than the unzipped tote could handle.

The Kate Spade bag tipped.

“Oh.”

It toppled sideways off the desk ridge and onto the pristine carpet. Lipsticks rolled. High-end pens scattered everywhere. A bottle of hand sanitiser bounced.

And out tumbled Andy, landing neatly on all four paws like a golden, furry clumsy gymnast.

“Woof…” (“...Oops.”)

Every single human being in the outer office froze. Assistants, editors, stylists, all turned to stare.

Emily looked down from her desk, the colour draining from her face until she matched the white marble pillars. "No."

Andy looked up, her tail giving a rhythmic swish. “Yip! Yap! Yip yip!” (“There I am! Andrea Sachs, reporting for duty!”)

Miranda slowly turned her head. One silver-white eyebrow lifted precisely two millimetres.

Andy’s sudden burst of confidence evaporated instantly. Under Miranda’s piercing glare, her enthusiastic bark melted into a tiny, pathetically uncertain whimper. “…Ruff?”

Her tail slowed to a halt, giving one small deeply guilty little twitch.

Miranda regarded the golden retriever puppy for several seconds.

"Emily."

"...Yes, Miranda?"

"Why..." Another icy pause. "...is there a dog. In my office."

Emily swallowed hard, pulling herself up to her full height. "It followed me from my apartment."

Miranda said nothing.

"It hijacked my taxi."

Silence.

"It launched itself into my handbag."

Nothing.

"I attempted to remove it," Emily added, her voice cracking slightly. "It appears... remarkably determined."

Miranda’s expression remained as unreadable as a marble sphinx. "Get rid of it."

"...Yes, Miranda."

"We are not changing company policy because a puppy has severe attachment issues."

"...No, Miranda."

"That's all."

Miranda turned on her heel, her crisp coat flaring behind her, and vanished into her office. The door clicked shut.

The atmosphere instantly returned to normal, though everyone was still staring.

Emily remained petrified for three full seconds. Then, very slowly, she looked down at Andy.

Andy looked back up at Emily.

“...”

“...”

Andy offered a tentative, hopeful tail wag.

Emily closed her eyes, letting out a breath that sounded like an exorcism. "Honestly."

She bent down, scooped Andy up around her middle, and pulled her into her arms. Andy immediately snuggled her wet nose straight into Emily’s neck.

"Listen to me, you insane creature," Emily said, holding the puppy out at arm's length so their eyes met.

"I told you," Emily whispered, her tone no longer sharp or angry. just thoroughly, utterly exhausted. "You cannot be here."

Andy let out a soft, tragic whine. 

“Mrrf.” (“I have to work too. I’m your co-worker.”)

"I am taking you downstairs to security."

“Arf!” (“No!”)

"You will be much happier outside!"

“WOOF!” (“No!”)

Emily cast a panicked, desperate glance toward Miranda’s closed door. "Shh! Quiet!" she hissed.

Andy clamped her little mouth shut instantly.

Instead of barking, she deployed weaponised eye contact. She looked directly into Emily’s eyes, big, glossy brown, surrounded by thick fur, floppy velvet ears dropping just an inch. A expression of pure heartbreak.

Please.

Emily stared down at the butterscotch bundle. The puppy blinked once. Twice. A tiny, shivering breath escaped her snout.

Andy could actually see Emily's defenses crumble in real-time. The sharp shoulders dropped. The angry brow relaxed.

“...”

"Oh, don't do that," Emily groaned, looking up at the ceiling. "Don't make that bloody face."

Andy continued to stare with maximum innocence.

Emily let out a long... long... defeated sigh.

“…Fine.”

Andy’s tail gave a violent thump against Emily’s arm.

"But ONLY until I figure out what on earth to do with you," Emily warned, though there was zero bite left in her voice.

She lowered Andy gently back into the upright handbag, setting it safely between her feet under the desk. She adjusted the top leather flap just enough to create a cozy, shaded den with plenty of airflow.

Then, Emily leaned down, poking one finger into the bag.

"You."

Andy blinked.

"Stay."

Andy gave a firm, obedient puppy nod.

"And," Emily leaned an inch closer, her voice dropping to an intense whisper, "not."

Another inch closer.

"One."

Closer still.

"Sound."

Andy gave the smallest, most dignified nod imaginable.

Satisfied, Emily pulled back and resumed her seat, her heels clicking as she pulled herself up to her computer.

Andy curled herself into a tight, golden cinnamon roll deep inside the tote. Her tail gave one tiny, soft thump against the makeup pouch.

From above the desk, Emily rolled her eyes toward the fluorescent lights, a tiny, almost invisible curve touching the corner of her lips. "...I suppose that's acceptable."

Inside the dark, cozy leather bag, Andy smiled to herself. Mission accomplished. She was back at work.

Then Andy heard the phone ringing.

She lifted her head from the shadowy, buttery-leather depths of Emily’s handbag, her floppy ears twitching like tiny, butterscotch-coloured radar dishes.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Above her desk, Emily’s fingers moved across the mechanical keyboard with furiously. The clicking sound managed to convey deep, personal offense, even though they were merely plastic keys being pressed.

The phone rang again. Ring. Ring.

Andy frowned, her black button nose wrinkling.

Oh. Right. The phone. Emily was calling her. Her! Andrea Sachs! The human woman currently sitting six feet away from her own empty chair in the body of a fifteen-pound golden retriever puppy.

Andy felt a sudden, soaring wave of triumph. See?! This is good! Emily is looking for me! She’s concerned! She’s trying to establish a comms link! All I have to do is—

Emily snatched up the receiver with a sharp jerk. "Andrea Sachs, you had better pick up the bloody phone this instant."

Andy froze, mid-pant. Oh. Right. She didn't have a phone. And even if she did, she lacked the functional thumbs required to swipe a touchscreen. But that didn't matter! She was right here!

Andy shoved her head straight over the leather edge of the tote bag. Emily was sitting directly above her, the receiver pressed tightly to her ear, one fingernail tapping a rhythmic, angry drumroll against the wooden desk.

"Andrea?" Emily demanded into the receiver.

Andy opened her little black mouth. “WOOF!”

Emily’s tapping finger stopped dead.

Andy brightened instantly. There! Perfect! Line connected!

“Woof!” Andy repeated, putting her entire fifteen-pound chest into it. (“I'm here! Look down!”)

Emily stared straight ahead at her monitor, her sharp profile carved from marble.

Andy’s tail gave a hopeful, frantic thrash. “Yip!” (“Down here! Under the desk!”)

Nothing. Emily’s jaw tightened.

Andy barked again, her voice echoing in the under-desk sanctuary. “WOOF! WOOF!” (“Emily! I am literally sitting beside your left shoe!”)

Emily’s gaze finally flicked downward.

For one glorious, shining second, Andy thought the light of recognition had struck. 

But Emily’s eyes merely skimmed over the shadow beneath the desk before darting right back to her computer screen. "Andrea, if you are screening my calls," Emily warned the dead phone line, "you have precisely thirty seconds to call me back before I start assuming you’ve been run over by a double-decker bus."

Andy huffed indignantly, a tiny cloud of air blowing out her snout. That is deeply dramatic and extremely unfair.

She pushed her upper body further out of the handbag. “Woof!”

Emily’s eyes dropped again, dropping straight into the bag. They met Andy’s.

Andy beamed up at her, unleashing a weaponised, full-face puppy smile. YES! SEE?!

She barked once, loud and triumphant. “Yip!” (“There! Me! Andrea!”)

Emily’s face went entirely, starkly blank. Slowly... extremely slowly… she lowered the phone receiver from her ear.

Andy sat up straighter on her hindquarters, her tail wagging so hard the entire bag shook. Finally. The veil has lifted.

Emily stared down at the puppy. The puppy stared up at Emily. A long, suffocating, ten-second silence stretched between them.

Then, Emily let out a whisper that sounded like a dying breath. "Oh, for God's sake."

Andy wagged harder. “Yip!” (“Exactly! Now help me!”)

Emily glanced frantically toward Miranda’s closed office door, then back down at Andy, then at the silent telephone in her hand, then back to the dog. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"You're not Andrea," Emily whispered to the floor.

Andy’s ears shot straight up into stiff, furry triangles. “WOOF!” (“YES I AM!”)

Emily winced, ducking her head. "Shh! Quiet!"

Andy immediately dropped her volume to a tiny, tragic squeak. “…Wuff.” (“Sorry.”)

Emily stared at her. Andy stared back. It was becoming rapidly, painfully clear that the language barrier was an insurmountable wall.

Andy tried a different tactical approach. She looked pointedly up at Emily’s face. Then she nudged her own furry chest with her chin. Then she gestured toward the telephone on the desk. Then back to Emily. “Yip. Yip.” (“Andrea. Phone. HERE.”)

Emily’s expression shifted from annoyance to profound, dark concern. "Have I finally lost my mind?" she muttered to the empty air. "Am I hallucinating from the cayenne cleanse?"

Andy let out a heavy, tragic dog sigh and collapsed her chin onto the edge of the leather tote. This was going nowhere.

A frustrated, strangled little exhale escaped Emily’s throat, a noise suggesting Andy was rapidly burning through Emily’s final two threads of sanity.

CLICK. Emily slammed the phone receiver back onto its cradle violently.

Andy winced. Oh, no. She's mad. Panicking, Andy scrambled out of the handbag. This was too important. She couldn't let Emily think Andrea Sachs was just casually ditching her assistant duties!

She launched her paws over the leather rim. One paw. Two paws. Three paws. Her back legs skidded, but she recovered with acrobatic grace. Progress.

She spotted her own desk, the adjacent workstation, and trotted over to the base of the rolling chair.

The swivel chair loomed above her like a mountain, but Andy had spent the last hour discovering that her new canine hindquarters were packed with surprising spring-coil power. She crouched low to the carpet, gathered her weight, and leaped.

Her front paws caught the plush edge of the leather cushion. Her back legs kicked wildly against empty air. For one horrifying, undignified second, she hung there like a furry yellow flag.

Then, with a desperate, full-body wriggle, she hauled herself up onto the seat.

Andy blinked, catching her breath. “Yip.” (“I did it.”) Success.

Without pausing, she trotted right up the armrest and scrambled onto the surface of Andrea Sachs's desk.

It was getting disturbingly easy. Her body was adapting at a terrifying speed. The paws that had seemed like useless, uncoordinated socks that morning now understood friction and balance. Her centre of gravity was set. Even the heavy, luxurious butterscotch tail trailing behind her had stopped knocking things over.

Andy scampered across her papers, planted all four paws firmly on the polished wood, and looked straight across the narrow divide separating her desk from Emily's.

There. Emily. Sitting in her chair, typing furiously, her jaw set in a tight, stressed line.

Andy’s entire body flooded with relief. She was right there. And if barking hadn't worked, she just had to project maximum intent.

Andy drew in a deep breath, filling her tiny lungs. “WOOF!” (“I'm here!!! Em!!!”)

Emily’s fingers froze over the keyboard. Very, very slowly, she raised her head. Her blue eyes landed straight on the golden retriever puppy standing proudly atop Andrea Sachs’s desk.

A long, pause descended.

Andy’s tail gave an enthusiastic thump-thump against a pile of galley proofs. “Yip!”

Emily’s face went completely blank. Then, every drop of colour drained out of her skin. "Oh, no," she breathed.

Andy perked up, her ears bouncing. “Woof!” (“YES! Exactly! You see the vision!”)

Emily shot out of her chair like she’d been hit with a cattle prod. "NO!"

She cleared the distance between their desks in two furious strides. Before Andy could even register the movement, two hands lunged forward, scooping around her furry ribcage.

Suddenly, Andy was airborne.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Emily hissed, pulling the puppy against her chest.

Andy wriggled violently in mid-air. “WOOF!”

Emily’s grip tightened. "What did I tell you?!"

“Yap!”

"You were supposed to stay in the bloody bag!"

“Arf!”

"I explicitly instructed you to stay!"

“WOOF!”

Andy kicked her back legs helplessly. I’m not trying to be bad! I’m trying to give you my status report! There’s a difference!

Unfortunately, none of this nuance translated. Emily held Andy directly in front of her face at eye level, her pale hands locked securely beneath the puppy's front legs.

Andy dangled. Her hind legs swung uselessly in the air. Her tail gave one offended, dignified twitch.

Emily stared into the puppy's face. Andy stared right back.

"You are impossible," Emily whispered, her breath brushing warm against Andy’s nose.

Andy opened her snout. “Woof.” (“I’m Andrea.”)

Emily’s brows drew together. "You're a dog."

I know.

"An extremely persistent, deeply unhinged dog."

I know.

"And apparently one with zero concept of personal boundaries."

I have GREAT personal boundaries!

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Emily asked, her voice dropping into a confused, quiet murmur.

Andy blinked. Because... Because she... Oh. Oh, God. She was staring straight into Emily’s eyes. She had never really looked at them before. Not like this. Andy knew Emily had blue eyes, of course. She’d spent the last several months staring at them whenever Emily was bark-issuing instructions, hyperventilating over fashion sample deliveries, or glaring at her sweater choices.

But she’d never looked at them. From four inches away, they were astonishing. High-voltage blue. Not pale or icy, but like sunlight striking clear glass, bright, intensely saturated, and vibrant. There were tiny, darker navy flecks radiating around the pupils that Andy had never noticed from across the room.

And her eyelashes were—No.No. ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Andy blinked rapidly, her heart doing a frantic, chaotic gymnastics routine against her ribs. What the hell is happening?! Why am I noticing her eyelashes?! Pretty?! Did I just think Emily Charlton’s eyes were pretty?!

Andy felt a strange, terrifying little flutter bloom right behind her sternum. No, no, no. Stop it. This is dog-brain rot. Canine neurochemistry!

That was it. Her human cognition had been compromised by quadruped instinct. She was enjoying ear scratches, she’d been tempted by a fallen sandwich earlier, and now her brain was malfunctioning under proximity exposure. It was basic biology. Science.

"Why on earth are you looking at me like that?" Emily repeated, searching the puppy's face.

Andy instantly looked away, locking her eyes onto a distant fire extinguisher. “Wuff.”

Emily frowned.

Andy continued staring intensely at the red cylinder on the wall. Professional. I am an adult journalist. I am professional.

Then, Emily’s fingers shifted beneath her chest. A warm, soft thumb reached out and gently brushed through the thick, velvety fur beneath Andy’s chin.

Andy froze dead. Well now… That... feels absurdly good. No. Bad. Resist!

Her eyelids fluttered shut for one traitorous half-second. Emily’s hand moved again, absentmindedly smoothing the soft patch of fur between Andy’s ears.

Andy’s entire rigid spine dissolved like sugar in hot tea. Oh, no. She hated this. She hated how good canine nerve endings were.

Her back legs stopped dangling and went limp. Her tense shoulders dropped. Her heavy head tipped forward until her warm forehead rested lightly against the soft skin of Emily’s wrist.

A tiny, involuntary, purr-like sound hummed in her throat. “Mrrf.”

Emily went completely still.

Andy opened one glossy brown eye. Emily was staring down at her wrist, where the puppy’s head was resting, her breath caught in her throat. Andy stared back. Neither of them moved a muscle.

CLICK.

The door to Miranda’s office swung open.

Andy felt Emily’s entire body snap into steel-wire tension. Before Andy could even gasp, Emily pivoted on her heel, shielding the puppy completely behind a thick wall of camel fabric.

"Where is Andrea?" Miranda’s voice echoed sharply across the room.

Andy’s ears twitched behind Emily's back. Miranda.

Emily’s hands tightened around Andy’s middle, holding her flush against her back.

"Still MIA?" Miranda’s tone dripped with disdain.

Emily swallowed hard, her chest expanding against Andy’s side. "She... she is still not picking up her mobile, Miranda."

A heavy beat.

Then Miranda spoke, her voice laced with terrifying, casual indifference, "What is she, dead?"

CLICK. The door closed. Silence descended once more.

Andy remained tucked behind Emily, staring directly at the smooth plaid lining of the trench coat. Emily’s sharp shoulders slowly slumped.

For several seconds, neither of them moved.

Then, Emily turned, bringing the puppy back into view. Her expression was a masterclass in pure, bone-deep exhaustion.

"That girl," Emily muttered to the puppy, her voice cracking slightly, "is actively trying to get herself fired. She is testing me."

Andy’s ears flattened back against her skull. “No!” Instead she let out a soft, tragic whimper. “Mrrr…”

Emily looked down into the glossy, miserable brown eyes staring up at her.

Andy looked back, pouring every ounce of her soul into the gaze. I'm here! I'm trying! I am literally right in your arms! 

She gave another tiny, pathetic whine.

Emily’s sharp expression shifted. Just a fraction. A tiny softening around her eyes.

"Oh, I know," Emily whispered softly.

Andy blinked.

Emily let out a quiet sigh. "I know. I know she isn't trying to get fired."

Andy felt a strange, warm squeeze right in the centre of her chest.

Emily absently rubbed her thumb over the soft spot between Andy's ears. "She's just..." Emily paused, her gaze drifting toward Andrea's empty desk. "She's just being Andrea."

Andy lowered her snout, resting it against Emily’s thumb. Well. Yeah. That's... remarkably accurate.

Emily looked down at her again, her lip twitching. "Although... she could at least have the decent courtesy to answer her bloody phone."

Andy let out an indignant, muffled huff against Emily's hand.

Emily lifted one red-penciled eyebrow. "What?"

“Yip.” (“I literally cannot physically operate a mobile phone!”)

"You are not helping your case, rodent."

Andy sighed, dropping her head. I really, desperately need a human-to-canine translator.

Emily carried her back toward the desk. Andy watched the high-fashion world glide past them from outside, snakeskin stilettos, swinging garment bags, flashing phone lines, and rushing assistants. The floor seemed gigantic from this height, loud and overwhelming.

And yet, Emily moved through the chaos effortlessly. Sharp heels clicking. A golden retriever puppy tucked securely under one arm.

A bizarre thought struck Andy: I am currently being given an executive tour of Runway, carried like a princess by Emily Charlton. It was, without a doubt, the single most surreal experience of her life.

They reached the desk. Andy felt herself being lowered toward the floor. Ah. Back into the bag. That was fine. She could use a nap anyway.

She braced her paws to drop into the leather tote, but Emily suddenly paused.

Andy looked up. Emily looked down. A moment of strange hesitation hung between them.

Then, instead of depositing Andy into the bag beneath the desk, Emily shifted her grip. She lifted Andy slightly higher and set her down somewhere soft, warm, and distinctly non-leather.

Andy blinked, looking around. She was sitting directly in Emily’s lap. “…”

Andy went rigid.

Emily pulled herself up to her desk, crossed one leg over the other, and expertly tucked Andy into the curve of her stomach as if this were a routine morning administrative procedure.

Then, Emily placed one warm hand flat over the puppy's back, anchoring her gently.

Andy sat completely frozen, her heart hammering. What?! She peeked upward. Emily was already clicking open an unread email, her sharp blue eyes scanning the monitor.

Apparently... this was happening now. Okay. Fine. Logic check: Emily had simply realised that putting Andy in the bag was structurally ineffective. Andy had escaped twice. Keeping her locked in her lap was purely a containment strategy. Perfect sense. Standard Emily efficiency. Nothing weird about it at all.

Andy slowly lowered her chin, resting it flat against Emily’s skirt-claid thigh.

Emily’s hand remained rested on her back. Warm. Steady.

Then, those long fingers moved. A slow, absentminded stroke ran from between Andy’s ears, down her spine, to the base of her neck.

Andy’s eyes fluttered shut against her will. Oh, man. I can work with this.

Emily snatched up her ringing phone receiver. "Miranda Priestly’s office."

Andy lay quietly, listening to the sharp, clipped authority in Emily’s voice as she berated a fashion showroom coordinator over a late delivery. "No. I explicitly stated the black knit. The black one, not the charcoal!"

All the while, her fingers continued their hypnotic rhythm through Andy's thick butterscotch coat. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Andy tried so hard to remain a stoic, dignified human being. But her tail gave one slow, betraying thump against Emily’s leg.

Emily didn't say a word. She just kept typing with one hand and stroking fur with the other. Another phone call. Another urgent email. Another furious exchange about a shipment of sample shoes stuck in customs.

Andy lay there in the warm cocoon of Emily's lap, listening. The cadence of Emily's voice was oddly hypnotising, sharp when annoyed, low and hummed when concentrating, lightning-fast when managing three crises at once.

Every few minutes, Emily’s free hand would return to Andy without a second thought. A gentle scratch behind her left ear. A firm rub between her shoulder blades. A long, soothing stroke down her back.

With every pass of Emily's hand, Andy’s eyelids grew heavier.

She fought it. She really did. She was Andrea Sachs, for God's sake! She needed to plan! She needed to find a way to write a note! She needed to contact a doctor, or a wizard, or a vet! She needed to—

Scratch. 

Andy’s eyes closed. No. Stay awake. 

Scratch.

Her snout sank heavily onto Emily’s forearm. No. I am an adult journalist. I am awake.

Scratch.

Her breathing slowed into a deep, rhythmic rise and fall.

Emily shifted slightly in her chair, and Andy automatically burrowed deeper into the warmth of her stomach, nestling her wet nose beneath the side of the Burberry trench coat.

The comforting scent of dry-cleaned wool, dark roast coffee, and expensive floral perfume wrapped around her like a blanket. Safe. Warm. Perfectly secure.

Andy let out a long, shuddering, deeply content puppy sigh. “Mmmrf.”

Emily’s stroking hand paused for a second... then resumed its steady rhythm.

The chaos of the office slowly faded into background noise. Ringing phones became distant chimes. The clatter of heels turned into a soft rhythm. Emily’s steady, even pulse thumped above Andy’s cheek.

Andy tried one last time to remind herself that she was twenty-three years old and had a degree from Northwestern.

It lasted three seconds.

Her paws folded neatly under her chest. Her floppy ears dropped flat. Her heavy head melted into Emily’s arm. And before she could register the utter absurdity of her life, she fell fast asleep in Emily's lap. Deeply. Peacefully. Completely.

The last thing Andy felt before slipping into dark, dreamless comfort was Emily’s thumb softly, rhythmically stroking the fur right between her ears.

Andy wasn't sure how long she'd been asleep.

Long enough that the high-stress chaos of the floor had softened into a distant, muffled hum of ringing telephones and clicking heels. Long enough that her canine body had apparently decided sleep was vastly more important than solving the catastrophic, universe-shattering mystery of her transformation. Long enough that when Emily finally shifted beneath her, Andy's first, unvarnished instinct was to burrow deeper into the warm, expensive wool of her trench coat. Warm. Soft. Safe.

Emily moved again, her leg twitching beneath Andy’s belly.

Andy made a sleepy, disgruntled little grumble, tucking her cold black nose firmly beneath one butterscotch paw.

"Come on," a clipped voice murmured above her. A hand smoothed over the crown of her head, her thumb massaging behind one floppy ear. "Up you get."

Andy ignored her, curling into a tighter ball.

Emily sighed, a dramatic gust of air. "Good God."

The leather office chair creaked. Then Emily stood up.

Andy was suddenly hoisted into the air along with her. Her eyes snapped wide open. “…Mrrf?”

The world tilted ninety degrees. She blinked blearily against the bright fluorescent light. Emily was standing tall in her four-inch heels. Andy was cradled securely against her ribs. And the entire office was moving around them in a blur of glass and steel.

"Oh, good," Emily said, looking down.

Andy let out an enormous, whole-body yawn, her little pink tongue curling like a ribbon as her jaw stretched.

"You're awake," Emily observed.

Andy blinked, trying to clear the sleep-crust from her eyes. She was awake. She was—Wait. How long had she been out?!

She craned her furry neck to look around. The office was noticeably quieter than before. The frantic, high-octane panic of the morning rush had settled into the heavy, focused hum of late afternoon. Sunlight had shifted across the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, golden-white rays across the pristine white surfaces of the floor.

Andy looked back up at Emily.

Emily was staring straight down at her, her sharp profile illuminated by the window light. "I need to tell you something."

Andy’s ears perked up into sharp little triangles. Was this it?! Had Emily finally cracked the code? Was she about to reveal that she knew the golden retriever in her arms was actually her coworker?!

Emily adjusted Andy higher against her hip, tucking the puppy’s rear end securely against her waist. "Miranda's out."

Andy blinked. Oh. Good. That was good! No Miranda. No terrifying silver-haired dragon stalking the hallways, demanding unreleased Harry Potter manuscripts or impossibly rare belt buckles. That was a net positive for everyone.

"She's gone to a four-hour editorial board meeting in Midtown," Emily continued, walking toward her desk.

Andy listened attentively, her head cocked to one side.

"And I have been manning this desk completely unassisted all day because Andrea Sachs has apparently decided today is the day she abandons all professional responsibility and flees the state."

Andy’s ears flattened backward against her skull. I did not abandon anything! I was turned into a dog! Against my will!

Emily kept airing her grievances to the puppy. "She's still not answering her mobile."

Andy gave a tiny, deeply offended huff against Emily's lapel. I don't HAVE a mobile! Dogs don't have pockets!

"And I have had to field approximately fourteen calls that were meant for her desk."

Andy winced, her tail drooping. Okay, I'm sorry about that.

"Three of which were from key advertisers who apparently believe that junior assistants possess supernatural powers and can bend space-time."

Andy let out a soft, sympathetic sigh. Also very sorry.

"And I haven't had a proper break all day." Emily's sharp shoulders dropped just a fraction, a rare crack in her icy armour.

Andy stared up at her. Something about the subtle weariness in Emily’s posture made a tiny, sharp pinch of guilt bloom in Andy’s chest.

Emily glanced toward the wall clock. "Actually, that's not entirely accurate." She looked down into Andy's dark brown eyes. "I haven't had a break at all."

Andy blinked softly.

Emily let out a sharp, breathless exhale. "And my bladder is about to burst."

Andy’s ears shot straight back up. Oh. She understood that particular crisis. Very, very well.

Emily shifted Andy into the crook of her left arm, her right hand reaching down toward the open leather tote resting on the floor.

"So," Emily announced, starting to lower her. "You are going back in the bag."

Andy immediately went board-rigid. NO. Absolutely not. The bag is a cage!

As Emily lowered her, Andy planted all four tiny paws firmly against Emily's leather watchband, resisting the descent with every ounce of her fifteen pounds.

"No," Andy whined, high and desperate. “Yip!”

Emily paused, holding the puppy suspended in mid-air. "Don't start."

“Whiiiiine.” (“I’ll be bored! And lonely! And under the desk!”)

Emily stared at her. Andy stared back, locking her big, pathetic brown eyes onto Emily’s.

“Woof!” (“Plus... I'm hungry!”)

As if on cue, Andy’s little dog stomach let out a loud, betrayal-filled, gurgling rumble. Andy froze.

Emily’s auburn eyebrows lifted straight toward her hairline.

Andy instantly averted her eyes, looking intently at a nearby shoe box. That was not me. That was the plumbing.

Emily glanced down toward the puppy's midsection, then back up at her face. Andy tried holding her breath to prevent further embarrassment, but her stomach betrayed her again. Louder. A pathetic, cavernous sound.

Emily's expression shifted from irritation to mild surprise. "...Are you hungry?"

Andy’s head snapped back around instantly. “YIP!” (“YES. DYING.”)

Emily blinked.

Andy started wagging her entire back half, her tail thumping a frantic rhythm against Emily's forearm. “Yip! Yip!” (“STARVING!”)

Emily tilted her head, searching the puppy's surprisingly expressive face. "And you need to go outside?"

Andy froze for a second, her brain processing the question. Then, her tail went into overdrive, vibrating so hard her entire rear end shook. “Woof!” (“YES! PLEASE!”)

Emily stared at the vibrating golden puppy, utterly baffled. "Do you have severe separation anxiety?"

Andy blinked. ...What?

Emily looked down at her with a mix of judgment and fascination. "Are you genuinely that obsessed with me?"

Andy opened her snout. “…”

That was—NO! Absolutely not! She was not obsessed with Emily Charlton! She was simply a human being trapped in a canine body with zero money, no thumbs, and no other resources! Emily was her only tether to sanity! And Emily knew where her apartment was!

And Emily was warm. And Emily gave surprisingly high-quality ear scratches. And Emily smelled like expensive jasmine and silk—NO.NO.Completely irrelevant!

Andy gave a tiny, desperate, pitiful whine, dropping her chin onto Emily's thumb. “Yip.”

Emily let out a long, heavy sigh that sounded suspiciously like total surrender. "Do you want to come with me?"

Andy practically vibrated out of her fur. “YIP!”

Emily closed her eyes for three long seconds. "Right." A pause. "Lord, what have I done in a past life to deserve this?"

Andy didn't know, but she was wildly grateful for it.

Emily tucked Andy securely against her ribs, holding her like an oversized, furry clutch purse. "Fine. You're coming."

Andy's tail gave two happy thumps against Emily's arm as they turned and set off down the hallway toward the executive restrooms.

Andy rested her chin over Emily's shoulder, watching the sleek, high-fashion world of Runway glide past. It was becoming alarmingly, dangerously normal. Being carried around by Emily. Sitting on Emily's lap. Napping against Emily's stomach. Accompanying Emily on personal errands.

If someone had told Andy yesterday that she would spend her Tuesday being carried through the office  like a glorified designer accessory, she would have laughed in their face. Or quit on the spot. Possibly both.

The silver elevator doors slid open. Emily stepped inside.

Andy stared at their reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrored back wall. A tall, striking, impeccably dressed woman with sharp red hair, wearing a camel trench coat and four-inch Jimmy Choos... holding a fluffy, slightly unkempt golden retriever puppy with big, glossy eyes.

Andy stared at the reflection. Emily stared at the reflection. Neither of them said a word.

Andy slowly lowered her ears, letting her head drop. This is deeply humiliating.

The women's restroom was blessedly empty, a sanctuary of marble, polished chrome, and soft ambient lighting. Emily pushed open the heavy door, walked straight toward one of the spacious private stalls, and unlatched it. She stepped inside, bringing Andy with her, and carefully set the puppy down on the wide, gleaming marble ledge running directly behind the toilet bowl.

"Stay there," Emily instructed sternly, pointing one manicured finger at Andy's nose. "And do not touch anything."

Andy sat instantly, anchoring her butt end against the cool marble.

Emily closed and latched the stall door, then turned around to adjust her coat and skirt.

The moment Emily’s back was turned, Andy’s human manners kicked in with violent urgency. She skittered on her tiny paws and completely pivoted her body around on the ledge, facing the back wall.

She was a lady! She understood boundaries! She was not going to watch her colleague use the restroom!

Behind her, the stall was quiet for a moment. Andy kept her nose pressed practically against the grout line of the marble tiles, staring intently at the wall texture.

Then... a flush echoed off the porcelain.

Andy remained steadfastly facing away, her fluffy tail tucked neatly over her toes.

Behind her, she heard Emily let out a dry, under-the-breath laugh. "Very polite."

Andy peeked over her shoulder. Emily was already adjusting her trench coat. Andy instantly snapped her head back toward the wall, pretending to be deeply interested in a speck of dust on the tile.

The stall door unlatched.

And then... catastrophe struck. Her own bladder. Oh. Oh, NO.

Her canine body, clearly triggered by the sound of rushing water, suddenly sent a high-priority emergency signal directly to her brain. She needed to go. RIGHT NOW.

Andy spun around on the ledge, her paws skittering against the slick marble surface. “YIP!”

Emily stopped in the doorway, looking back. "What on earth is wrong with you now?"

Andy pointed her snout desperately toward the toilet bowl, taking three frantic, micro-steps to the edge of the counter. “Yip!”

Emily frowned, her brow furrowing.

Andy barked, putting her entire tiny soul into the noise. “WOOF!” She danced on her front paws, staring down at the water.

Emily's eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter. "Don't tell me... you need to go as well?"

Andy barked again, high and shrill. “YIP!” (“YES! EMERGENCY”)

Emily stared.

Andy barked again, hopping up and down. “YIP!” (“PLEASE!”)

Emily went still. Andy watched her face intensely, waiting for the verdict.

Finally, Emily let out a quiet, bewildered sigh. "I suppose that's a yes."

Andy’s tail started wagging in frantic relief.

Emily stepped forward and reached out. Before Andy could even begin to process the mechanics of what was about to happen, two hands slid under her front legs, and she was lifted into the air.

Wait—!

Emily lifted her up and held her suspended over the open porcelain toilet bowl.

Andy dangled. Her hind legs swung uselessly in mid-air. She stared down at the clear water beneath her. Then she slowly turned her head to look up at Emily. Then back at the toilet bowl.

Oh, God. This is happening. I am Andrea Sachs, a Northwestern graduate with a degree in journalism, and I am currently being held over a toilet like an untrained toddler.

"Go on, then," Emily murmured, her tone strangely encouraging, like a mother coaxing a child. "Go."

Andy closed her eyes tight. This was, without a doubt, the single lowest point of her twenty-three years on Earth. She had worked for Miranda Priestly. She had been publicly humiliated over coffee orders. She had been forced to fetch impossible couture samples from across Manhattan in a thunderstorm. She had endured endless fashion insults.

And yet, somehow... being held over a toilet in the bathroom by Emily Charlton was the precise moment her dignity shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

She let out a long, tragic sigh.

And then... relief. 

Oh. Oh, wow. Okay, that... feels infinitely better. Her entire tense body went limp in Emily's hands.

Above her, Emily made a soft, impressed little sound. "Well. Look at you. Proper little lady, aren't you?"

Andy wanted the marble floor to open up and swallow her whole.

When it was over, Emily flushed the toilet and carefully pulled Andy back against her chest.

They stood there in the quiet bathroom. Emily stared at the puppy. The puppy stared straight at Emily’s collarbone. Neither of them acknowledged the madness of what had just transpired. Some horrific traumas were simply better left unspoken.

Emily turned toward the sinks, setting Andy down on the wide marble counter right beside the faucet. She turned on the warm water and washed her hands thoroughly with soap.

Rinse. Dry with a linen towel.

Then, Emily’s sharp blue eyes dropped down to Andy's paws. Andy looked down too. Four tiny, golden-furred paws. Tiny dark pads. Paws that had walked on the dirt-streaked sidewalks of 57th Street. Paws that had trotted across the floor of a NYC yellow cab. Paws that had roamed the carpet of the office.

Oh.

Emily’s expression tightened into one of supreme disgust. "Absolutely not."

Andy blinked.

Emily grabbed three thick paper towels from the brass holder and thoroughly wetted them under the warm tap. Then, she reached for Andy. "Come here."

Andy hesitated, taking a cautious half-step back.

Emily firmly plucked up Andy's front left paw. Andy’s ears flattened in mild indignation.

Wipe. The warm, damp paper towel moved meticulously over her leather-soft paw pads.

Andy stared in absolute, stunned disbelief. Emily Charlton, a woman who refused to touch public door handles and treated standard human contact like a contagious disease, was currently cleaning dirt from between a dog's toes.

Wipe.

"Don't look at me like that," Emily muttered, her tone stern as she cleaned between Andy's claws. "You've been galavanting around Manhattan all morning. Do you have any idea what kind of horrific bacteria live on the pavement?"

Andy didn't. She also realised she really, really didn't want to know.

Emily finished the first paw, threw the dirty paper towel into the bin, wetted another, and took the second front paw. Then both back paws, cleaning every tiny toe with surgical precision.

Andy sat perfectly still on the marble counter, deeply offended by the indignity of the situation, but secretly loving how clean her paws felt.

Finally, Emily tossed the last paper towel away. "There. Spotless."

Andy looked down at her feet. The golden fur around her ankles was neatly fluffed, and her dark pads were clean. She lifted one paw experimentally and gave it a tentative shake.

Emily raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. "Happy?"

Andy gave her tail one small, grateful wag. “…Woof.” (“Yes. Thank you.”)

"Good."

Emily scooped her right back up into the crook of her arm. Andy didn't even bother resisting. She was beginning to suspect that resisting Emily was a colossal waste of energy anyway.

The elevator took them down past the main editorial floors. This time, Andy watched the glowing red floor numbers with keen interest.

15... 14... 13.... The Canteen.

The heavenly, intoxicating aroma hit Andy’s snout before the glass elevator doors even slid fully open.

Andy’s nose twitched wildly. FOOD. REAL, HUMAN FOOD.

Her entire puppy body came roaring to life. Her ears stood at attention. Her nostrils flared, categorising scents at lightning speed: Roasted chicken. Baked sourdough. Steamed vegetables. Melted Gruyère cheese. Rich, buttery garlic sauce.

And... oh, God. Fresh, sweet carrots. Andy’s stomach let out another pathetic, reverberating rumble.

Emily glanced down at the vibrating bundle of fur in her arms. "Good grief. You really are starving, aren't you?"

Andy locked her soul-filled brown eyes onto Emily’s face. “Yip.”

Emily let out a soft sigh, her voice dropping into a rare, gentle cadence. "I know. Come on."

The cafeteria was surprisingly busy, bustling with junior editors, art directors, and assistants grabbing late-afternoon coffees and light salads.

Emily moved through the crowd like an icebreaker ship, Andy tucked securely against her ribs like an expensive piece of arm candy.

Andy peeked out over Emily’s forearm, her head turning frantically from side to side. So many people! So much food! So many incredible smells! Her canine brain was overloading with sensory input.

Emily bypassed the main seating area and expertly claimed a small, secluded corner booth hidden behind a decorative bamboo partition, far away from the prying eyes of the senior staff.

She set Andy down carefully on the red leather bench. "Stay."

Andy sat instantly, setting down her butt.

Emily pointed a warning finger. "I mean it. Stay right there. Do not move an inch."

Andy gave a firm, reassuring nod.

Emily narrowed her eyes, studying the strangely intelligent dog. "If you get down, I am leaving you here."

Andy nodded harder, practically pressing her chest to her paws.

Satisfied, Emily turned and walked toward the hot food service line.

Andy immediately stood on her hind legs, resting her front paws on the top of the wooden booth back to keep eyes on her target.

Emily picked up a tray. She glided along the glass display cases. Salad bar. A small bowl of mixed greens. No dressing. Bakery. A single, wafer-thin crispbread. 

Protein station.

Emily stopped. Her gaze landed on a pan of sliced, steamed chicken breast, plain, unseasoned, and pure white.

Andy’s ears shot straight up. She gripped the wooden ledge tighter with her claws.

In the line, Emily stared down at the steamed chicken. Then, she slowly turned her head and looked across the cafeteria toward the bamboo booth. Andy stared back from across the room, willing her thoughts into Emily’s mind: BUY THE CHICKEN. BUY THE CHICKEN.

Emily turned back to the server and gestured toward the chicken breast.

Andy’s tail started whipping back and forth against the leather seat.

Emily moved further down the line. She added a small side of steamed carrot sticks and sliced green cabbage to her tray. 

Andy gasped internally. Carrots?! She got carrots too?! Was Emily... was Emily selecting an entire, perfectly balanced meal specifically for her? A puppy?

A strange, soft warmth bloomed right behind Andy’s ribs.

Emily reached the register, pulled out her card, and paid. As she picked up her tray, a voice called out behind her.

Andy ducked her head below the booth wall instantly.

Nigel.

Andy peeked through a small gap in the wooden bamboo slats. Nigel was standing near the coffee station, gesturing toward Emily's heavy tray with a wide, theatrical smirk.

Andy couldn't hear every word over the hum of the cafeteria, but she caught snippets: "...eating actual protein, Emily? Is the world ending?"

Emily rolled her eyes, saying something clipped in response.

Nigel laughed, pointing at the massive portion of chicken. "That's enough food to feed a small dog!"

Emily’s face went stone-still. She made a quick, dismissive excuse, turned on her heel, and walked briskly away.

Nigel’s eyes followed her... and for one terrifying second, his gaze flicked straight toward the bamboo booth.

Andy ducked so fast her chin hit the leather seat. Nope! Absolutely not! Nigel cannot see me! He’d have me sent to a boutique dog spa or turned into a coat!

A few seconds later, the rustle of a trench coat signaled Emily’s return. She slid smoothly into the booth opposite Andy.

Andy sat up instantly, her front paws planted neatly on the table edge, her dark eyes entirely glued to the tray. Salad. Crispbread. And a massive, glorious plate containing a full steamed chicken breast, warm carrot sticks, and soft cabbage.

Andy stared at the chicken like it was the Holy Grail.

Emily set the tray down, folded her hands, and looked at the dog. "What?"

Andy gave a soft, high-pitched, pleading bark. “Yip.”

Emily’s eyebrows twitched.

Andy unhitched her tail and let it thump frantically against the booth cushion. She stared at the chicken. Then at Emily’s face. Then back to the chicken.

Emily followed the puppy's intense line of sight. A tiny, almost imperceptible softening appeared at the corners of her eyes. "Oh," she murmured softly.

Andy’s tail went twice as fast.

Emily reached out with her fingers and tore off a small, steaming piece of white chicken meat. "Is this what you've been carrying on about?"

Andy nearly leaped across the table. “YIP!”

Emily let out a laugh, a genuine, quiet, musical little laugh.

"All right, calm down, you beast," Emily whispered affectionately.

She held the piece of chicken out across the table. Andy leaned forward slowly, exercising absolute, maximum self-control. She delicately took the warm meat from Emily’s fingertips using only her front teeth, making sure not to graze Emily's skin.

She chewed. She swallowed. OH. MY. GOD. It was the single greatest thing she had ever tasted in her entire life.

Andy stared up at Emily, her eyes wide with unadulterated adoration.

Emily was watching her closely, a small, amused smile playing on her lips. "Good?"

Andy wagged her entire body so hard the booth table vibrated. “YIP!”

Emily’s smile widened just a fraction. "Thought so."

Andy immediately sat back down, folding her front paws together politely on the table. She had never displayed such flawless, exquisite table manners in her life.

Emily picked up her fork and took a modest bite of her salad.

Andy waited patiently, hovering like a fluffy  yellow statue.

Emily took another bite of salad. Andy held her position, her big brown eyes shining.

Emily paused, looking over her fork at the puppy. "You are not getting my salad, rodent."

Andy blinked. I don't WANT your leaves! I want my chicken!

Emily hid a tiny smirk, reached down, and tore off another bite-sized piece of steamed chicken. "Here."

Andy accepted it with royal dignity. Chewed. Swallowed. Thump-thump-thump went her tail against the leather.

Emily ate another forkful of greens. Then... another piece of chicken for Andy.

Another bite of salad.nAnother tiny, shredded piece of chicken.

A quiet, hypnotic rhythm established itself in the secluded corner booth. Emily ate. Andy ate. Emily ate. Andy ate.

As the warm, rich food filled her tiny stomach, Andy’s heavy eyelids began to droop once again. The terrifying exhaustion of the day was catching up to her again.

The bizarre morning. The frantic bus ride. The terrified sprint through Manhattan. The confrontation at Runway. The bathroom mortification.

And now... food. Warm, wonderful food. And Emily.

Andy slowly rested her chin flat on the wooden table, her front paws tucked neatly underneath her chest.

Emily tore off the final, tiny shred of chicken breast. "Last piece. Then you're cut off."

Andy’s ears twitched softly. Liar. You love feeding me.

Emily extended her hand, offering the morsel.

Andy took it gently, chewing with slow, lazy satisfaction. When she finished, she lifted her head and looked straight up into Emily’s face.

The warm afternoon sunlight streaming through the cafeteria windows caught Emily’s eyes, turning them into brilliant, translucent pools of sapphire blue.

Andy stared for a long moment.

She still couldn't quite fathom why she had spent nine whole months working three feet away from this woman without ever realising how striking she was.

Pretty. The word echoed in Andy’s brain again, soft and undeniable.

Andy instantly dropped her head back down onto her paws, her cheeks suddenly feeling suspiciously warm beneath her fur. No. Absolutely not. Brain rot. Canine confusion. I am just tired. And full of chicken.

Emily reached across the small table. Her soft, warm fingers found the velvety patch of fur right between Andy’s ears, giving her three slow, rhythmic scratches.

Andy’s eyes fluttered shut, a tiny, involuntary sigh escaping her snout.

"...You are ridiculous," Emily murmured, her tone soft and strangely fond in the quiet booth.

Andy’s tail gave one single, lazy, contented thump against the red leather seat.

Maybe, Andy thought, sinking deep into the comforting warmth of Emily's presence. But at least I'm not hungry anymore.

And for the first time since waking up on a hardwood floor as a golden retriever, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay. Even if she was currently being hand-fed chicken by Emily Charlton in the staff canteen.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a strange, golden-hued haze.

For Andy, at least. She had long since stopped trying to convince herself that this was a temporary glitch in the matrix or a bizarre, stress-induced hallucination. By 4:00 PM, she had begrudgingly accepted five fundamental, life-altering facts:

1. She was a puppy.
2. She was apparently stuck as a puppy.
3. Nobody in the tri-state area could understand a word she was saying.
4. Emily Charlton was currently the only person on Earth who knew she existed.

And, most inconveniently, most embarrassingly, most catastrophically of all—5. Andrea Sachs was becoming deeply, profoundly attached to Emily Charlton.

It was humiliating. Truly, utterly tragic for a Northwestern graduate.

Because Emily was not supposed to be nice. Not in this universe. Emily was supposed to be a terrifying, sharp-tongued force of nature in four-inch heels, permanently five minutes away from a complete, stress-induced breakdown. She was supposed to glare at junior assistants as though they were personally responsible for every global crisis since the Middle Ages.

And yet…There was an entirely different woman beneath the high-fashion armour when she thought no one was paying attention. Especially when she thought the "no one" in question was a fifteen-pound golden retriever.

Andy made this catastrophic discovery while curled up on Emily’s lap for the second time that afternoon.

Above her, Emily had one hand resting on the keyboard, her fingers typing at a steady clip, while her left hand dropped down absentmindedly to stroke the velvety fur behind Andy’s ears.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Andy’s eyelids felt like lead weights. Then, Emily’s fingers drifted down the back of her neck, her nails lightly combing through the thick butterscotch coat.

Andy practically melted into a puddle on Emily’s thighs. Oh, this is ridiculous, Andy thought, letting out a soft, embarrassing puppy sigh. I have no spine. None whatsoever.

Her sleepy eyes fluttered open just enough to glance at Emily’s hand. She has absurdly nice hands.

Andy blinked blearily. She’d noticed them in passing over the last nine months, of course. Emily kept her nails neat and blunt, painted a deep, moody oxblood that looked ridiculously chic against the pale skin of her fingers.

And now, those exact oxblood-tipped fingers were gently scratching the delicate spot right beneath Andy's chin.

Before her brain could stop her body, Andy tilted her head upward, leaning heavily into the touch.

Emily glanced down from her monitor, her lips twitching. "You're spoiled already, aren't you, puppy?"

Andy looked up, her dark eyes wide and glossy. I am NOT spoiled. I am a serious journalist enjoying a basic tactile accommodation.

Emily stroked beneath her jawline again.

Andy’s eyes instantly snapped shut in pure bliss.

Emily let out a quiet snort. "Thought so."

Andy groaned internally, hiding her face against Emily's stomach. Traitorous canine nervous system.

Suddenly, the telephone on the desk rang.

Emily instantly went board-straight, her entire posture shifting in a millisecond. "Miranda Priestly’s office."

Andy watched the transformation from her lap, utterly fascinated. It was almost a art form. One second, Emily was gently massaging a dog’s chin, the next, she was a crisp, terrifying, ice-cold executive.

"Yes. I'll have the proofs sent immediately," Emily said crisply, typing furiously with one hand.

Andy stared up at her sharp profile. How on earth do you do that?

She shifted slightly on her lap, trying to get comfortable. Emily’s left hand automatically dropped from the desk, landing lightly against Andy's side to anchor her, keeping her from sliding off her knees.

The gesture was so instinctive, so casually protective, that Andy froze.

Emily didn't even interrupt her phone conversation. She didn't even look down.

And that was what Andy found most startling of all, that Emily wasn't putting on an act. She had simply decided, without an ounce of fanfare, that this strange, persistent little dog was her responsibility for the day. And Emily Charlton took her responsibilities with terrifying, ironclad seriousness. Even when the responsibility in question was an uninvited puppy.

The first major disruption came when Emily finally had to leave her desk to collect a mountain of evening errands.

She checked her watch, letting out a sharp exhale. "Right. Time to move."

Andy sat up instantly on the desk, her ears perking.

Emily gathered a stack of colour swatches, then looked down at the puppy. "You're coming with me."

Andy’s entire body brightened, her tail giving a hopeful thump. Really?!

Emily narrowed her eyes in a fierce glare. "Don't look so pleased with yourself. You're only coming because I refuse to leave you unattended around Miranda's antiques."

Andy let out a tiny, cheerful “Yip!”

Emily rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Yes, yes. Save the theatrics."

She scooped Andy up, and Andy instinctively tucked her front paws against Emily's chest. The familiar, intoxicating scent of her perfume immediately enveloped her.

It was strange how quickly Andy’s senses had locked onto it. Clean. Expensive. A sharp, elegant floral note over something warm and dark. Very sophisticated. Very Emily.

Andy rested her chin over Emily's shoulder as they navigated the busy hallways, watching the world glide past.

For the next two hours, Andy was treated to the full Emily Charlton Executive Tour. She was carried through the building like a ridiculously plush, four-legged handbag.

At one point, they had to collect a heavy stack of orange Hermès boxes from the fashion closet. Emily held Andy securely under one arm while balancing four designer packages with the other, her four-inch heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor.

Andy peered over Emily’s forearm, sniffing the silk-lined boxes. Hermès. Naturally.

Then came a rack of Calvin Klein skirts. Then two pairs of custom ice skates for the twins.

Andy’s ears twitched when she heard Emily muttering under her breath as they hauled the skates back to the desk. "Because apparently, Andrea Sachs has spontaneously combusted and ceased to exist in this dimension."

Andy winced, pressing her head into Emily's coat. I am literally right under your chin!

Emily adjusted her grip on the puppy’s midsection. "Honestly, how difficult is it to answer a mobile phone? It's a miracle she remembers to breathe."

Andy gave a tiny, pitiful whine.

Emily’s gaze dropped. "What?"

Andy stared pointedly into her blue eyes. I cannot answer a mobile phone because I currently possess PAWS, Emily! Zero thumbs!

Emily’s sharp expression softened by a fraction. "Oh, don't you start taking her side." 

She shifted Andy higher against her body, resting her head against the puppy's crown. "You've had a very trying day too, haven't you?"

Andy blinked.

Emily offered a rare, faint, incredibly soft smile. "Yes, you have."

Andy stared at her, her heart doing a terrifying, acrobatic flip inside her tiny chest. You have absolutely no idea.

Emily gently rubbed her thumb over the soft patch between Andy's ears. "Poor thing."

Andy’s soul gave a deep, embarrassing shudder. Oh, God. Oh, no. I am completely, utterly, irredeemably attached to her.

By late afternoon, Andy had given up all pretense of independence. Whenever Emily set her down on the floor, Andy trotted behind her like a fuzzy golden shadow. If Emily walked to the filing cabinet, Andy’s paws skittered right alongside her heels. If Emily sat down, Andy immediately attempted to scale her leg.

And when Emily finally attempted to put her back into the tote at 5:30 PM, Andy planted all four paws firmly on the edge of the wooden desk, rigid as a statue. "No."

Emily stared at the puppy. The puppy stared back.

"Don't you dare," Emily warned, holding the tote open.

Andy gave her tail a single, stubborn wag.

Emily sighed, a long-suffering sound. "You are unbelievably, exquisitely difficult."

Andy barked once, high and clear.

Emily pointed a finger at her nose. "Do not argue with me, rodent."

Andy barked again. “WOOF!”

"I mean it!"

“YIP!”

The corners of Emily's mouth twitched, her stern mask cracking. "You have quite the mouth on you for such a tiny thing."

Andy sat down proudly on a stack of galleys. Thank you. I was editor-in-chief of my college paper.

Emily shook her head, a laugh escaping her throat. "Come here."

Andy immediately scrambled forward into her hands. Traitorous puppy instincts, Andy scolded herself. But honestly, could anyone blame her? Emily was warm. Emily smelled like heaven. Emily knew the exact, perfect spot to scratch behind her ears.

And when Emily spoke to her, her voice dropped that sharp edge she used as armour against the rest of the world. She said things like, "Come on, sweetheart." Or, "Careful on those stairs." Or, when Andy inevitably attempted to leap off the desk, "Oh, absolutely not." Andy liked that last one best.

Eventually, the frantic energy of the office began to bleed away.

One by one, the overhead lights clicked off. Voices faded down the corridors. Heavy doors shut. The endless, manic roar of Runway dissolved into the deep, quiet stillness of twilight.

Miranda had left hours ago. The other assistants were gone. Andrea Sachs remained officially missing in action. Emily was the last person remaining on the floor.

Which meant, naturally, that the burden of Miranda’s final evening delivery fell entirely on her shoulders.

Andy sat at the edge of the desk, her chin resting on her paws, watching Emily work. 

The office was almost completely dark now, save for the single, warm pool of golden light cast by Emily’s desk lamp. It transformed the space. Everything felt softer, quieter, intimate.

The warm lamp light caught the fiery auburn tones in Emily’s hair, setting it ablaze against the shadows. Her vivid blue eyes moved steadily across the pages of her planner.

She looked exhausted. Deeply, bone-wearily tired. Her sharp shoulders were slightly slumped, the dark shadows beneath her eyes visible in the dim light. But her jaw was set, and her fingers kept moving.

Andy stared at her profile.

She's beautiful. The thought arrived without warning, hitting Andy like a freight train.

Andy blinked rapidly, her eyes widening. WHAT?! She instantly snapped her head away, staring intently at the desk. No! Absolutely not! We are NOT doing this! I am NOT sitting here swooning over Emily Charlton! I am merely... observing my caretaker! Yes. Observing.

Slowly, helplessly, her eyes drifted back.

She watched Emily tuck a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. She watched the tiny, charming crease that appeared between her brows when she concentrated on a difficult schedule. She watched her long fingers turn a crisp white page.

And then, Emily looked up. Their eyes met in the warm glow of the lamp.

Emily smiled, a tiny, tired, genuine smile meant only for the puppy on her desk.

"You're very quiet all of a sudden," Emily murmured softly into the empty room.

Andy tilted her head, her ears flopping to the side.

Emily reached out, her fingers gently scratching the spot between Andy's ears. "Good girl."

Andy immediately collapsed her head onto the desk, letting out a helpless, pathetic little noise.

Oh, for God's sake, Andy thought in utter defeat. I am completely doomed.

Then, wait… Footsteps.

Andy’s ears shot straight up. Emily’s hand froze.

The sound came from the dimly lit corridor outside. Slow, measured, heavy footsteps. Coming closer.

Emily’s entire posture changed in an instant, stringing tight as a piano wire. Andy felt the shift before she even understood it.

Emily looked toward the dark doorway, her breath hitching. Someone was coming.

Andy turned her head toward the sound—WHUMP.

Suddenly, Andy’s entire world went black. Darkness. Warmth. Sudden, firm pressure. For one bewildering, disorienting second, Andy thought she’d been swallowed whole. Then, she realised, oh, Emily had leaned forward over her desk, wrapping her arms securely around the puppy, pulling Andy flat against her ribs and burying her under her chest and coat.

Emily was shielding her from view, holding her like a classified secret.

Andy lay frozen beneath the warm, protective weight of Emily's body. Through the thick wool of her coat, she could hear muffled voices entering the main reception area.

They were talking about The Book.

Emily's arms remained locked firmly around Andy, her heart hammering a fast, steady rhythm right against Andy’s ear.

Andy remained dead still. For the first time in her life, she didn't even think about wriggling or protesting. She simply lay there, surrounded by Emily's warmth and perfume, listening to the quick thud of her heartbeat.

The heavy footsteps drew closer to the desk... paused... and then slowly receded down the hallway.

Emily didn't move immediately. She waited in total silence. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

Finally, with a long, slow exhale, Emily relaxed her posture and lifted her chest.

Light flooded back into Andy's eyes. She blinked rapidly, her fur slightly rumpled.

Emily looked down at her, her face flushed in the lamp light. "There."

Andy stared up at her, utterly speechless.

Emily let out a breathless, self-deprecating laugh. "I don't even know why I just hid you."

Andy’s tail gave one slow, questioning wag.

Emily offered a tired, wry little smile, her fingers smoothing Andy's flattened coat. "Probably because the people here don’t strike me as the sort of people who would appreciate a livestock infestation in the office."

Andy considered this. Fair. Extremely fair.

Emily glanced toward the dark doorway. "Besides... you probably would have barked and ruined everything."

Andy opened her snout. I would NOT have—

Emily raised one sleek red eyebrow.

Andy slowly closed her mouth. ...Okay, fine. I probably would have.

Emily shook her head softly, her expression softening into pure affection. "Come on, you."

She picked Andy up, holding her close, and walked over to the tote. Andy instinctively curled her body against Emily's side.

As Emily positioned her over the open bag, Andy realised what was coming. She immediately planted her front paws firmly against Emily’s wrist, whining softly.

"No, no," Emily scolded gently, frowning. "What now?"

Andy pressed her head harder against Emily's arm, making a tiny, tragic sound in her throat.

Emily looked down into the open tote, then at the desperate puppy, then back to the bag. "Oh, don't start that face again."

Andy locked her big brown eyes onto Emily’s blue ones, projecting maximum, pathetic longing.

Emily sighed, her heart clearly giving way. "You cannot spend the entire evening physically attached to my person."

Andy kept staring.

A long beat passed in the quiet, empty office.

Emily’s face dissolved into soft surrender. "You are ridiculous."

She gently lowered Andy into the tote anyway, but instead of zipping it shut, she unwrapped her own soft cashmere scarf and tucked it snugly around the puppy like a little blanket.

"There," Emily whispered softly. "Warm?"

Andy gave a tiny, contented whimper, resting her chin on the soft cashmere.

Emily’s fingers brushed over the top of her head one last time. "Let's go home."

Andy watched her straighten up. Emily picked up the Book, and lifted the tote carrying Andy.

And in that golden, shadowy light, Andy saw her clearly, not as the terrifying assistant who ruled the floor with an iron fist, but as an exhausted, incredibly dedicated young woman who had spent her entire day managing a crisis and caring for a lost puppy that wasn't even hers.

Emily glanced down into the bag one last time before switching off the desk lamp. "Be good."

Andy blinked up at her through the dark. I am good.

Emily smiled faintly, her blue eyes shining in the dim corridor light. "I know."

The tote lifted off the desk. The world shifted.

And as they stepped out into the quiet, echoing hallway, Emily carrying Miranda’s priceless layout in one hand and Andrea Sachs in the other, Andy curled deep into the cashmere scarf, feeling the steady, rhythmic swing of Emily’s stride.

For the first time all day, trapped inside the body of a golden retriever, Andy wasn't scared at all. Because somehow, inexplicably... she trusted Emily with her life.

The cab ride to Miranda's townhouse was, mercifully, uneventful. Which, given the absurd sensory overload Andy had experienced since turning into a canine, felt almost suspicious.

She remained tucked securely inside Emily's tote, wrapped in the warm, soft folds of cashmere, surrounded by the subtle, intoxicating scent of high-end floral perfume. Every now and then, the tote swung gently as Emily walked, the crisp, rhythmic click-clack of four-inch heels echoing off the Manhattan pavement.

Eventually, the movement stopped. A heavy wooden door creaked open.

And then...Mirandas voice.

Andy couldn't make out every word from inside the depths of the canvas tote, but she recognised that icy, melodic tone instantly. It was a voice that had haunted Andy's dreams for nine months.

Emily’s entire demeanour shifted in a microsecond, her tone dropping into immaculate, ironclad professionalism. "Yes, Miranda."

A beat.

"Of course."

Another beat.

"Everything is inside."

Andy carefully nudged her snout upward, peeking through a tiny slit in the tote's zipper.

Miranda stood in the pristine entryway of her townhouse, looking utterly flawless in dark silk. She looked like a woman who had never once in her life encountered a mess, a delay, or a dog in a handbag.

Emily handed over The Book with perfect posture.

Miranda’s sharp eyes flicked down to the leather casing. "Good."

That single, monosyllabic dismissal was apparently all the approval the universe required. The heavy door clicked shut.

Emily stood on the steps for a long, quiet moment. Then, she let out a massive, bone-deep exhale, her shoulders finally dropping an inch.

"Right," Emily muttered into the cool evening air. She adjusted the bag strap on her shoulder. "We're going home."

The cab ride back to SoHo was infinitely quieter.

Andy couldn't see much from inside her cozy cashmere nest, but she could feel the steady warmth of Emily sitting right beside her on the seat. Every few blocks, whenever the cab jerked over a pothole, Emily’s hand would slip into the bag, her fingers resting lightly against Andy's back. It was a tiny, subconscious touch. A reassurance.

Andy instantly relaxed beneath the pressure, anchoring her chin on her paws. She was starting to suspect that Emily didn't even realise she was doing it, that her sharp tongued colleague possessed an innate, instinctual need to protect whatever was in her care.

When the cab finally pulled up to Emily’s apartment building, Emily paid the driver, hoisted the tote, and hurried inside.

A few moments later, the front door of Emily's apartment clicked shut. Silence descended.

The tote landed with a soft thump on a plush rug.

Andy waited, her ears twitching. She heard the swish of a coat being draped over a chair, the metallic clink of keys landing on an entry table, and then... the soft rustle of fabric as Emily crouched down.

"All right, beast."

The tote unzipped completely. Bright, warm living room light flooded in.

Andy blinked, adjusting to the sudden glow. And there they were again, those striking, translucent sapphire eyes.

Emily leaned over the tote, her red hair falling slightly forward over her shoulders. "Hello."

Andy’s tail gave a frantic, uncontrollable thump-thump-thump against the canvas lining.

Emily reached down with both hands and scooped her up. Andy immediately pressed her front paws against Emily's chest, tucking herself into the hollow of her collarbone. Warm. Safe. Indescribably familiar.

Emily carried her over to the couch and sat down, staring at the golden puppy in her lap.

There was something strangely funny about Emily’s expression. She looked genuinely, utterly baffled by her own life choices.

"I've brought a stray dog home," Emily whispered to the empty room, her brows knitting together.

Andy blinked up at her.

Emily glanced around her spotless, beautifully decorated apartment, as if looking for a logical explanation written on the walls. "I have actually brought a dirty stray into my flat."

Andy gave a small, offended little whine.

Emily’s gaze snapped back down. "And I don't even know why you're so absurdly attached to me."

Andy wagged her tail again, letting out a soft grunt. Because you fed me chicken and protected me from Miranda! You're nice!

Emily frowned, her eyes narrowing. "Do you know you're doing that with your tail?"

Thump-thump-thump.

"You are weirdly obsessed with me," Emily declared.

Leaning forward on impulse, Andy extended her tiny pink tongue and licked Emily cleanly across the centre of her cheek.

Emily froze. Andy froze. A silence descended upon the living room so heavy you could hear a pin drop on the rug.

Slowly, Emily raised two fingers and wiped her cheek, staring at Andy in absolute shock. "Right."

Andy instantly dropped her ears and looked away, staring intensely at a sofa cushion. Sorry. Canine reflex. Won't happen again.

Emily let out a long, suffering sigh, though the corner of her mouth gave a betraying twitch. "You're extraordinarily lucky you're cute."

Emily settled back into the soft leather sofa, her fingers automatically drifting down to stroke the velvety fur between Andy's ears.

"Do you even have a name?" Emily mused aloud.

Andy’s entire body went rigid with excitement. YES! YES I DO!

She sat up on Emily’s lap, her tail whipping back and forth. “WOOF!”

"Ah." Emily nodded with solemn, mistaken confidence. "No name. I thought as much."

Andy stared at her in utter horror. NO?! What do you mean NO?!

She barked again, higher and sharper. “WOOF!”

Emily’s brow furrowed into a stern frown. "All right, so you don't have a name."

Andy opened her snout, her tiny chest puffing out. “BARK—”

"You are extremely loud for something the size of a loaf of bread," Emily scolded lightly.

Andy instantly snapped her jaws shut.

Emily leaned her head back against the sofa cushions, staring at the ceiling. "Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we?"

Andy’s heart dropped directly into her stomach. Oh, God. This was dangerous. This was terrifying. Emily was about to assign her a pet name, and knowing Emily's taste, Andy was five minutes away from being legally christened "Fluffball" or "Prada."

Emily tilted her head, inspecting the puppy. "Luna?"

Andy stared at her with deadpan disgust. Absolutely not. I am a journalist, not a trendy outdoor gear brand. “WOOF!”

Emily blinked. "No?"

“WOOF!”

"Right." Emily looked increasingly offended by the puppy's high standards. "Chelsea?"

“BAWK!” Andy let out an indignant, chicken-like screech.

Emily stared down at her in disbelief. "You are extraordinarily difficult to please."

Andy huffed, blowing a little puff of air through her nose. Because I already HAVE a name!

Emily rubbed her temple with two fingers. "Fine." She looked back down, her expression shifting to something slightly amused. "What about... Puppy?"

Andy barked so loudly and furiously that 

Emily actually flinched backward on the couch. "Good lord, alright! Calm down!"

Andy wagged her tail with frantic urgency, planting her front paws directly on Emily's knee. I HAVE A NAME! THINK, EMILY, THINK!

Emily pointed an authoritative finger at Andy's snout. "You are being exceptionally unhelpful."

“YIP!”

Emily sighed, a soft sound. "I suppose I could call you something slightly more sophisticated."

Andy watched her intently, barely daring to breathe.

The apartment fell quiet. The city traffic hummed faintly outside the glass windows. Emily's fingers continued their idle, rhythmic stroking through Andy's butterscotch fur.

Then Emily’s bright blue eyes settled fully on Andy’s face. She paused. She stopped stroking. She really, truly looked at her. Andy suddenly felt acutely, hyper-consciously aware of her own reflection in those blue eyes.

Emily reached out, her thumb gently brushing the delicate fur right beneath Andy’s left eye. "You really do have massive eyes, don't you?"

Andy blinked softly.

"And they're quite beautiful, actually," Emily murmured, her voice dropping into that unguarded register she only used in the dark.

Andy went completely still, her heart pounding against her ribs.

"Brown, too," Emily added, her thumb lightly tracing the arch of Andy's brow.

Andy stared back entranced. Yes...

Emily tilted her head, a faint, nostalgic crease appearing between her eyebrows. "They remind me of Andrea."

Andy’s brain instantly short-circuited. ...WHAT?!

Emily continued, completely, blissfully oblivious to the fact that she had just detonated a nuclear bomb inside the puppy's mind. "Actually..." She narrowed her eyes slightly, inspecting Andy's snout. "You look a bit like her."

Andy stared, her jaw practically unhinging.

The corners of Emily's mouth twitched into a faint, fond smirk. "Although Andrea does have a tendency to look at people with that exact same look of total, uneducated confusion."

Andy could not believe her four-legged ears. Wait. Wait, wait, WAIT.

"Sometimes," Emily chuckled softly, her voice warm and melodic in the quiet room, "she really does remind me of an overly eager puppy."

Andy nearly tumbled directly off Emily's lap in pure, indignant outrage. YOU THINK I AM LIKE A PUPPY?! I AM AN ADULT WOMAN!

Emily let out a genuine, quiet laugh. "Oh, don't look so offended."

Andy barked with furious, outraged indignancy. “WOOF!”

Emily’s laugh widened, bright and musical. "See? That exact dramatic expression! That is precisely what I mean."

Andy stared at her in speechless disbelief.

Emily’s expression softened again, the fond light lingering in her eyes. She ran her fingers gently over the crown of Andy’s head, smoothing down the soft fur.

"Andrea," Emily whispered softly.

Andy froze dead in her tracks.

Emily looked down into those big, soulful brown eyes. "Should I just call you Andrea?"

Andy’s heart exploded into a million tiny fireworks. YES! YES! IT'S ME! I AM ANDREA! YOU GUESSED IT!

She scrambled up, her paws dancing on Emily's lap. “WOOF!”

Emily smiled brightly.

Andy barked again, her whole body vibrating with triumph. “WOOF! WOOF!”

Emily’s smile widened into a full, stunning grin. "Well. That was certainly enthusiastic."

Andy was practically bouncing on her rear end now, her tail a blur of butterscotch fur. I AM ANDREA! YOU GOT IT RIGHT. “BARK!”

Emily let out a quiet, melodic laugh that sent a wave of warmth straight through Andy's chest. "All right, all right!" She scratched brilliantly behind Andy's left ear. "Andrea it is."

Andy stared up at her, breathing heavily. Because that IS my name!

Emily nodded decisively, looking thoroughly pleased with her own brilliant naming skills. "There. You have a proper name now."

Andy gave another frantic, eager bark. YES! BECAUSE IT IS MY ACTUAL NAME!

Emily smiled down at her, her thumb stroking Andy's snout. "Andrea."

Andy stared into those sapphire eyes, the horrifying truth suddenly dawning on her in full force.

Ugh. She thinks she just picked a cute name. She has NO IDEA.

The absolute humiliating frustration of the situation washed over Andy in a tidal wave. Unable to process the irony, Andy promptly shoved her face straight into the fabric of Emily's silk blouse, burying her head against Emily's stomach with a pathetic, muffled groan.

Emily burst into laughter again, the vibration of her chest warming Andy's cheek. "What's that? You like it that much?"

Andy let out a high, tragic whimper into Emily's waistline. I am going to lose my mind.

Gently, Emily reached down, picking Andy up under her front legs and repositioning her so she was curled comfortably against her chest. "Come here, Andrea."

Andy’s ears twitched involuntarily at the sound of her own name spoken with such uncharacteristic softness.

Emily’s hand began a slow, rhythmic stroke down Andy's back, her long fingers combing through the thick coat. "You really are a strange, sweet little thing."

Andy slowly closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.

"...And it looks like you're going to have to stay here tonight, doesn't it?" Emily murmured softly.

Andy’s body went completely limp, relaxing into the plush cushions and Emily’s solid, warm presence. Okay. Yeah. I can do that.

Emily glanced down at the sleepy golden bundle in her arms, her blue eyes dark and thoughtful in the lamplight. "You really are attached to me, aren't you?"

Andy opened her eyes just enough to look up into those gorgeous, familiar features.

Then, very clearly, Andy turned herself around, tucked her nose under her own tail, and curled tightly into the curve of Emily's lap.

Emily let out a soft, defeated sigh that sounded suspiciously like contentment. "Fine."

Her fingers resumed their gentle, soothing rhythm through Andy's fur. "Stay right there."

Andy’s eyelids fluttered shut, her breathing evening out into a deep, peaceful rhythm. Gladly, she thought, sinking into the warmth of Emily's lap.

And somewhere in the quiet, analytical corner of her brain, she had to admit... being a puppy wasn't entirely terrible. Not if it meant she got to spend the night wrapped up in Emily Charlton's arms.

Dinner was, surprisingly, a sanctuary of absolute peace. Which, after the mind-bending insanity of Andy’s day, felt almost suspicious.

Emily had shed her formidable office armour. The towering four-inch heels were discarded, the sharp jacket replaced by a plush cardigan, and her fiery red hair was tied back in a loose, charmingly messy knot.

Andy, of course, spent the entire transition acting like a low-budget furry shadow. Kitchen. Living room. Kitchen again. Living room. Kitchen.

Emily finally stopped in her tracks, turning on her heel to look down at the floor. "Are you planning on haunting my steps for the remainder of the evening, beast?"

Andy’s tail gave an enthusiastic, rhythmic thump-thump-thump.

Emily sighed, though her lips twitched. "Right. Thought so."

Andy planted her tiny butt firmly on the kitchen tiles, watching with rapt attention as Emily prepared her meal. Emily moved through the kitchen with the same terrifying, crisp efficiency she brought to work.

Lettuce. Tomatoes. Cucumber. A drizzle of light dressing.

And then... Emily opened the refrigerator door.

Andy’s ears shot straight up into the air like radar dishes. Chicken.

Emily glanced down at the vibrating bundle of butterscotch fur. "Oh, relax. I didn't forget."

She pulled out a fresh chicken breast. Andy’s tail hit the floor like a drum solo.

Emily let out a quiet, melodic laugh under her breath. "You are extraordinarily food-motivated, aren't you?"

Andy gave a sharp, eager little “Yip!”

Emily placed the chicken into a small saucepan of water, setting it to boil on the stove. Andy sat in front of the counter, her entire physical existence, soul, and journalistic consciousness narrowing down to a single, glorious word: Chicken.

Emily looked over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow at the intensity of the puppy’s gaze. "Honestly. Have you no self-respect?"

Andy continued to stare with unblinking, devotion-filled brown eyes.

Emily shook her head with a fond smirk. "You're worse than Andrea."

Andy blinked slowly. I AM Andrea!

Emily turned back to the stove. Andy let out a soft, defeated puppy sigh. There is truly no point in arguing with this woman.

Once the chicken was fully cooked, Emily drained it and let it cool. But unlike the hasty lunch in the canteen, Emily took her time, using a fork to carefully shred the meat into tiny, bite-sized pieces.

Andy watched every single movement as if witnessing a sacred ritual.

Emily arranged the chicken on a small porcelain saucer, then picked up her own salad bowl. "Come on, then."

She scooped Andy up and deposited her gently onto the centre of the wooden dining table. Then, she slid the little saucer right in front of her.

Andy stared at the chicken. Then up at Emily. Then back at the chicken.

Emily sat down opposite her, picking up her fork. "Go on."

Andy did not need to be told twice. She dived in with absolute enthusiasm.

Tiny bite. Chew. Savour. Next bite.

Across the table, Emily began eating her salad at a much more civilised pace. For several minutes, a comfortable, cozy silence washed over the room. Andy was hopelessly absorbed in her meal, she hadn't realised how ravenous her puppy body was until that first piece of warm chicken touched her tongue. She was practically inhaling it.

Emily watched her over the rim of her glass, eating slowly.

Then Emily burst into a quiet, muffled laugh.

Andy froze, a tiny piece of chicken shred dangling precariously from the side of her mouth. She looked up at Emily with pure unblemished innocence.

Emily pressed her lips together, trying, and failing, to suppress a wide, stunning grin. 

Andy tilted her head to the left, her ears flopping over. “Yip?” (“What?”)

Emily shook her head, her sapphire eyes sparkling in the warm dining room light. "Nothing."

Andy stared.

Emily picked up her fork again, her chest shaking with amusement. "You just look so... aggressive about it."

Andy swallowed hard. I am a growing dog! I am hungry! She promptly returned to her plate.

Emily watched her for another five seconds before breaking into another soft, genuine laugh.

Andy snapped her head up. What now?!

Emily reached into her lap, pulling out a cloth napkin. "Hold still, you savage."

Andy went rigid.

Emily leaned across the wooden table. Very gently, very meticulously, she used the corner of the napkin to dab away a stray crumb from the corner of Andy's mouth.

Andy blinked, her heart doing a strange, fluttering flip.

Emily moved the napkin to another spot on Andy's snout. Then under her chin.

"Good grief," Emily laughed softly, her voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register. "You really are exactly like Andrea."

Andy’s breath hitched in her throat.

Emily kept wiping her fur with gentle, rhythmic touches. "So clumsy. So utterly lacking in basic table manners." She dabbed beneath Andy's chin again. "And ridiculously eager about food."

Andy stared directly into those bright blue eyes, her soul screaming through her canine eyes.

Emily held up the napkin, showing off the specks of chicken. "Look at this mess. You've got food everywhere."

Andy let out an indignant, loud bark. Because I am trying to communicate with you! I am your co-worker!

Emily offered a faint, affectionate smile. "Yes, yes. I hear you."

“WOOF!”

"I know, you're very passionate."

“WOOF!”

Emily let out a bright, ringing laugh. "You have a lot of opinions for someone who eats off a saucer."

Andy promptly collapsed her head flat onto the wooden table with a heavy, dramatic thud. Fine. Whatever. I am Andrea Sachs. You already named me after myself, and yet you remain completely blind. This is an absolute farce.

Emily reached across the table, her long fingers gently scratching the velvety patch right between Andy’s ears. "Good girl."

Andy let out a tragic little sigh, leaning into the touch despite herself. There was, apparently, zero use in trying to explain the laws of magic to a British fashion assistant.

After dinner, Emily cleaned up the kitchen while Andy watched from her wooden perch. 

Once everything was spotless, Emily picked Andy up, holding her close against her chest.

"Time to relax."

Andy curled automatically into the crook of Emily's neck, breathing in the scent of warm skin and floral perfume.

Emily carried her over to the sofa and sat down, pulling a soft, chenille blanket over her legs. She placed Andy comfortably across her lap, resting one hand on the puppy’s back.

For an hour, the television played softly in the background. Andy didn't pay attention to the screen, she was far too warm, far too comfortable, and too defeated by food.

Emily’s fingers drifted idly through her butterscotch coat. Slow, soothing strokes down her spine. A gentle scratch behind her left ear. An absentminded thumb rubbing her crown.

Andy’s eyelids felt heavy, like lead weights. She could hear the steady, rhythmic beat of Emily's heart beneath her head. Feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

She let out a tiny, contented puppy sigh.

Emily glanced down, her blue eyes soft in the dim glow of the TV screen. "Sleepy, Andrea?"

Andy managed a faint, pathetic little whine.

"Thought so," Emily whispered, her fingers trailing over Andy's head one last time. "Go to sleep, then."

And Andy did.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed. At first, there was only a deep, suffocating warmth. A pleasant, heavy haze.

And then... a strange, prickling awareness began to ripple through her body.

Something felt... wrong. Differently wrong.

Andy blinked her eyes open blearily. The  living room was dim, illuminated only by the faint, blue flicker of the muted television screen.

Beside her, Emily was fast asleep. Her head was tilted gracefully to the side, a few loose strands of vibrant red hair falling across her cheek. She looked stunningly peaceful, stripped of all her sharp, jagged edges.

Andy smiled faintly. She really is gorgeous when she's not yelling at people.

Then, Andy tried to shift her paws. And hit a snag.

Her brain suddenly slammed the brakes on every single cognitive process. Wait.Her limbs felt... heavy. Long. Awkward.

Andy looked down at her lap. She blinked once. Twice.

Her mind violently rejected the visual data being sent to her brain. Where there had been small, fluffy, butterscotch-coloured paws... there were now feet. Human feet. Ten pale toes.

Andy froze dead in her tracks, her heart giving a violent, terrifying thud against her ribs.

Slowly, shakily, she lifted one leg out from under the blanket. A leg. A long, distinctly human leg.

She stared at it in sheer shock.

Then, her trembling hands came up into her line of sight. Hands. Actual, five-fingered human hands. No fur. No tiny paws. No golden coat.

Andy’s mouth fell wide open. She flexed her fingers. They moved in perfect, human harmony.

Oh, my God. Her breathing hitched, turning rapid and shallow. OH MY GOD.

She raised her hands, frantically touching her face. Human nose. Human cheeks. Human lips. She grabbed a handful of her hair. Long, dark, wavy human hair.

She was human again.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat, mixed with a sob, mixed with a desire to scream at the top of her lungs. She was back! She was Andrea Sachs, Northwestern graduate, human woman!!!

And then... reality crashed down on her like a ton of bricks.

She felt the physical space she was occupying. She was sitting on top of something. Or rather... someone.

Andy slowly, horrifyingly, looked down.

She was straddling Emily Charlton’s lap.

Andy’s brown eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Oh. OH NO. ABORT MISSION. RED ALERT. EVACUATE THE PREMISES.

She needed to get off this couch. Right now. Silent as a ninja.

Very, very carefully, Andy began shifting her hips backward, trying to slide off Emily's legs without disturbing the sleeping woman. One millimetre at a time...

Emily stirred, letting out a soft, sleepy murmur.

Andy went stone-still, holding her breath.

Emily’s long eyelashes fluttered. Then, slowly, her bright blue eyes opened.

For one blissfully confused, half-asleep second, Emily simply stared at the woman hovering directly over her in the dark room.

Andy stared right back, frozen in absolute, paralysed terror.

Neither of them breathed.

Emily’s blue eyes traveled down slowly, taking in the long dark hair, the wide brown eyes, the familiar face of her coworker sitting directly on her thighs.

Andy’s heart stopped beating entirely.

Emily blinked, the fog of sleep rapidly clearing from her gaze.

Andy swallowed hard, her vocal cords finally clicking back online. "Em... Emily..."

Emily’s eyes widened to impossible proportions. Her mouth opened.

And then promptly released a scream so loud, so high-pitched, and so horrified that it likely shattered glass three blocks away in Brooklyn. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Andy practically launched herself backward off Emily’s lap in electric panic. "EMILY! WAIT! DON'T—"

Emily scrambled backward so violently that the heavy chenille blanket went flying into the air. She slammed into the far armrest of the sofa, kicking wildly, staring at Andy as if a demonic entity had just materialised in her living room.

"WHAT ARE YOU—HOW DID YOU—GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY FLAT!" Emily shrieked, grabbing a throw pillow and holding it out like a weapon. "ANDREA?! ARE YOU INSANE?!"

Andy scrambled backward across the hardwood floor, waving her hands in frantic surrender. "Emily, please! Let me explain! It's not what it looks like! I didn't break in, I swear—"

And then, as Andy reached up to push her dark hair out of her face, the cool draft of the apartment hit her chest.

She glanced down at herself. No clothes. No coat. No puppy fur.

Just... Andrea Sachs. In all her unclad, birthday-suit glory, illuminated by the cold blue light of the television.

Andy’s voice instantly died in her throat. She stared down at her bare lap. Then at her bare chest. Then back up at Emily, who was clutching a couch cushion to her face, her eyes wide with catastrophic, traumatised horror.

Andy slowly raised two hands to cover herself, her face burning with the heat of a thousand suns.

"...Oh," Andy squeaked out, her voice cracking painfully. "...Oh, God."

She scrambled backward across the hardwood floor, her face burning with enough heat to light up the skyline. In a move of survival instinct, she reached out, snagged the edge of the chenille blanket, and whipped it around herself, pulling it tight up to her collarbone like a plush, emergency tunic.

Across the room, Emily had bolted off the sofa entirely. She was standing a good five feet back, breathing heavily, clutching a oversized velvet couch cushion to her chest like a riot shield. Her red hair was wild, her blue eyes wide and furious.

"What on earth are you doing here?!" Emily shrieked, her accent practically sharp enough to slice through the drywall. "How did you get in?! Did you break in?! Are you stalking me?!"

"No! Emily, wait—" Andy stammered, clutching the blanket around her shoulders with both hands. "I didn't break in, I swear! I can explain—"

"Explain?!" Emily’s voice hitched an octave higher. "You are standing in my living room! In the middle of the night! Without a stitch of clothing on! There is literally nothing you could possibly say to explain this!"

Andy opened her mouth to speak, but Emily suddenly froze, her eyes flicking past Andy’s shoulder toward the empty sofa cushions.

The anger on Emily’s face vanished, replaced instantly by a wave of darting panic.

"Wait," Emily breathed, her eyes frantically scanning the floor, the rug, and the space beneath the coffee table. "Where... where is she?"

Andy blinked, momentarily thrown off. "Where is who?"

"The dog!" Emily demanded, dropping her voice into an anxious, high-pitched murmur as she began taking cautious steps around the room, looking under the furniture. "Andrea! Andrea, come here, sweetheart! Where are you?"

Andy stared at her, dumbfounded. "Emily... I'm right here."

Emily snapped her head back toward Andy, her expression darkening into supreme irritation. "Not you! The puppy! The golden retriever! She was literally just lying right here on my lap two minutes ago!"

Emily leaned over the side of the sofa, clicking her fingers softly against her thigh. "Andrea? Andrea, come on out. Don't be frightened..."

"Emily!" Andy yelled, waving one blanket-wrapped arm in the air. "Listen to me! That puppy WAS ME!"

Emily stopped dead in her tracks. She slowly straightened up, staring at Andy through the dim living room light as if Andy had just announced she was an alien from the planet Zargon. "...What?" Emily asked flatly.

"The puppy," Andy repeated, pressing a hand to her own chest. "The one you found outside the building! The one you brought upstairs, and took to the canteen, and fed chicken to, and literally named 'Andrea' like twenty minutes ago! That was ME!"

A heavily suffocating silence descended on the apartment.

Emily stared. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. Then opened again.

"Are you... have you completely lost your mind?" Emily asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "Are you telling me that you, a human adult woman, turned into a fifteen-pound dog, let me carry you around all day in a Kate Spade tote, and then magically turned back on my couch?"

"YES!" Andy squeaked, her voice cracking. "I know how insane it sounds! I know! But I can explain everything! The chicken! The ear scratches! The fact that I kept turning around when you used the loo—"

"DO NOT REMIND ME OF THAT!" Emily shrieked, her face turning as red as her hair.

"I can explain the whole thing!" Andy pleaded, holding the blanket tight as she took a tiny, tentative step forward. "I swear to you, I'm not crazy! But... can I please put some actual clothes on first? It is extremely hard to convince someone you're telling the truth when you're wrapped in a lap throw."

Emily stared at her for five long seconds, processing the sheer absurd reality of the situation.

Finally, with a suffering exhale, Emily gestured frantically toward the hallway. "Guest bedroom. Second door on the left. The bottom drawer has sweatpants. Go. Now. Before I call the police or an exorcist."

Andy practically fled down the hallway, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor as she clutched the chenille blanket around her like a makeshift toga.

Behind her, she heard the frantic sound of Emily’s cabinet doors slamming open in the kitchen, followed by the aggressive clink of glassware.

"I need a drink," Emily’s voice echoed down the corridor, sharp, high-pitched, and vibrating with genuine hysteria. "I need a very, very strong drink. Put some clothes on, Andrea!"

"Going! Going!" Andy called back, ducking into the guest room.

She yanked open the bottom drawer of the dresser, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Inside was a neatly folded pile of Emily's loungewear. Andy grabbed a pair of soft grey sweatpants and a ridiculously oversized, soft knit jumper.

Pulling them on was a strange, surreal experience. The sweater smelled distinctly of Emily’s expensive perfume, the exact same scent Andy had been nuzzling into all afternoon as a dog. Now, as a human, wearing Emily's clothes in Emily's apartment, the intimacy of it hit her like a ton of bricks. The sleeves buried her hands, and the hem fell halfway down her thighs.

She looked down at her two human feet. No paws. No tail. Just Andrea Sachs, dressed in her colleague's cozy clothes, about to explain magic.

Andy swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and padded back out into the living room like a guilty toddler caught red-handed.

She stopped near the edge of the rug, nervously twisting and fidgeting with the oversized hem of the jumper.

"Emily...?" Andy offered softly, her voice barely above a squeak.

Emily was sitting at the dining table. A massive, half-empty glass of amber liquid sat near her elbow, and she was gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles were white. Her red hair was slightly wild, her cheeks flushed, and her bright blue eyes locked onto Andy the moment she stepped into the light.

Emily stared at her for three seconds. Taking in the sight of the missing second assistant standing in her flat, wearing her sweater.

Emily gestured sharply toward the empty chair opposite her. "Sit," she commanded, her tone dropping into an icy, deadpan calm that was somehow far more terrifying than her shrieking. "Sit down, Andrea. And explain everything. From the very, very beginning."

Andy moved uncomfortably across the room, pulling out the chair and sliding into it. She kept her knees tucked together and her hands balled up inside the long sleeves of the sweater, feeling smaller than she had when she was actually fifteen pounds.

So, Andy explained.

She kept it as brief as humanly possible, mercifully skimming over the more humiliating mechanics of the day. She explained how she’d woken up that morning already transformed into a golden retriever puppy, utterly terrified, and how her very first instinct had been to track down Emily for help, which was how Emily had ended up finding her outside the building in the first place.

When Andy finally finished her quick summary, Emily slowly leaned back in her chair.

She didn't scream. She didn't throw her glass. She just sat there in shock, slowly processing the fact that she had spent her entire day carrying her co-worker around in a tote, feeding her steamed chicken, and inadvertently naming her after herself.

A heavy silence settled over the apartment. The soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant rumble of traffic outside were the only sounds filling the quiet room.

They just sat there, staring at each other across the small wooden dining table.

Andy stared because... well, even with her hair a little messy, her face flushed, and a glass of spirits beside her, Emily was breathtakingly pretty. In the warm, soft light of the apartment, stripped of her harsh office defense mechanisms, she looked softer, human, and wildly attractive.

And Emily stared back at her with a look of absolute, shell-shocked bewilderment.

As for what Emily was thinking? Well. Andy wasn't a mind reader, was she?

The silence stretched on, thick and heavy enough to drown in.

Andy sat under the sharp beam of the dining light, her hands pulled deep into the sleeves of Emily’s oversized jumper. She was exhausted, her human brain still buzzing from the bizarre residue of her day.

Perhaps it was leftover dog instincts. Perhaps it was the residual lack of a filter that came from having spent twelve hours communicating entirely through whimpers and tail wags. Or perhaps it was just the sheer, overwhelming proximity of Emily in soft loungewear.

Whatever the reason, the thought bypassed Andy’s logical brain entirely and tumbled straight out of her mouth.

"You're really pretty," Andy blurted out, her voice dangerously clear in the quiet room.

Emily froze, her glass halfway to her lips.

Andy’s eyes widened in horror at her own tongue, but before she could clamp her jaws shut, her lingering canine honesty delivered the fatal second blow, "And... I kind of miss being in your arms."

A silence so violent descended on the kitchen that Andy felt her soul physically attempt to leave her body.

Emily’s bright blue eyes widened into massive, horrified circles. Her pale cheeks instantly flushed a deep, violent crimson that rivaled her hair. She stared at Andy as if the younger woman had just stripped naked all over again and performed an ancient curse on the dining table.

"You..." Emily choked out, her voice cracking sharp and high. She slammed her glass down on the wood so hard the liquid sloshed over the rim. "You are insane! Absolutely, irredeemably mad!"

"I'm sorry!" Andy squeaked, burying her face completely inside the knit collar of the jumper. "I don't know why I said that! My brain is scrambled!"

"You miss being in my arms?!" Emily shrieked, clutching her neck as if suffocating on pure mortification. "Andrea! You are my coworker! I held you over a toilet! I wiped chicken off your snout! You cannot say things like that to me!"

"I know! I know, I'm sorry!"

"I am going to die," Emily declared, leaning forward and dropping her forehead flat onto the table with a dull thud. "I am literally going to perish right here at my dining table. Miranda is going to find my cold, dead body, and it will be entirely your fault."

Andy peeked out from behind her collar, looking down at the top of Emily's messy red hair. "Emily...?"

"Do not speak to me," Emily muffled into the wood. "I am deceased."

A tiny, helpless giggle bubbled up in Andy's chest. She tried to fight it, pressing her hands over her mouth, but a small, muffled snort escaped anyway.

Emily raised her head by an inch, glaring at Andy through a wall of loose auburn bangs. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No!" Andy lied terribly, her shoulders shaking. "I'm just—I'm overwhelmed! It's been a long day!"

Emily sat back up slowly, her face still burning a glorious, brilliant pink, though the paralysing panic was finally beginning to melt into exasperation. She smoothed down her sweater, crossing her arms tightly across her chest as if to protect herself from any further stray compliments.

"You," Emily declared, glaring across the small dining table, "were vastly more tolerable as a puppy."

Andy pressed her lips together, hiding a sheepish little grin inside the high collar of the oversized knit jumper. "I was a very cute puppy."

"You were quiet," Emily countered sharply, though her voice lacked its usual icy precision.

She remained rooted in her chair, her arms locked defensively over her ribs. For all her sharp posture and defensive posture, she looked entirely at a loss. The formidable first assistant to Miranda Priestly, renowned for having a razor-sharp solution to every crisis in Manhattan, was currently paralysed by the surreal awkwardness of her own kitchen. She just sat there, staring at the empty glass near her elbow, having absolutely no clue what on earth to do with the human Andrea Sachs now sitting in her home.

Andy glanced around the quiet, dimly lit apartment. The clock on the microwave read well past midnight. The air felt heavy, charged with residual embarrassment and sheer exhaustion.

"Maybe..." Andy started softly, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "Maybe I should go."

Emily didn't jump to stop her. She didn't offer a guest room, nor did she make a caustic joke about the subway. She just let out a long, weary breath and stared at the tabletop.

"Yeah," Emily muttered, her tone quiet and resigned. "Maybe you should."

Andy nodded, pulling her arms out of the long sleeves and placing her hands on the edge of the table. She stood up slowly, the soft fabric of Emily's sweatpants pooling slightly over her bare feet. She turned toward the front door, taking a few tentative steps across the rug.

Then she paused.

Andy turned back around. Emily hadn't moved an inch. She was still sitting at the table, her head slightly bowed, looking undeniably exhausted. Her fiery red hair was slipping out of its loose knot, hanging in soft strands around her flushed face. Beyond the embarrassment, beyond the shock of the magic and the insanity of the day, Emily just looked utterly spent. She looked tired, thoroughly pissed off at the universe, and completely drained.

Andy stared at her, a strange, warm knot tightening in her chest.

She remembered the feeling of Emily’s hands, how tenderly she had carried her through the chaotic halls of Runway, how gently she had wiped chicken crumbs from her chin, how absentmindedly her long fingers had stroked her fur while they watched TV on the sofa. 

Emily had spent the entire grueling day taking care of a strange, helpless dog, carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders while never letting go of the tiny creature in her arms.

Maybe, Andy thought, a surge of quiet boldness washing over her, it’s time to pay her back.

Emily looked like someone who desperately, urgently needed a hug.

Mustering up every ounce of courage she possessed, Andy abandoned her path to the front door. She padded softly back across the hardwood floor, stopping right beside Emily’s chair.

Emily didn't even have time to look up or unleash a sharp remark before Andy leaned down, closing the distance between them, and gently wrapped her arms around Emily's shoulders.

Emily went completely, shockingly still.

For two seconds, she didn't breathe. Her spine locked into a straight line, her entire body going as rigid as marble beneath the soft knit of her cardigan. Andy could feel the sharp spike of tension radiating through Emily's shoulders, the incredulous shock of Andrea Sachs, human, uninvited, and wearing her loungewear, invading her personal bubble without a permit.

Andy held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs like a frightened bird. She half-expected Emily to elbow her in the solar plexus, or perhaps summon a lightning bolt to strike her down on the spot.

Instead, Andy just squeezed a little firmer, resting her chin lightly against the top of Emily’s head. She kept her hold warm, steady, and grounding, the exact same grounding presence Emily had unconsciously provided for her all afternoon when Andy had been a terrified, fifteen-pound ball of fur in a chaotic city.

"Andrea," Emily choked out, her voice muffled against the front of Andy’s jumper. It was meant to sound like a warning, a sharp directive to back off, but it lacked every ounce of its usual venom. It sounded small. Exhausted.

"I know," Andy whispered softly into the quiet of the kitchen. "I know. Just... let me give you a hug, Em. You had a really long day."

"I held you over a toilet bowl," Emily rasped out, her voice trembling slightly. "I talked to you in a voice I don't even use for infants. My dignity is in absolute tatters."

"And you were amazing," Andy said gently, her hands smoothing over the tense curve of Emily’s upper back. "You took care of me. Even when you thought I was just some random stray, you were so good to me."

A long shuddering breath escaped Emily’s lips.

Slowly, almost painfully so, the rigidity in Emily's shoulders began to dissolve. The tension melted away, inch by inch, until the formidable first assistant melted into the embrace.

Then, with a faint, defeated sigh, Emily’s hands came up. She didn't push Andy away. Instead, her long fingers gripped the hem of Andy’s sweater, burying themselves in the soft fabric as she leaned her forehead against Andy’s stomach, finally letting her head heavy.

She felt ridiculously small like this. Without the four-inch heels, without the sharp tailoring of her office armour, without the terrifying glare that kept the junior assistants trembling in fear, Emily was just a tired, brilliant woman who worked herself to the bone every single day.

"You're an absolute idiot, Andrea," Emily murmured, her voice thick and soft against the knit fabric.

"I know," Andy smiled, her chin resting in Emily's soft red hair. The scent of floral perfume was intoxicatingly close now.

"And if you ever speak of this, any of this, to anyone at the office, I will personally ensure Miranda sends you to Outer Mongolia to fetch a belt that hasn't even been manufactured yet."

"My lips are sealed.”

Emily didn’t let go for a very long time.

So Andy didn’t let go either. She just held her, steady and quiet, shifting slightly to absorb more of Emily’s weight as the last remaining wall between them crumbled away. The quiet hum of the apartment wrapped around them, replacing the chaotic horror of the night with something entirely new, entirely unexpected, and dangerously sweet.

When Emily finally pulled back, it was a slow, reluctant motion. Her cheeks were still flushed a delicate pink, but the sharp, panicked defense in her bright blue eyes had settled into something raw, vulnerable, and shadowed by sheer exhaustion. Her hands lingered on Andy’s arms, her fingers clutching the oversized knit sleeve for just a second too long before dropping back to her lap.

She stared down at her hands, her lower lip trembling almost imperceptibly before she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

"I haven't..." Emily swallowed hard, her chest heaving on a quiet breath. "I haven't been held like that in years."

The unvarnished honesty of it struck Andy right in the chest. A sharp, tender ache bloomed behind her ribs, so heavy it nearly took her breath away.

"Oh Em…" Andy murmured softly, her heart aching for the woman sitting in front of her. Without thinking, she reached out and gently smoothed a stray lock of red hair behind Emily's ear. "You know... you can always count on me. If you ever just want someone to hold you, I'm here."

Emily went completely still beneath the touch. She lifted her head, her sapphire eyes searching Andy’s face for a long, breath-stealing moment. The silence between them grew thick, charged with something deep and undeniable.

"Maybe..." Emily whispered, her voice soft and scratchy, "maybe I just will."

Before Andy’s brain could fully process the gravity of those words, Emily suddenly slapped her hands against her thighs with a loud thwack, breaking the spell in an instant.

"Right!" Emily declared, sitting up straight and smoothing down her clothes as if pulling her iron-clad armour back on. "Well. Enough theatrics for one day."

She stood up from the table, grabbing her empty glass, though her cheeks remained wildly flushed. She looked at Andy, taking in the sight of her colleague standing in her kitchen, dressed in her oversized grey loungewear with sleeves burying her hands, and let out a tragic sigh.

"Should I drive you back home?" Emily asked, her usual dry cadence returning, though her eyes remained soft. "Or are you planning on staying in my clothes forever?"

"Actually... yes, please, if you don't mind," Andy admitted, offering a small, sheepish smile as she held the oversized jumper close around herself.

Internally, her brain was already firing on all cylinders, frantically compiling an urgent mental checklist. First on the list, an extremely thorough shower to scrub away the bizarre residual feeling of having been a dog all day. Second, getting into her own clothes, given the painfully immediate reality that she was completely devoid of any undergarments beneath Emily's soft loungewear. And third, perhaps most terrifyingly, figure out how on earth she was going to explain to Miranda why she had gone completely MIA all day without getting publicly executed the second she stepped through the doors of Runway.

Emily glanced at her, taking in the sight of Andy swallowed whole by her clothes. A faint, almost imperceptible softness tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Alright," Emily said smoothly, setting her empty glass into the sink with a soft click. "Give me two minutes to grab my keys."

The drive through the quiet, amber-lit streets of Manhattan was surprisingly peaceful. Late-night traffic was sparse, the hum of the car engine filling the comfortable space between them.

Andy leaned her head against the passenger window, watching the city lights blur past. 

Inside, she was a whirlwind of thoughts. Part of her brain was frantically drafting plausible excuses for Miranda—sudden food poisoning, a catastrophic plumbing disaster, a temporary loss of sanity—while the rest of her mind was consumed entirely by the woman sitting in the driver's seat.

Every now and then, Andy would steal a glance sideways. Emily drove with one hand on the wheel, her profile sharp and elegant against the glow of the dashboard. Every time Emily noticed her looking, her lips would twitch, but she didn't say a word.

When the car finally pulled up to the curb outside Andy’s apartment building, Emily killed the engine, letting the quiet cabin fall into a soft hush.

Andy sat there for a second, unbuckling her seatbelt. The warmth of Emily's oversized jumper enveloped her, smelling faintly of rich floral notes.

"Well," Emily said quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the steering wheel, though a soft flush crept up her neck. "You're home. Unscathed. Mostly."

Andy looked at her, a wave of overwhelming tenderness washing through her chest.

Without warning, Andy leaned across the console. She reached out and wrapped her arms around Emily’s shoulders once more, pulling her into a deep, warm hug.

Emily gasped softly in surprise, but before she could stiffen up, she melted right back into the embrace. Her arms came around Andy’s waist, holding her tight against her chest, her face burying into the side of Andy’s neck for a long second.

"Thank you," Andy whispered softly into the shell of Emily’s ear. "For today. For the chicken, for not letting animal control take me, for driving me home... and just for taking such good care of me, Em. Seriously."

Emily let out a soft, shuddering breath against Andy's collarbone. When she finally pulled back, her blue eyes were bright, shimmering with something incredibly soft and fond.

"Don't make a habit of turning into domestic animals, Andrea," Emily murmured, her voice laced with a gentle, affectionate rasp. "I don't think my heart could take another round."

Andy laughed, a bright, genuine sound that echoed in the quiet car. "I'll try my best."

She opened the passenger door, stepping out into the cool night air, but paused before closing it. She looked back at Emily, who was watching her with a tiny, lingering smile.

"See you tomorrow at the office?" Andy asked softly.

"Bright and early, Andrea," Emily replied, her voice smooth and teasing. "And try to wear actual clothes this time."

Andy grinned, shutting the door. She stood on the pavement and watched as Emily’s car pulled away into the night, the red taillights disappearing around the corner.

Heading up the stairs to her apartment, Andy pulled the oversized sleeve up to her face, breathing in the sweet scent of Emily's perfume woven into the threads.

Tomorrow morning at work was undoubtedly going to be absolute chaos. Miranda would be furious, the phones would be ringing off the hook, and the fashion world would be as cutthroat as ever.

But as Andy stepped inside and unlocked her front door, she didn't feel the familiar tight knot of anxiety in her stomach.

Instead, her heart was beating a fast, fluttering rhythm against her ribs. She looked down at the soft grey jumper, lifting the oversized sleeve to her face one last time before slipping out of it. The elegant, rich scent of Furla Irresistible clung stubbornly to her skin, so potent and sweet it made her breath hitch. She knew that once she stepped into the shower, the water would wash the fragrance away, and the thought brought a sudden, surprising ache to her chest. She was already going to miss it.

Closing her eyes, Andy could still feel the phantom ghost of Emily’s arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close against her chest in the quiet car. She could still hear the low, raspy murmur of Emily’s soft voice whispering in her ear, stripped of all its usual corporate sharp edges and icy armour.

Andy smiled in her dark apartment, her face warming as a gentle, breathless shiver ran down her spine.

Tomorrow morning, Miranda might flay her alive. The office might burn to the ground. 

But as Andy finally headed toward her bedroom, wrapped in the lingering warmth of Emily, she realised she wasn't scared at all.