Archive of Our Own

A few weeks into their secret relationship, Emily was fine. Initially.

She was, in fact, doing remarkably well.

There had been no scandals. No suspicious glances from Miranda. No incriminating photographs appearing in Us Weekly. No one at Runway had so much as raised an eyebrow at the way Andy occasionally looked at her across a conference table for half a second too long.

They were careful, painfully so.

Emily was still Miranda Priestly's first assistant, which meant she spent most of her days orbiting the most terrifying woman in fashion, answering phones before they rang, memorising schedules that changed by the minute, arranging impossible requests, and somehow knowing which exact shade of grey Miranda wanted from a colour palette she had never actually seen.

Andy was still the senior features editor, with her own office, her own staff, her own deadlines, and enough authority around that people tended to move when she walked through the building.

Professionally, they barely interacted differently than they had before. Emily brought Andy's proofs when necessary, Andy thanked her. Emily delivered messages from Miranda, Andy nodded. They exchanged polite smiles in hallways, nothing suspicious. Nothing anyone could possibly interpret as romantic.

And when they were alone… well. That was different. Very different.

But Emily was perfectly capable of keeping two separate realities in her head. She was a professional, she could compartmentalise. She had to. Because nobody could know. Not Miranda, not Nigel, not anyone.

Andy, for her part, was equally disciplined. She didn’t touch Emily unnecessarily, didn’t call her sweetheart in front of people anymore, and she certainly didn’t look at her the way she did when they were alone. Mostly.

And, initially, that had been fine.

Until Emily noticed something. That other people looked at Andy. Obviously.

Emily knew Andy was beautiful. She'd known that long before she'd been stupid enough to fall in love with her. But apparently Emily had been operating under the deeply naive assumption that once you kissed someone, the rest of the world somehow stopped noticing how attractive they were. It did not. At all.

A photographer at a showroom laughed a little too enthusiastically at something Andy said. A junior editor from another publication seemed to find endless reasons to hover around Andy during cocktails. A woman from a Parisian fashion house had touched Andy's forearm while speaking to her and then smiled in a way Emily considered entirely too interested.

Hands off the merchandise, you French harpy, Emily’s internal monologue spat venomously from behind a stack of press releases. She is a senior features editor, not an appetiser at a cocktail party. Take your dirty fingers off her arm before I personally revoke your invitation to the September issue.

And then there were men. Emily had never really understood the appeal of men in the first place, but apparently there were plenty of them who found Andy Sachs devastatingly attractive. Which, obviously, Emily understood. Because Emily herself had spent weeks trying not to stare at Andy's mouth. That wasn't the point.

The point was that other people were staring too. And they were allowed to, because nobody knew. That was the whole problem with secrecy. Emily couldn't exactly walk into the bullpen, throw an arm around Andy's waist, and announce: Hello, everyone. Just so we're clear, this incredibly attractive woman is taken.

No, that would be frowned upon. Possibly by Miranda. Definitely by HR. So Emily had to suffer. She suffered quietly. Professionally. With dignity.

At least until Tuesday afternoon, when a particularly handsome creative director spent an entire coffee break leaning against the edge of Andy's desk and smiling at her like he'd personally invented flirting.

Emily sat at her own desk across the bullpen, pretending to organise the afternoon's call sheet. She had been staring at the same line for nearly four minutes:

3:30 — Valentino showroom.

She read it again.

3:30 — Valentino showroom.

Across the room, the man laughed. Andy smiled, Emily's eye twitched.

Stop laughing, Emily screamed silently, her brain practically short-circuiting. Stop smiling at him, Andy! He is wearing a cashmere cardigan over his shoulders like a country club villain. He is not funny. He is an obstacle. I am five seconds away from hurling this stapler through your glass window.

He said something Emily couldn't hear.

Andy laughed again, that soft, low chuckle that Emily usually reserved for herself.

Emily's grip tightened around her pen until the plastic groaned. Fine, fine. She could handle this. She was an adult. A sophisticated, accomplished twenty-three-year-old woman in a serious relationship with another adult woman.

She did not get jealous, did not become possessive, certainly did not want to march across the room, kick Cashmere Cardigan out into the hallway, and announce that Andy Sachs was taken. Emily was above that.

I am a creature of cold, unyielding professionalism, she reminded herself frantically. I am Miranda Priestly's right hand. I am above petty possessiveness. I do not mark my territory like a feral cat.

She was also, unfortunately, a human being.

And the truth was that she hated it. Not because she didn't trust Andy, she trusted Andy completely. Andy had never given her a single reason not to. That was precisely why the jealousy felt so stupid. Emily knew Andy wasn't flirting back. She knew Andy was simply being Andy, warm, charming, attentive. Andy could make someone feel like the most interesting person in the room without meaning anything by it.

But Emily couldn't exactly tell the rest of Manhattan that. She couldn't even tell the rest of Runway.

So, as she sat behind her desk watching yet another person discover that Andy Sachs was extraordinarily attractive, a thought slowly began to form. She needed to mark her.

Not literally, obviously. That would be insane.

She just needed something. Something subtle. Something private. Something that said taken without actually saying taken. And it couldn't be anything obvious.

No jewellery, too conspicuous. A necklace? Absolutely not. A ring? Emily stared down at her left hand. Too much, far too much. Besides, Andy would probably notice immediately.

Emily needed something inconsequential. Something that nobody would question, something that could be dismissed as completely meaningless.

She frowned at the call sheet.

Then suddenly, her eyes widened.

She remembered. There was a thing. A stupid thing. A very young-person thing. Emily had seen it online before. Girls gave their boyfriends black hair ties to wear around their wrists, some ridiculous little relationship ritual, nothing official, nothing serious, just a tiny silent declaration that the person wearing it belonged to someone. Or, more accurately, that they were taken.

Emily's heart gave a little jump. A black hair tie. Of course. It was perfect. It was subtle. It was harmless. It could pass as completely practical. And, most importantly, it would be on Andy.

Emily stared down at her own wrist. She could practically see it. Andy Sachs, walking through Runway in one of her immaculate blazers, dark hair swept back, expensive watch on one wrist, and Emily's black hair tie on the other. A tiny, invisible-to-everyone-but-them declaration. Mine.

Emily's lips twitched. She immediately frowned at scientific levels of intensity at her desk.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. You are twenty-three years old, Emily Charlton. You manage Miranda’s entire existence. You do not engage in teenage playground marking tactics with three-dollar drugstore elastics.

She stared across the room just in time to see Cashmere Cardigan lightly pat Andy’s shoulder before finally leaving.

...Fuck it, Emily thought bitterly. The hair tie is happening.

By Friday, she had decided she was doing it. The opportunity came that evening at Andy's apartment. 

They had ordered takeaway because neither of them had the energy to cook after a week of back-to-back meetings, and Emily was curled up at one end of Andy's sofa with a carton of noodles balanced on her knee. Andy was beside her, barefoot, sleeves rolled to her elbows, scrolling lazily through an article on her tablet.

It was domestic. Comfortable. Dangerously comfortable. Emily loved it. She loved Andy's apartment. She loved the quiet. She loved the fact that she could sit beside her without pretending they were simply colleagues. She loved that Andy's shoes were abandoned by the door. She loved that her own handbag was sitting beside Andy's. She loved the small, ridiculous evidence that she belonged here.

And then her eyes dropped to Andy's bare wrist. The thought returned, the hair tie. Emily looked at it, the  at Andy, then back at the wrist.

Do it now, her internal monologue instructed, suddenly panicking like an operative on a covert mission. Do it before you chicken out. Put the contraband on her.

She swallowed. Her heart began beating faster for absolutely no reason.

She set her chopsticks down with meticulous care. "Give me your hand."

Andy looked up, a faint, amused line forming between her dark brows. There was an immediate flicker of playful suspicion in her eyes. "My hand?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I asked for it. Give it to me."

Andy stared at her for a beat, her lips twitching. "Is this a command or a request, Miss Charlton?"

"It's a mandate. Give me your hand."

Andy chuckled, slowly extending her right hand across the sofa cushions. "If you're about to read my palm, I should warn you, my future is full of overdue features and angry publicists."

"Hold still," Emily instructed, ignoring the banter entirely.

She took Andy's hand. The contact alone made something warm and golden flutter through her chest, but she maintained her stoic composure. She turned Andy's wrist upward and carefully inspected the smooth skin.

Andy raised an eyebrow. "Should I be concerned? You look like a doctor preparing for surgery."

"I am performing a critical intervention."

"That isn't particularly reassuring, Em."

Emily reached into the pocket of her tailored trousers and pulled out the unassuming black elastic.

Andy watched her intently, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. "What is that?"

"Nothing."

"It looks like an elastic band."

"It's not just an elastic band," Emily said, her fingers stretching the tight rubber. "Hold still."

Don't mess this up, Emily prayed internally, her pulse hammering in her ears as she worked. Just slide it on. Be smooth. Act like this is a totally normal, standard-issue corporate protocol.

She slipped the hair tie over Andy's fingers, guiding it past her palm and over her hand. It settled comfortably around Andy's wrist. Simple, black, completely ordinary.

Emily adjusted it carefully, centring it right beneath Andy's wrist bone. And then she stared. Oh well, that was perfect.

Look at that, her brain sang, practically swooning on the spot. Look at my hair tie on Andy Sachs’s wrist. Look at how gorgeous it looks against her skin. Oh, God, it worked. She’s branded. She’s tagged. Cashmere Cardigan can choke.

Andy turned her wrist from side to side, staring at the plain black elastic, confused. "What is this?"

Emily's expression remained carefully neutral, a masterclass in poker-faced innocence. "A hair tie."

"I can see that."

"Then why did you ask?"

Andy gave her a look, that heavy, knowing gaze that usually made writers double-check their sources. "Baby."

Emily's resolve instantly weakened into a pathetic, helpless puddle. Oh, stop calling me baby when I'm trying to be authoritative, her internal monologue whimpered.

"Yes?" Emily asked, attempting to keep her chin up.

"Why have you put a hair tie on my wrist?"

Emily's mind raced. She needed an explanation. A normal explanation. A completely believable explanation that didn't involve her wanting to fight half of Manhattan. Think of something logical! her brain screamed in a panic. Don't say 'because you're mine'! Say anything else!

"Oh." She gestured vaguely with one hand, adopting an air of aloof pragmatism. "You might need one."

Andy blinked. "What?"

"For work."

"For my hair?"

"Yes."

Andy looked at Emily. Then at the hair tie. Then back at Emily. "I might need a hair tie."

"Exactly. You have long hair, and it gets in your face when you read articles," Emily countered without missing a beat, nodding with unshakeable conviction. "And sometimes you might not find one when you need one."

"Mm hm."

"And if you have one on your wrist, then you'll always know where one is."

Andy slowly lowered her arm, looking at Emily like she’d just started speaking fluent Ancient Greek. "You want me to carry a hair tie around."

"Yes."

"On my wrist."

"Yes."

"In editorial meetings."

"Particularly in editorial meetings," Emily affirmed stoically.

There was a long beat of silence.

Andy looked deeply unconvinced, a slow smirk spreading across her face. "You know I keep a whole pack of these in my handbag, right?"

Emily hesitated, digging her heels in. "That's far less convenient."

"Is it?"

"Much less."

"Obviously."

Emily's face warmed to a terrifying degree under Andy's intense, amused stare. She couldn't keep up the cold, logical assistant act any longer. She glanced down at the black band, her posture softening.

Then, her defenses completely collapsing, her voice dropped into something smaller, softer, and undisguised, "Just wear it."

Andy’s sharp, teasing expression instantly melted, a soft, ridiculously warm smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Emily's stomach did a violent, dramatic flip.

Please, Emily’s brain pleaded helplessly, dropping all pretence of playing it cool. Please just keep it on. Please don't make me explain that I want to mark you like a ridiculous teenager because I can't stand other people looking at you.

"Please, Andy?" Emily murmured, looking up through her lashes.

That did it. Andy could resist a lot of things. She could resist pressure from Miranda, could resist an aggressive publicist. She could resist a boardroom full of executives trying to tell her what was best for her publication, and could even resist Emily's increasingly elaborate attempts to steal the duvet at night.

But she had never been able to resist Emily when she looked at her like that. Those bright blue eyes went wide, her mouth softened into the tiniest, most pathetic little pout. And suddenly Andy was staring at the most devastatingly earnest expression she'd ever seen.

"Please, Andy?"

Andy let out a soft defeated sigh, her dark eyes brimming with pure affection. "Anything you want, baby."

Emily's heart straight-up exploded inside her ribs.

She tried desperately to keep her expression neutral and dignified, but failed entirely. A tiny, victorious, utterly radiant smile broke across her face. "Really?"

"Really."

"You'll keep it on?"

Andy glanced down at her wrist, brushing her thumb softly over the cheap black elastic. "I won't take it off."

Emily nodded solemnly, trying to anchor her soaring soul back down to earth. "Good."

Andy laughed softly, reaching over to gently pinch Emily’s chin, tilting her face up. "You are absurd."

"I'm practical."

"You are a possessive little menace."

Emily gasped softly, offended, but Andy was already leaning in, pressing a warm kiss against Emily’s cheek, right along her burning cheekbone.

"I'll wear it," Andy whispered against her skin, her breath warm and intoxicating. "Even if Nigel asks why I'm wearing drugstore accessories with a Saint Laurent suit."

Emily’s heart leaped. "If Nigel asks, tell him it's grunge revival."

Andy threw her head back and laughed, that rich, real laugh that made Emily want to melt right into the sofa cushions. "Grunge revival. Right. I'm sure Nigel will buy that completely."

Emily picked up her noodles again, turning her attention deliberately back to her dinner in a desperate attempt to hide the flush spreading across her neck. She could barely contain herself. Because Andy was wearing it. She was actually wearing it.

I DID IT, her internal monologue shrieked in absolute, chaotic euphoria. SHE’S WEARING IT! SHE SAID YES! SENIOR FEATURES EDITOR ANDY SACHS IS CURRENTLY SPORTING MY THREE-DOLLAR DRUGSTORE ELASTIC LIKE IT’S A CARTIER BRACELET!

Nobody else would know what it meant. To the rest of Runway, to Cashmere Cardigan, to the French harpy, it was just an elastic. Just something practical. But Emily knew. Andy knew. And that was enough.

Emily took another bite of noodles, chewing with intense concentration as she tried to suppress the enormous, ridiculous grin threatening to take over her entire face. She had done it. She had successfully marked Andy Sachs. And she had done it without risking their secret.

She glanced sideways through her eyelashes.

Andy was back to scrolling through her tablet, but her right hand rested on the back of the sofa near Emily’s shoulder, the black hair tie sitting prominently against her wrist.

Emily looked at it, her heart swelling until it felt tight in her chest.

Then she smiled secretly to herself. Mine, her brain sang, practically executing a triumphant victory lap around her skull. Mine, mine, mine. Absolutely mine.

And, judging by the way Andy's hand slid down to gently rest against Emily’s neck, her thumb softly caressing her skin without Andy even looking up from her screen, perhaps Andy knew exactly what Emily was thinking after all.

For the first few days, Emily was having the absolute time of her life.

It was ridiculous. Objectively, completely ridiculous. Nothing about the situation had actually changed. They were still hiding their relationship with military-grade precision. They were still required to behave like perfectly ordinary, emotionally distant colleagues at work. Emily was still Miranda Priestly's first assistant, which meant she had approximately four seconds of free time per day, and Andy was still the senior features editor, which meant she was constantly being dragged into meetings, interviews, fittings, and editorial disasters.

They couldn't touch. They couldn't flirt. They couldn't even look at each other for too long without risking someone noticing.

And yet, Emily had given Andy a hair tie, and Andy was wearing it. That single, three-dollar piece of drugstore elastic was apparently enough to make Emily's entire week infinitely, miraculously better.

She discovered just how much she enjoyed it on Monday morning.

The editorial conference room was already filling up when Emily slipped inside with Miranda's revised schedule tucked neatly against her chest. She delivered the documents to the appropriate people, murmured a few last-minute instructions to an intern, and took her usual place standing right behind Miranda's right shoulder.

Andy arrived three minutes later. Emily didn't look at her immediately. She was very good at not looking at Andy. She had spent weeks learning how to perform cold, British indifference.

So she kept her eyes glued to her tablet as Andy crossed the room, greeted two editors, and slid into a chair near the end of the long glass table.

Then Emily's gaze flicked downward, and there it was. Black, simple, wrapped around Andy's right wrist, resting right beneath her watch strap, so ordinary and normal it was almost completely invisible to the untrained eye.

Emily's heart gave one enormous, ridiculous thump against her ribs. Oh, God, her brain gasped, instantly abandoning all corporate stoicism. Look at it. Look at her wrist.

She looked away, forced her eyes up to the ceiling. Then she looked back. Still there.

Andy caught her looking. Their eyes met across the table for barely half a second. Andy didn't say a word, but the corner of her mouth twitched into the tiniest, darkest, most devastating little smirk.

Emily immediately lowered her gaze back to her tablet, her heart hammering wildly. She's wearing it, her internal monologue shrieked in total, unhinged euphoria. She's actually wearing it! In front of Miranda! In front of the entire editorial board! Senior Features Editor Andy Sachs is literally tagged like a migratory bird and nobody else knows!

She tried to focus on the meeting. She failed spectacularly. Every few minutes, her eyes betrayed her. Andy would reach for a coffee, hair tie. Andy would turn a proof page, hair tie. Andy would gesture while making a brilliant, authoritative point about the upcoming September feature package, hair tie.

There it was. A tiny black circle around her wrist. A secret. Emily's secret. Their secret. And nobody else in the room had any idea that it meant mine.

At one point Andy leaned forward to retrieve a document from the middle of the table, her blazer sleeve pulling back slightly. The hair tie became fully visible under the bright fluorescent lights.

Emily's eyes dropped to it automatically. Andy noticed. This time, Andy deliberately rested her chin in her hand, angling her wrist so the elastic was directly in Emily's line of sight.

Emily's cheeks immediately flooded with a scorching heat. Stop looking! her brain screamed in a panic. Stop looking at her wrist, you absolute lunatic, Miranda is literally talking about silk chiffon three feet away!

She forced her gaze away. Three seconds later, she looked again. Andy was still smirking.

Oh, she knows exactly what she's doing, Emily thought, her chest aching with a terrifying, helpless rush of warmth. She is doing this on purpose. She is actively trying to murder me with a piece of accessory.

By Thursday afternoon, the novelty had not worn off. If anything, it had spiralled completely out of control.

Thursday was busy enough that Emily barely had time to breathe. Miranda had three back-to-back meetings. Andy was preparing for an international interview. Assistants were running everywhere. Phones rang continuously. Someone in accessories was crying in the supply closet. The usual.

Emily was walking briskly down the hallway with a thick folder tucked beneath her arm, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm against the floor, when she passed Andy's office. The glass door was standing ajar.

Emily didn't mean to look inside. She really didn't. She was a professional. But then her eyes caught Andy; and Emily stopped dead in her tracks.

Andy was standing near her desk with her back to the door. Her dark grey blazer had been discarded over the back of a leather chair. Her crisp white shirt sleeves were rolled to her elbows. And the hair tie was no longer on her wrist.

Emily's heart plummeted straight through the floor. What? her internal monologue whimpered, panic spiking instantly. Where is it? Did she take it off? Did it snap? Did Cashmere Cardigan convince her to throw it away?!

Then Emily saw it. Andy was holding her dark hair up at the nape of her neck with both hands, and the black elastic was held delicately, securely between her teeth.

Emily stopped breathing. Her brain simply blew a fuse.

Andy tilted her head slightly, gathering her dark waves higher. The black elastic stretched between her lips as she reached up with one hand to pull it free.

Emily stared. Oh, her brain whispered, completely short-circuiting. Oh, sweet Jesus. There were no coherent thoughts left. No words. No functioning neurological activity whatsoever. Just the image of Andy, sleeves rolled up, neck exposed, holding Emily's hair tie between her full lips.

Andy pulled the elastic from between her teeth and looped it around the gathered hair.

Emily's knees nearly buckled right there in the hallway.

Oh, fuck me, Emily thought, clutching the folder to her chest like a shield. Fuck the fashion industry. Fuck Runway. Fuck my entire career. Take me right here on this carpet.

She had seen Andy put her hair up dozens of times, it was not new. It was literally just a woman tying her hair back. But something about the sight of that black elastic, the cheap, silly one Emily had nervously slid onto Andy's wrist, held between Andy's teeth made Emily's entire body go inexplicably, dangerously hot.

Andy's long fingers worked the tie around her ponytail. Once, twice, before securing it, letting her dark hair fall in a messy, effortless cascade.

Emily remained completely frozen, staring through the glass like a Victorian ghost.

Andy turned toward the door, smoothing her hands over her hips. Their eyes met. Emily's face went scarlet.

Andy blinked, caught off guard for a second. Then her dark eyes dropped briefly to the white-knuckle grip Emily had on her folder, before returning to Emily's burning face.

A wicked smile spread across Andy's lips. "You okay, Em?"

Emily swallowed hard, her throat bone dry. "Perfectly."

Andy raised one dark eyebrow, leaning back against the edge of her desk. "You've been standing in my doorway for about thirty seconds."

"I was thinking."

"About?"

"Nothing."

Andy's smile widened, her eyes glittering with dark amusement. "Mm-hm."

Emily straightened her spine, trying desperately to summon her first assistant authority. "I have things to deliver."

"Clearly."

Emily turned on her heel so fast her heels practically skittered on the floor, nearly walking directly into a glass partition wall. Behind her, she heard Andy let out a low, warm laugh that echoed all the way down the hallway.

That woman is going to be the death of me, Emily thought frantically, her pulse hammering in her throat as she practically fled to Miranda's desk. She is actively, intentionally destroying my nervous system.

And yet, Emily's absolute favourite thing about Andy wearing that hair tie wasn't the secret looks at the office. It was the fact that it left a mark.

She discovered this late Friday night, in the quiet, dim sanctuary of Andy's apartment.

The city outside was silent under a heavy drizzle, and the bedroom was lit only by the faint orange glow of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds.

Andy had Emily pinned softly to the mattress, her body warm and heavy and intoxicating. They had shed their work clothes hours ago, leaving behind the sleek blazers and polished armour.

Andy was kissing her way down Emily's body, sweet kisses that made Emily arch her back, her breath hitching in her throat as Andy worked her way down her ribcage, past her stomach, straight to where her thighs met.

Suddenly, Andy paused. She straightened up slightly, resting on her knees between Emily's legs. She reached up, gathered her thick dark hair at the nape of her neck, and pulled the black elastic off her wrist to tie her hair up out of her face.

Emily lay back against the pillows, panting softly, and peeked down through her lashes. Andy settled back down, her large, warm hands coming up to wrap firmly around the flesh of Emily's thighs, holding her open.

And that was when Emily saw it. There, on the pale skin of Andy's wrist, was a deep, distinct indent. A clear, round impression left behind by the tight black elastic she had been wearing all day.

Emily's breath hitched violently in her chest. The contrast was staggering, the faint, pale dent left by Emily's hair tie against Andy's wrist, combined with the sight of Andy kneeling between her bare thighs, hair pulled back, looking up at her with dark, hooded, hungry eyes.

God, it’s so hot, Emily’s internal monologue screamed, her mind completely melting into a puddle of pure, helpless desire. Look at her. She’s wearing my mark. She kept it on all day until her skin dented, and now she’s between my legs looking at me like that. I am literally going to die right here on this bed.

Andy leaned back down, her thumbs caressing the soft skin of Emily's thighs, her mouth making contact, and Emily lost her mind entirely.

For the rest of the night, Emily was utterly defenseless.

Normally, when they were like this, Emily couldn't help herself; she would tangle her fingers into Andy's dark hair, pulling at the roots, tugging and messing it up in her desperation. But tonight? Tonight, Emily didn't dare. She kept her hands flat against the sheets, her knuckles white, her body trembling under Andy's touch. She didn't tug at Andy's hair. She didn't dare mess it up. It looked too impossibly, painfully perfect secured in that messy ponytail with her hair tie.

And every time Andy shifted, every time she thrusted her long, clever fingers deep inside her, Emily’s eyes would fly open, and there it was again. The mark.

Under the dim orange glow of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds, the faint, deep dent left by the black hair tie was pressed flush against Andy's skin, flexing with every firm, rhythmic slide of Andy’s wrist.  It was the hottest thing Emily had ever seen in her life. Hotter than any tattoo, hotter than expensive jewelry, hotter than anything money could buy. It was physical, undeniable proof that Andy, this brilliant, devastatingly powerful woman, had walked through Runway all day carrying Emily’s mark on her body.

Look at it, Emily’s brain shrieked, completely coming undone at the seams. She wore it until it indented her skin. She kept it on for me. And now she’s inside me.

The sheer visual thrill of it sent a violent shockwave straight through Emily’s core. She felt herself getting absurdly, embarrassingly wetter than usual, her hips unconsciously arching up off the mattress to meet every deep push of Andy’s hand.

“Em,” Andy rasped out, her voice thick, noticing the desperate shift in Emily’s body. “You’re so tight.”

Emily couldn't even form words. She couldn't answer, couldn't breathe. Every time Andy drove her fingers back inside, Emily’s gaze locked directly onto that pale, indented band on Andy's wrist.

That single image was all it took. The sheer possessive thrill exploded behind Emily’s eyelids, and she crashed over the edge far faster than she ever had before, a shuddering, blinding climax that tore a loud, breathless sob straight from her throat.

She came so hard her thighs trembled violently in Andy’s grip, her body instantly going completely, utterly boneless against the sheets.

When the waves finally receded, Emily lay there panting, her chest heaving, thoroughly wrecked.

Afterward, when the storm had settled and the room was quiet again, Andy collapsed softly against Emily's side, resting her head on Emily's chest, her breath coming in slow, steady even paces.

Emily lay there in the dim light, her heart beating a heavy, contented rhythm beneath Andy's cheek.

Slowly, reverently, Emily raised her hand. She didn't tear at the tie. Instead, she reached for Andy's ponytail like it was made of fragile glass.

With incredible care, Emily worked her fingers into the elastic, gently loosened Andy's ponytail, feeling the soft weight of Andy's dark hair tumble back down over her shoulders.

Most precious thing in the world, Emily thought, her eyes stinging with a sudden, overwhelming rush of affection as she stroked Andy's hair. You are literally the most precious thing in the world.

Once the elastic was free, Emily carefully stretched the black band back over Andy's hand, sliding it right back onto her wrist, placing it gently over the faint red mark it had left behind.

Andy shifted against Emily's chest, letting out a soft, sleepy hum. She lifted her head, offering Emily a sleepy smile.

"What are you doing, cutie?" Andy whispered, her voice rough and warm.

"Putting it back," Emily murmured softly, her thumb tracing the side of Andy's jaw. "Where it belongs."

Andy’s smile deepened. She didn't tease her,  didn't laugh. She just leaned up, pressing a tender kiss to Emily's parted lips, before pulling Emily firmly against her side and tucking the younger woman's head right under her chin.

Andy’s hand settled over Emily’s waist, her wrist resting prominently on the pillow, the black hair tie right where it was supposed to be.

Emily closed her eyes, burying her face into the crook of Andy's neck, breathing in the scent of cedar, vanilla, and pure safety.

Inside her head, as the dark swallowed the room, Emily's brain soared into the stars.

Mine, she thought, wrapping her arm around Andy's waist and holding on tight. Forever and ever. Mine.

By Friday night, Runway had gone quiet. Not completely quiet, of course. A building like Runway was never truly silent. There was always the low hum of the industrial ventilation, the distant mechanical groan of an elevator shifting in its shaft, the occasional muffled footstep of security patrolling the lower floors.

But the bullpen itself was nearly deserted. Most of the overhead lights had been switched off, leaving only pools of warm, muted illumination above the handful of desks still occupied. The massive glass walls reflected empty corridors back at themselves. Outside, Manhattan glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, thousands of tiny lights scattered beneath a dark sky.

Emily was still working. Of course she was. She had been staring at the exact same financial breakdown for the better part of ten minutes, trying to convince herself she was making meaningful progress, when her stomach gave an unmistakable, deeply offended growl.

Emily looked down at her own abdomen in disgust. "Don't."

Another, louder growl echoed in the quiet space.

"Honestly," she muttered, letting out a sharp sigh and leaning back into her chair.

She should go home. She knew she should. But there was one other person still working here.

Andy.

Emily glanced toward the dark hallway, her stomach fluttering for an entirely different reason. Andy was probably still in her office, buried under whatever deadline had trapped her tonight. Emily knew her girlfriend well enough by now to know that Andy would happily work herself into an early grave if nobody intervened.

And Emily had recently discovered that she quite enjoyed being the person who intervened. Especially on Friday nights, when the building was empty, when she could walk into Andy's office without having to pretend she didn't desperately want to curl up against her.

A tiny involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Emily's lips as she shut her laptop.

Fine, five minutes. She'd go say goodnight. Maybe steal a cuddle. Possibly several. That was a perfectly reasonable, highly efficient use of her time.

She gathered her handbag and made her way down the hallway, the sharp click of her heels echoing softly against the polished floor.

Andy's office door was partially open, a warm rectangle of yellow light spilling across the carpet.

Emily slowed her pace. She could already picture it, Andy looking up from her desk, that soft, effortless smile breaking across her face, those dark eyes lighting up the moment she saw her. Then the inevitable: Hey, baby. And Emily would walk straight into her arms. Andy would wrap her broad, warm arms around her shoulders and pull her close. Emily would tuck her face against Andy's neck, breathe in cedar and vanilla, and let herself forget about Miranda, about schedules, about everything for five whole minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe the rest of the night.

Emily reached the doorway and pushed it open gently.

Andy's head snapped up from her laptop, her entire face brightened instantly. "Hey, baby!"

She smiled so warmly that Emily's chest immediately melted into butter. Andy stood up automatically, rounding her desk and already opening her arms in an invitation. Emily's body responded before her brain could even register it. She stepped forward. One step. Two. She was about to launch herself straight into Andy's embrace when something caught her eye.

And she stopped dead.

Andy's right wrist… bare. Emily stared.

Where is it? her brain instantly panicked, alarm bells going off. Where is the property? Where is the mandatory corporate elastic? Has it been destroyed? Was it stolen by the French harpy?

No black elastic, or tiny secret declaration, no nothing. Just smooth skin. Emily's entire expression froze, the warmth evaporating from her face in an instant.

Andy noticed immediately, her arms lowering slightly. "Em?"

Emily didn't answer. Her eyes remained stubbornly fixed on Andy's empty wrist. Andy glanced down at her hand, then back up, thoroughly confused.

Emily finally managed to speak, her voice flat, very quiet, "Where's the hair tie?"

Andy blinked. "Oh!" She lifted her wrist, suddenly remembering. "The one you gave me?"

Emily nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Andy shrugged casually, taking another step forward. "Oh, Georgia in copy editing needed a hair tie this afternoon. She didn't have one and she was frantically looking for one before her meeting, so she asked if anyone had an extra."

Emily stared.

Andy continued, completely, blissfully unaware that she had just detonated a small emotional nuclear bomb inside Emily's chest. "So I gave her mine. I didn't need it at the time."

"Oh." The word came out tiny. Barely audible.

You gave it to GEORGIA? Emily’s internal monologue whimpered, practically melting into a puddle of tragic despair. Georgia from copy editing? She wears cardigans from Target. That was my mark. That was MY symbol of eternal proprietary dominance and you gave it to copy editing like a free mint at a restaurant.

Emily looked down at her polished shoes, her fingers curling tightly around the hem of her blazer.

Andy stopped in her tracks. Something in Emily's posture shifted her entire focus. The easy, relaxed smile vanished from Andy's face, because Andy knew Emily's face. She knew every subtle, defensive nuance of it. She knew the tiny, imperceptible lowering of her chin when she felt exposed. She knew the way her shoulders drew inward when she was trying to hide how much something hurt. She knew the way her lips pressed into a thin, tight line when she was disappointed but far too proud to admit it.

"Hey," Andy said softly.

Emily shook her head, staring intently at the floorboards. "I'm fine."

"Em."

"I'm fine, Andy."

Andy stepped closer, bridging the distance between them. "Hey. Look at me."

When Emily didn't move, Andy reached out and gently cupped her face between both hands. Her warm palms pressed firmly against Emily's cheeks, squishing them slightly.

Emily's lips automatically pushed forward into a tight, absurdly pathetic little pout. She looked, Andy thought with a rush of overwhelming tenderness, absurdly like a very offended, very aristocratic little goldfish.

Andy had to fight every muscle in her face not to smile. Instead, she simply held her there, her dark brown eyes incredibly warm, patient, and completely undemanding. There was no pressure in Andy's gaze, just that unshakeable certainty that whatever was going on inside Emily's head mattered to her.

"You can tell me anything," Andy murmured, her thumb gently stroking along Emily's high cheekbone. "You know that, right?"

Emily swallowed hard, her throat tight.

"No judgment here," Andy added softly. "Ever."

And that was the exact problem. Emily knew it. She knew Andy meant every single word.

How am I supposed to say it? Emily's internal monologue panicked, spiralling into total embarrassed chaos. How do I explain to a functioning adult woman that she was not supposed to give away the three-dollar drugstore elastic? How do I open my mouth and articulate the sentence: "Actually, Andy, I gave you cheap rubber so I could brand you like a prize heifer because I am secretly an insane, possessive stray cat in a Prada skirt"?

I can't. If I say that out loud, she’s going to call HR. She’s going to realise I am a pathetic, unhinged, obsessed little freak. She’ll look at me and think, "Oh, wonderful, my girlfriend has the emotional maturity of a territorial golden retriever," and then she'll leave me for Cashmere Cardigan or the French harpy. I am Miranda Priestly’s first assistant. I manage multi-million-dollar fashion archives. I do not cry over misplaced hair bobbles like a heartbroken toddler.

I am ruined. My dignity is dead. Put it in a bag and dump it in the Hudson.

She also knew that if she told Andy something ridiculous, embarrassing, irrational, or deeply vulnerable... Andy wouldn't laugh.

She would listen. She would understand.

And suddenly, Emily couldn't bear the weight of keeping it inside for another second.

She looked down, her cheeks burning. "It's stupid."

"I doubt that."

"It really is."

"Try me," Andy urged gently.

Emily exhaled a shaky, uneven breath. Then, very quietly, "I didn't want you to give it away."

Andy blinked. "The hair tie?"

Emily nodded, unable to meet her gaze. Andy waited silently, letting the space sit open between them.

Emily's face burned with a scorching heat. "I know it's ridiculous."

"Em."

"I know it is."

Andy gently squeezed her cheeks, tilting her head back up. "Tell me."

Emily's eyes flickered away. "I wanted it to be yours."

Andy's expression softened further. "It was."

"No." Emily shook her head, her voice cracking slightly. "I mean... I wanted it to be yours. Only yours."

Andy remained quiet, her gaze completely fixed on her.

Emily took a breath. Then another. And finally, because Andy was looking at her like she was the only thing in the building that mattered, the absolute truth spilled out, "I wanted to mark you."

Andy's dark eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise.

Emily immediately flushed a deep, terrifying shade of crimson. "I know how that sounds! Like I'm some sort of insane, territorial animal!"

Which I am, her brain wept bitterly. I am feral. I should be locked in a cage and fed raw meat through the bars.

Andy didn't interrupt.

Emily's words began tumbling out faster, her defense mechanism crumbling. "I didn't tell you when I gave it to you because I thought it sounded completely idiotic! And because I didn't want you to think I was someone who gets jealous all the time, because I'm not!"

She paused. Then her face twisted into a grimace. "...Well."

Andy waited, a tiny glint of light in her eyes. Emily let out a sharp sigh. "Fine. I am."

Andy's mouth twitched. Emily pointed an accusing finger directly at her face. "Don't you dare."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're smirking."

"I am listening to my girlfriend."

Emily folded her arms tightly across her chest, defensive warmth radiating off her. "I just... I can't do anything."

Andy's posture shifted. The lightheartedness melted away as she understood immediately.

Emily looked down at the carpet, her voice dropping into something small and raw. "I can't touch you at work. I can't kiss you. I can't put my hand on your arm. I can't walk into a room and let anyone know you're mine." Her throat tightened miserably. "And everyone looks at you."

Bloody hell, have you SEEN them?! Emily’s internal monologue threw its hands up in complete, exasperated outrage. The entire floor stares at her like she’s a free buffet! Copy editing, art department, even the delivery boy! They look at her dark eyes, that bloody gorgeous smile, those ridiculous collarbones, and they think they have a chance! They don't know she's MINE! I should be allowed to hiss at them!

"They do," Emily insisted, her voice thick with absurdly earnest frustration. "Because you're bloody gorgeous. And because you're brilliant and charming and everyone loves you! And I know you don't encourage it—I know that! I trust you completely, Andy, I do, but..."

Emily's lips pressed together, trembling slightly. "I still get jealous," she whispered.

Andy didn't say a word.

Emily snapped her chin up, trying to rebuild her armor. "Yes, I get jealous! Yes, I get territorial! Sue me!"

Okay, bye dignity, her brain grumbled in defeat. See you back in England. Or never. It was nice knowing you for twenty-three years.

Andy stared at her for a long moment.

Then her entire face melted. Her dark eyebrows softened, her mouth curving into the sweetest, most overflowing expression of pure affection Emily had ever seen.

"Baby," Andy breathed softly.

Emily's face crumpled slightly at the tone. Andy stepped right up to her, reaching out to gently stroke the side of Emily's jaw. "You wanted to mark me?"

Emily gave a tiny, reluctant nod. Like a guilty, deeply dramatic toddler.

Andy made a ruined little sound in the back of her throat. "Aww."

Emily's blue eyes narrowed sharply. "Do not 'aww' me!"

"I literally can't help it."

"This is serious, Andy!"

"I know it is," Andy agreed, leaning in until their noses were almost touching. "You could have just told me, sweetheart."

Emily looked away, embarrassed. "I thought you'd think it was stupid."

"I think it is the most absurdly adorable thing I have ever heard in my entire life."

Emily's cheeks burned brighter.

Andy smiled warmly. "And I am so sorry I gave it away."

"It's fine," Emily muttered, her posture stiff.

"It clearly isn't."

Emily looked away again. Andy gently cupped her jaw, turning her face back until their eyes locked. "Would you like me to go down and ask Georgia for it back?"

Emily's eyebrows shot upward in sheer horror. "No! Absolutely not!"

Andy blinked, surprised.

Emily's lips immediately pushed into an even more pronounced pout. "I don't want it back if someone else has worn it! That completely defeats the purpose!"

If Georgia wore it, the territorial perimeter is compromised, Emily’s internal monologue huffed in profound disgust. It is contaminated. Burn it in an incinerator. Georgia's wrist bacteria are on my sacred marker.

Andy bit the inside of her cheek, trying with every ounce of her willpower not to burst out laughing. "Okay. Message received."

"I'll just give you another one," Emily declared firmly.

"Another one?"

"A new one." Emily nodded with solemn authority.

Andy's smile turned impossibly soft. "Okay." She stroked her thumb across Emily's burning cheek. "And this time, I promise I will never, ever give it to anyone."

Emily's defensive posture finally relaxed. "If anyone asks for it?"

Andy considered this with exaggerated gravity. "I'll tell them it is a non-negotiable, highly confidential corporate asset."

Emily's lips twitched. "And?"

"And that I am under strict legal obligation never to take it off."

A tiny, helpless ache bloomed in Emily's chest, sweet and overwhelming. "Good."

"Very good," Andy agreed softly.

She leaned down and pressed a long, tender kiss to Emily's forehead. Then to the bridge of her nose. Then to her right cheek. Emily's eyes fluttered closed, her breathing evening out.

"And now," Andy whispered, her lips resting against Emily's cheekbone, "before you mark me again..."

Emily opened her eyes.

Andy offered her a wicked, sparkling grin. "...let's get you out of here."

"I have work," Emily tried to protest automatically.

"No, you don't."

"I do, I have a spreadsheet—"

"Em, I know you've been staring at the exact same spreadsheet for fifteen minutes."

Emily looked deeply offended. "I have been conducting complex logistical analysis."

"You've been hungry."

Emily opened her mouth to deliver a scathing response—GROOOOOOWL. Her stomach let out a violent, lingering roar that echoed loudly against the glass walls of the empty office.

Both women froze. Andy looked down at Emily's stomach. Emily looked down. The room fell into dead silence.

Then Andy broke, throwing her head back and laughing aloud.

Emily groaned in mortification, covering her face with both hands. "Oh, shut up!"

Execute me right now, Emily’s brain wailed. Behead me on the steps of Runway. First my dignity, now my stomach. I am an unhinged, starving squirrel of a woman.

"Was that your complex logistical analysis?" Andy wheezed, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

"No!"

"Em!"

"That was the ventilation system!"

Andy laughed harder, wrapping her arms around Emily's waist and pulling her flush against her chest. "Right. The ventilation system is starving."

"I hate you," Emily mumbled into Andy's shoulder, though her hands were already sliding up around Andy's neck. "I hate you so much."

"No, you don't."

"...No. Unfortunately."

Emily completely melted. There it was, the exact thing she had walked down the hallway for. Warmth. Safety. Andy.

Andy pulled her tight, wrapping the heavy wool of her blazer around Emily's shoulders, exactly as Emily had envisioned twenty minutes ago.

Emily let out a long contented sigh, burying her face into the crook of Andy's neck and breathing in that intoxicating mix of cedar, vanilla, and home.

Andy kissed the crown of her hair softly. "My sweet, possessive baby is starving."

Emily mumbled defensively into her shirt collar, "I am not possessive."

Ugh, fine, I am! Emily’s brain shrieked, groaning in total defeat as Andy’s warm hand rubbed soothing circles into her back. I am completely, terrifyingly, hopelessly possessive! I want to build a tiny fence around you! I want to put a little sign on your forehead that says "Property of Emily Charlton, Do Not Touch"! I am a lunatic!

Andy let out a low chuckle. "You gave me a relationship hair tie, Em."

Must you lay everything out, you intelligent, sweet, ridiculously attractive woman? Emily’s brain grumbled affectionately.

"It was practical," Emily insisted aloud.

"Of course it was."

"It was."

"And now you're going to replace it."

"Yes."

"With another one."

"Yes."

Andy kissed her hair again, lingering there. "That I am never allowed to give away."

"Correct."

"And if someone asks?"

"You tell them it's extremely important."

Andy pulled back just enough to look down into her eyes. "Because?"

Emily looked up, their faces inches apart, all of her pride dropping away until only the brilliant truth remained. "Because you're mine."

Andy stared at her, her dark eyes shining with something so deep and fierce it took Emily's breath away.

Then Andy smiled, that rich, devastatingly warm smile that belonged only to Emily.

"Okay," Andy whispered, leaning in to press a soft lingering kiss to her lips. "Yours."

Emily's entire body flooded with a sweet, radiant heat. Mine, her internal monologue hummed, doing a smug, quiet victory lap. Attached at the wrist forever. Georgia can go cry in a corner. Cashmere Cardigan can eat dirt. Senior Features Editor Andy Sachs is hers.

Andy pulled back, squeezing her waist gently. "Now, come on."

"Where?"

"Dinner. Before your ventilation system collapses."

Andy took her hand, lacing their fingers together, and led her out of the office.

Emily glanced down at Andy's bare wrist as they walked. It still bothered her, just a tiny, stubborn lingering prickle. But the sharp ache was completely gone.

Because now Andy knew. The next hair tie wouldn't be a quiet, hidden secret born of insecurity. It would be something they had chosen together. A promise. And somehow, that felt so much better.

As they reached the lifts, Andy squeezed her hand tightly. "By the way."

Emily looked up. "Hmm?"

"I really did love wearing it," Andy said quietly, her voice genuine.

Emily's lips curved into a smug, triumphant little smile. "I know."

Andy raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? How?"

Emily leaned her head against Andy's shoulder as the doors chimed open. "Because you wore it every single day."

Andy let out a rich, warm laugh. "Fair point."

They stepped inside the lift together, Emily leaned firmly against Andy's side, holding her arm, the quiet empty building falling away behind them.

For the first time all night, Emily didn't feel jealous. She didn't feel territorial, and instead felt chosen.

And the second we step through the door of her apartment, Emily’s brain added with lethal authority, I am slathering her in drugstore elastics like she’s a package being prepped for international shipping. She will be so tagged she'll be visible from space.

Game, set, match, Charlton.