Archive of Our Own

Jessica Jane Charlton—or Jessie, as her Mama so affectionately called her—was four years old.

She had inherited her Mama’s gorgeously adorable features: big, brown Bambi eyes, luxurious brown locks, and a dimpled smile capable of melting even the iciest of hearts. Unfortunately, she had also inherited a few of her Mama’s less adorable traits. She was sometimes disproportionately stubborn, possessed far too many wonders for one tiny mind, and was constantly armed with an endless supply of questions. Plus, like most four-year-olds, she could be rather forgetful.

More often than not, Jessie would ask a question she’d already asked just a few nights prior. But her mothers took every single inquiry, repeated or otherwise, completely to heart. They made sure she was heard, and that whatever little trouble was clouding her tiny mind received the full attention it deserved.

And out of all the questions in Jessie’s vast repertoire, one reigned supreme as her absolute favourite:

“Mama, how did you and Mummy meet?”

Every single time, her Mama would either scoop her up onto the sofa or sit beside her on the floor amidst a sea of colourful building blocks. And every single time, using her clever words and unmatched flair for storytelling, her Mama would dive once again into the grand fairytale of how Jessie’s mothers came to be.

They met on the subway.

Yes, you read that right. Emily Charlton and Andrea Sachs met on the New York City subway.

How, you might ask? Well, gather around and listen closely. Because this was the story of, as how Jessie’s Mama had named it after once too many times of telling it, “How I Met Your Mother.”.

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ ACT 1: THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

It was autumn of 2006.

New York in autumn was crisp, breezy, and strangely pleasant, with changing leaves drifting lazily through the neighbourhoods. The subway, however, was notoriously unpredictable, fluctuating wildly from chilly mornings to sweltering afternoons. Commuters boarded in a chaotic clash of layers—light T-shirts, denim jackets, thin trench coats—and if you dressed for the crisp air outside, the sudden heat of a packed rush-hour train would have you overheating in minutes. People were constantly peeling off light jackets, rolling up sleeves, and shoving sweaters into their bags.

And right on cue, this was usually where Jessie would chime in.

“But Mummy always dressed pretty!” she’d pipe up from Andy’s lap, puffing out her little chest, immensely proud of remembering this detail.

“That’s right,” Andy would say, smiling as she gently brushed Jessie’s bangs away from her eyes. “Mummy always dressed marvellously.”

And Jessie was right.

Andy was twenty-three back then and, without fail, took the exact same train at the exact same time every single morning, assuming the subway gods permitted it to run on schedule. She was working at The Mirror, a fresh-faced journalism graduate trying to balance her life and her dreams in the city.

She also had a habit of leaving for work absurdly early. Back then, she’d often questioned why she did it. She always arrived with far too many minutes to spare before her shift. But as the days passed, leaving early morphed into an instinctive habit, one fuelled by a mix of punctuality, over-preparedness, and mild paranoia. It was a habit that would ultimately lead her to the love of her life. So, thank God for her anxiety.

Emily Charlton—or, as Andy knew her then, The Girl on the Train—always took the exact same train at the exact same time, too.

She always boarded the exact same car. The one Andy was on. And without fail, she would step onto the train, cast an infamous judgmental look at her fellow commuters, and settle into the seat near the doors. Right next to Andy. Yes, she had always dressed impeccably. Unlike Andy, who essentially threw on whatever was lying on her floor, and unlike the rest of the passengers who clearly did the same. Even those who looked like they’d actually tried stood zero chance against Emily.

To Andy, the girl on the train was practically celestial—an angelic, surreal presence amidst the chaotic sludge of the New York subway. And Andy was the infinitely lucky idiot granted the privilege of sitting right beside her.

She could still smell Emily’s perfume if she closed her eyes and thought about it. Tom Ford Black Orchid. Classic. A little hit of spice, rich, but never overwhelming. Her hair was a vivid, breathtaking red, flawlessly styled every morning. Her eyeliner was sharper than a knife. Her clothes were couture, worth more than Andy’s monthly rent and infinitely more precious than anything hanging in Andy’s wardrobe.

She was a heavenly existence. Unbelievable. And yet, she was real. Very, very real.

Because a few stops into the journey, Andy would inevitably feel that familiar, gentle dip of weight against her left shoulder. She’d turn her head ever so slightly and be met with a sight so soft it took her breath away—even now, all these years later.

The girl on the train had fallen fast asleep. And without fail, her head had come to rest right on Andy’s shoulder. An angel, fast asleep on her. How lovely was that?

Andy was truly not kidding when she said this happened almost every single morning. And not once did she have the heart to shift the angel’s head, let alone wake her when she so clearly needed the rest. Andy would rather sacrifice her own shoulder than risk having the poor woman’s head bump against the train window or leave her with a crick in her neck. So, Andy let Emily sleep.

There was, however, one minor flaw in this arrangement: Andy’s stop was four stations before Emily’s. She only knew this because on the mornings Emily fell asleep against her, Andy refused to wake her. Instead, she’d just sit there. And wait. And wait. Eventually, Emily would stir, usually a couple of minutes before the train rolled into her station. She’d blink sleepily, sit up straight, and step off the train, never once realising the woman beside her had sacrificed four whole stops of her morning commute just for her.

Andy, meanwhile, stayed on. She’d ride until Emily’s stop as well, step off, cross over to the opposite platform, and take the train all the way back to her own station. And somehow, somehow, she still made it to her desk on time. Thank God for her neurotic over-preparedness.

Though, in hindsight, Andy knew there was another reason she never minded the detour: she got to spend four extra stops with the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Even if that woman was completely unconscious for most of them.

In fact, if she was being honest, on the mornings Emily stayed awake, when she remained alert and gave Andy no excuse to linger those extra four stops, Andy felt a strange pang of disappointment. It was almost like being let down. Not by Emily, of course. Emily hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just sitting there reading a novel or a magazine, staring blankly out the window, or inspecting her reflection in the dark glass. Still, Andy found herself missing the familiar weight against her shoulder. Missing the soft, rhythmic breathing beside her. Missing those extra four stops she had somehow come to treasure.

On those wide-awake mornings, Andy would get off at her own stop and go about her day as usual. Except it never quite felt usual. Something was missing, a small but crucial piece of her morning left somewhere between the subway doors and the platform. It was ridiculous. Andy barely knew this woman. She didn't know her name, where she worked, what she liked, or why she was always so exhausted. All she knew was that she smelled divine, dressed like she belonged anywhere but the subway, and had somehow turned Andy’s mundane morning commute into the highlight of her day. And apparently, that was more than enough.

It wasn't just the little quirks Andy had come to recognise over the months. She had seen Emily happy, too.

Granted, that was a rare occurrence. Emily Charlton seemed to have been born with a permanent crease between her brows and an expression suggesting the entire world had personally inconvenienced her before 8:00 AM. Most mornings, she looked as though she were mentally compiling a hit list of everyone who had disappointed her that week.

But every so often, something would pop up on her screen, and the corners of her mouth would lift.

And God—her smile. Andy was fairly certain she had never seen anything so stunning in her entire life.

It wasn't even a dramatic smile. Emily didn't throw her head back and laugh, nor did she beam so brightly that the carriage mistook her for a particularly well-dressed lighthouse. It was much smaller than that. A brief, unguarded little thing that softened the sharp lines of her face and lit up her eyes in a way that made Andy forget what she was doing.

Sometimes Emily would type out a reply with a subtle smirk, other times she’d glance out the window, a faint smile surfacing as if recalling a pleasant memory. On the rare occasions she actually took a call, Andy would catch the faint, addictive trace of laughter in her voice.

And every single time, Andy would find herself smiling, too. It was entirely involuntary, an embarrassingly automatic response. She’d see that fleeting smile, feel something warm bloom in her chest, and immediately start constructing elaborate backstories to explain it.

Was it a joke from a friend? Great news at work? A sweet text?

It was ridiculous. She was a journalist, for heaven’s sake. She made a living asking questions, investigating things, and getting to the bottom of stories. Surely, if she applied even a fraction of that professional curiosity to the mystery of the girl on the train, she could figure something out.

Except this wasn't an assignment. And Emily wasn't a story Andy had any right to uncover. So she would simply watch that beautiful smile fade back into its carefully composed shield, left to wonder what it might take to see it again.

Of course, she had seen Emily in far less pleasant moods, too. Quite a lot of them, actually.

There were mornings the redhead boarded looking as though she would happily set the city on fire if given a match. Her jaw would be tight, her lips pressed thin, and her fingers would attack her keyboard with such ferocity Andy feared the phone wouldn't survive the commute. She’d tap her foot, sigh at signal delays, glare at advertisements, and look so deeply offended by the general existence of humanity that Andy half-expected her to file a formal complaint with the MTA.

Andy, naturally, had questions, her mind once again racing. Had something happened at work? Had someone said something unpleasant to her? Had she received bad news? Was she having a terrible morning, or had the day simply started out wrong and continued to get worse?

And, because Andy was apparently incapable of having one normal thought about this woman, she sometimes wondered whether Emily had a boyfriend. Perhaps they had argued the night before. Perhaps he had forgotten something important, or said something stupid, or committed some unforgivable offence that had left Emily in such a foul mood that the entire subway carriage was now suffering the consequences.

The thought was strangely unpleasant. Andy didn't particularly like imagining someone making Emily unhappy, and she liked it even less when she found herself wondering whether there was someone in Emily's life who had the privilege of making her happy instead. It was a rather inconvenient line of thought for a woman who had never even heard Emily introduce herself.

Still, the questions came regardless. Was it work? Was it a man? Was it the sort of dreadful day that began with a broken alarm clock and ended with a ruined pair of shoes? Or was it simply New York being New York, with its endless noise, impossible traffic, unreliable trains, and millions of people all trying to get somewhere at once? Andy knew perfectly well that the city could be enough to ruin anyone's mood, she just didn't like the idea of it ruining Emily's.

And then there were the mornings when Emily looked neither happy nor angry, but simply... sad. Those were the worst.

Andy could handle the sharp glares and the impatient huffs. She could even handle the mornings when Emily seemed to be one minor inconvenience away from committing a felony. At least then, she could tell herself that the woman was merely having a bad day and would probably feel better once she had some sleep. But sadness was different.

Sometimes, Emily would board the train looking impeccably put-together as usual, every strand of red hair in place, her eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood, and her clothes as flawless as ever. To anyone else, she would have looked exactly the same as she always did. Andy, however, had spent far too many mornings watching her not to notice the subtle cracks. The faint redness around her eyes. The way she would stare blankly at her phone without really seeming to read anything on the screen. The unusual stillness of her hands, which would rest in her lap instead of flying across her keyboard. The way her mouth would remain set in a straight line even when something on the train might ordinarily have earned an irritated huff.

And her eyes. God, her eyes.

Emily's eyes were a blue that reminded Andy of the ocean on a clear summer day, vibrant and saturated, impossibly alive beneath the sunlight. When Emily was pleased, when that rare smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, there was a particular sparkle in them that Andy had never quite learnt how to look at without forgetting what she was doing.

But on the sad mornings, that light seemed to vanish. The blue remained, of course, but it looked different somehow. Duller. Muted. As though the brilliant, sunlit sea Andy had grown so accustomed to admiring had gone suddenly still, its vivid colours flattened by the cold, flat grey of an overcast sky. The usual twinkle was gone, leaving behind something numb and distant, like waters that had forgotten how to glitter.

Andy hated it. She hated that she could recognise the difference. She hated that she had begun to know the particular shade of Emily's happiness well enough to notice when it was missing. And she hated, most of all, that she had absolutely no idea how to bring it back.

Sometimes, Emily wouldn't even bother opening her magazine. She would simply sit beside Andy, gaze fixed on some indistinct point beyond the window, and look so very far away that Andy couldn't help wondering where her thoughts had taken her. And every time, something in Andy's chest would tighten. It was a horrible, helpless feeling.

She wanted to ask what was wrong. She wanted to offer her a tissue if she needed one, or a cup of coffee, or a few comforting words that might make the morning a little less dreadful. She wanted, absurdly, to reach over and smooth the little crease between Emily's brows, as though she could somehow iron all the unhappiness out of her.

Most of all, she just wanted Emily to be all right. 

But what could she possibly do? She couldn't ask if Emily was okay without revealing that she had been paying attention. She couldn't offer comfort to a woman who had never spoken to her, not without risking that she might come across as strange, intrusive, or, God forbid, a little unhinged.

So Andy did the only thing she could. She stayed. She sat beside Emily while the train rattled through the city, keeping her shoulder steady and her movements gentle. And when Emily's exhaustion finally caught up with her, when her eyes fluttered shut and her head found its familiar place against Andy's shoulder, Andy would let out a quiet breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

At least she was resting now. At least, for a few stops, she didn't have to carry whatever was weighing her down.

Andy knew it was a silly thing to think. Sleep wouldn't fix whatever troubles Emily carried with her, and a stranger's shoulder was hardly a solution to the world's many problems. But it was something. And, for reasons Andy was becoming increasingly reluctant to examine, she wanted to give Emily whatever little something she could.

It was a peculiar sort of familiarity, knowing someone this way. 

Andy had seen Emily smile. She had seen her scowl, sulk, fume, and stare miserably out of a train window as though the world had personally betrayed her. She had watched her celebrate something she couldn't identify, grow frustrated over something she couldn't understand, and carry a sadness she couldn't begin to name. She had witnessed so many little pieces of Emily's life, each one appearing briefly before her and disappearing just as quickly.

And yet, she knew almost nothing about her. She didn't know what made Emily laugh until she couldn't breathe. She didn't know what frightened her, what kept her awake at night, or what she thought about when she was alone. She didn't know what sort of childhood she'd had, what she wanted out of life, or whether she was happy with the person she had become.

She didn't even know her name. Well, not officially.

Andy had, after all, overheard her speaking on the phone one morning. It had been a brief conversation, barely a minute long, but Emily's voice had sounded unmistakably different from the clipped, impatient tone Andy usually heard in her head. The vowels were softer, the cadence unfamiliar, and there was something in the way she pronounced certain words that made Andy pause over the newspaper in her hands.

British.

Of course she was British. Somehow, it made perfect sense. It explained the occasional unfamiliar expression, the particular lilt of her voice, and the way she could make even the most ordinary complaint sound like a cutting remark delivered at a dinner party.

But it also raised an entirely new set of questions. Why had she come all the way to America? For work, presumably. Perhaps she had always wanted to live in New York. Perhaps she had left someone behind in England, or perhaps there had never been anyone to leave behind in the first place. Maybe she had come here chasing a dream, just as Andy had, with a suitcase full of clothes and a head full of ambitions.

Or perhaps her reasons had been entirely different. Andy could spend hours imagining the possibilities, but in the end, they were nothing more than guesses. Little stories she made up about a woman whose real story remained completely beyond her reach.

And that, Andy supposed, was the strangest part of all. It was almost intimate, in the strangest ways. She had come to recognise Emily in a hundred different ways. She knew the sound of her footsteps as she boarded the carriage, the scent of her perfume, the expressions that crossed her face when she was pleased or irritated or tired beyond words. She knew how she looked in the morning light, how she held her phone, how she slept, and how her head always seemed to find its way to Andy's shoulder no matter how crowded the train became.

She knew the girl on the train. Or at least, she knew the girl who sat beside her every morning. But the woman herself? Her thoughts, her history, her hopes, her fears, the thousand little things that made her who she was? Those remained a mystery.

Andy knew so much. And, somehow, she knew absolutely nothing at all.

Months passed, and seasons cycled through the city. And through it all, Andy watched the girl on the train change.

She watched her hair grow longer, the vivid red strands gradually falling past her shoulders. She watched her bangs grow out, only to be trimmed again a few weeks later, restoring them to their former, immaculate glory. She watched her experiment with different perfumes, each one distinct from the last, each one leaving behind a fleeting trace of something new. Some mornings, she smelled of warm vanilla and amber, on others, something floral, something woody, something Andy couldn't name but would have recognised anywhere.

She watched her switch handbags, shoes, coats, and scarves. She spotted familiar silhouettes from fashion magazines she’d idly leafed through at newsstands, noticing how Emily always wore pieces fresh off the runway. Andy sometimes wondered whether the woman ever wore the same outfit twice. She probably did, of course, Emily was only human. Though, judging by the way she carried herself, Andy suspected she might have been an exception to that rule.

She watched her trade in her old mobile phone for a newer model, then another, each one sleeker and more advanced than the last. She watched her switch from carrying a paperback novel to reading glossy magazines, then to typing furiously on her phone, her fingers flying across the tiny keypad as though the fate of the entire fashion industry depended on the message she was sending. Perhaps it did. Andy had no idea.

She didn't know where Emily worked. She didn't know what she did for a living, whether she had a boyfriend, lived alone, or preferred tea to coffee. She didn't know her favourite colour, her birthday, or the name of the person who had taught her to draw her eyeliner so sharply.

But she knew that Emily always wore a watch on her left wrist. She knew that, when she was particularly tired, she would press two fingers against the bridge of her nose before closing her eyes. She knew that Emily sometimes chewed on the inside of her cheek when she was reading something unpleasant on her phone, and that she had a rather peculiar habit of tapping her foot impatiently whenever the train stalled between stations. And she knew, with a certainty that was frankly embarrassing for someone who had never exchanged a single word with the woman, that Emily Charlton was almost always asleep before the train reached the fourth stop.

Andy knew none of these things deliberately. She hadn't set out to memorise the girl on the train. She simply happened to notice her, day after day, morning after morning, until the little details settled somewhere in the back of her mind and made themselves at home. It was rather like learning a song by hearing it played over and over again. Eventually, you stopped noticing that you were listening. You simply knew the tune. And Emily, as it turned out, was a tune Andy never seemed to grow tired of.

Outside the subway windows, New York carried on with its usual indifference.

Autumn gave way to winter. The trees that had once blazed gold and red along the streets stood bare beneath grey skies, their branches dusted with the occasional snowfall. The air grew sharper, the mornings darker, and the commuters began arriving bundled in thick woollen coats and knitted scarves, clutching takeaway coffees between gloved hands.

Then came spring, bringing with it the first hesitant patches of sunshine, the return of green to the trees, and the sort of unpredictable drizzle that left everyone on the platform looking vaguely betrayed by the weather forecast.

Summer followed, hot and sticky and altogether unbearable, turning the subway into a brutal experiment in human endurance. The air grew heavy, the windows fogged, and everyone seemed to be in a terrible mood before nine in the morning.

Through rain and snow, through fog and sunshine, through mornings so cold Andy could barely feel her fingers and days when even the thought of putting on a coat made her sweat, the city changed around them. People came and went. Familiar faces disappeared from the carriage, replaced by strangers with different newspapers, different handbags, different destinations. The advertisements above the seats changed. The posters on the station walls were replaced. The scenery outside the windows shifted from bare branches to budding leaves, from grey pavements to sunlit streets, then back again.

Yet, every morning, Andy boarded the same train. Every morning, she made her way to the same carriage. 

And every morning, a few stops later, there was Emily.

Andy would recognise the station before Emily even appeared. She knew the precise moment the train would slow, the familiar screech of its brakes, the brief shuffle of disembarking passengers. She knew which doors Emily would step through, and she knew, with an almost embarrassing degree of certainty, where the redhead's gaze would land once she had boarded. On the seat beside Andy.

It was practically a law of nature by then.

Emily would sweep into the carriage with the sort of purposeful stride that suggested she was perpetually late for something grand, even when the train was running perfectly on schedule. She would cast her customary disdainful glance at the surrounding passengers, make her way towards the seat near the doors, and settle beside Andy with the unspoken familiarity of someone who had been doing so for months. Which, in a way, she had. She would arrange her belongings with the precision of someone who had never once misplaced anything in her life, cross her legs, and turn her attention to whatever magazine, paperback, or urgent message demanded her attention that morning.

Andy, meanwhile, would resume the extremely important business of pretending she hadn't been waiting for her.

Then, inevitably, Emily would grow quiet. Her eyelids would droop. Her head would tip forward, only to jerk upright again a moment later. She would blink furiously at the world, as though personally offended by her own fatigue, and attempt to resume whatever task she had been doing.

It never lasted.

A few stops later, her eyes would close for good, her head would tilt gently to the side, and she would settle against Andy's shoulder with a soft, unconscious sigh. Every. Single. Morning.

Andy, for her part, had long since perfected the art of sitting perfectly motionless. She knew exactly how to angle her shoulder so that Emily's head rested comfortably against it. She knew how to hold her newspaper with one hand, how to turn the pages without making too much noise, and how to shift her bag out of the way before Emily's fingers could slip against it. She had even learnt to anticipate the little movements Emily made in her sleep, the faint adjustment of her cheek against Andy's coat, the tiny furrow between her brows whenever the train rattled over a particularly uneven stretch of track, the almost imperceptible sigh that escaped her whenever she finally settled into a comfortable position.

On freezing mornings, Andy would find herself wondering whether Emily was warm enough. On rainy days, she would glance at the damp ends of Emily's hair and hope she hadn't been caught in the downpour for too long. When Emily looked particularly exhausted, with faint shadows beneath her eyes and a little less colour in her face, Andy would spend the entire journey fighting the urge to ask whether she was all right.

Of course, she never did. She was a stranger, after all. A very beautiful stranger. A very beautiful stranger who smelled wonderful, dressed like a dream, and had somehow made herself a permanent fixture in Andy's morning routine. But a stranger nonetheless.

So Andy kept her questions to herself. She kept her tiny observations, her growing collection of insignificant details, and her inconveniently large crush and every morning, she let Emily sleep.

It was not without sacrifice, though. Andy continued to miss her stop. Four extra stations, every single day. Four perfectly good opportunities to get off the train and go about her day like a sensible, functioning adult, all surrendered to the simple pleasure of having Emily beside her for just a little longer. She could have woken her, she knew that, it would have been perfectly reasonable, entirely understandable, and probably the sort of thing any normal person would have done after the first week. But Andy had never claimed to be a normal person.

Besides, Emily always looked so peaceful asleep. The perpetual crease between her brows disappeared, the sharpness of her expression softened, and for those few minutes, she seemed to be free of whatever relentless demands kept her awake at night. She looked younger, somehow. Less like a woman who could probably reduce an entire room of people to tears with a single well-placed remark, and more like someone who simply needed a little rest. Andy couldn't bring herself to take that away from her.

So she stayed. She stayed when the train was crowded and she had to endure the occasional elbow to the ribs. She stayed when her shoulder began to ache and her arm went numb beneath the weight of her newspaper. She stayed when she had an early meeting, when the weather was miserable, when she had barely slept herself and desperately wanted to get to the office and drink enough coffee to restore basic functionality to her brain. She stayed through autumn, winter, spring, and summer. And every time, she followed Emily off the train, crossed to the opposite platform, and retraced her journey back to her own station, arriving at work with just enough time to pretend she hadn't spent a significant portion of her morning travelling in entirely the wrong direction.

Thank God for her neurotic over-preparedness.

It was a ridiculous, illogical arrangement, really. An absurd, thoroughly impractical little ritual that made no sense to anyone who knew about it. Not that anyone did. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Andy Sachs was simply a young, hard-working journalist who took the subway to work every morning. She was punctual, dependable, and occasionally a little tired. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Nobody knew that she had become intimately familiar with the sleeping habits of a woman whose name she didn't even know. Nobody knew that she could recognise the faintest trace of Emily's perfume before she even looked up, or that she had begun to measure the passing of time by the length of Emily's hair, the changing styles of her clothes, and the different colours of the scarves she wrapped around her neck. Nobody knew that, on the rare mornings when Emily didn't fall asleep, Andy felt a peculiar, quiet disappointment that followed her all the way to the office. And nobody knew that, somewhere along the way, those four extra stops had become the best part of her day.

Perhaps that was the strangest thing about it all. Andy had spent years dreaming about the sort of life she wanted to build for herself in New York. She had come to the city with a degree, a collection of ambitions, and a vague idea of what happiness was supposed to look like. She imagined it would involve a successful career, meaningful work, perhaps a nice apartment someday, and the satisfaction of knowing she had made something of herself. She had never imagined it would involve a red-haired stranger falling asleep on her shoulder at seven forty-three every morning. 

But life, as Andy would eventually discover, had a rather peculiar sense of humour. Because the months continued to pass. The seasons continued to change. The city continued to rush headlong into the future, entirely unconcerned with the quiet little romance unfolding somewhere between one subway station and the next.

And Andy? Andy kept showing up. Same train. Same carriage. Same seat beside the doors. Same girl. Same shoulder. Same four extra stops. And, every morning, just before Emily drifted off, Andy would catch herself looking at her, at the vivid red hair, the impossibly long eyelashes, the tiny crease between her brows that would smooth away the moment she settled against her.

She would think, not for the first time, that she really ought to learn this woman's name. She would think that perhaps tomorrow she might finally work up the courage to say hello. And then Emily's head would find its familiar resting place against her shoulder, and Andy would decide that tomorrow was soon enough.

After all, she had the whole journey. And, as far as Andy was concerned, there was nowhere else in the world she would rather be.

And then came the week Emily Charlton disappeared.

Well. Disappeared was a rather dramatic word for it, Andy supposed. The woman hadn't dissolved into thin air or been spirited away by a particularly fashionable fairy godmother. She had simply stopped getting on the train. Which, as far as Andy was concerned, was arguably worse.

On Monday morning, Andy barely gave it a second thought. Emily didn't appear, and Andy spent the next few stops glancing towards the doors with the mild, vaguely disappointed expectation of someone waiting for a delayed coffee. Maybe she'd left earlier today, Andy reasoned. It happened. Even the most dependable routines occasionally went awry. Maybe Emily had an important meeting, or had decided to catch an earlier train, or had finally discovered the secret to getting an extra hour of sleep without sacrificing her immaculate appearance.

Andy told herself it was perfectly reasonable. She even managed to read the same paragraph of her newspaper three times before giving up and looking at the doors again.

On Tuesday, she was a little less logical. Perhaps Emily had taken a different carriage. The subway was hardly a small, intimate gathering of people who had collectively agreed to sit in the same places every morning. There were other trains, other carriages, other seats. Maybe something had changed in Emily's routine.

Andy arrived at her usual station, boarded her usual carriage, and took her usual seat. Then, after a moment's consideration, she slid her bag onto the empty seat beside her. It was a completely innocent move, she told herself, definitely not an insane, unhinged attempt at saving a seat for a woman who’d never once spoken to her.

The woman sitting opposite her gave the bag a pointed look. Andy immediately pretended to be fascinated by an advertisement for a law firm.

On Wednesday, she began to worry. Not properly, she insisted. Not in any sort of alarming, irrational, completely disproportionate way. She was simply considering the possibilities. Perhaps Emily had changed her commute altogether. Perhaps she'd started driving to work. Perhaps she'd moved apartments, changed jobs, or decided that public transport was beneath her. It was New York, people changed their routines constantly. People did not, however, usually do so without warning in a way that made Andy feel as though someone had quietly removed a small but essential part of her morning.

Still, every morning, she placed her bag on the seat. Every morning, she watched the doors open at Emily's station. Every morning, she waited. And every morning, the doors slid shut again. The train lurched forward, carrying Andy away from the station, and the empty seat beside her remained empty.

It was a ridiculous, high-stakes little ritual, the bag on the seat. On a New York subway, it was practically an invitation for someone to tell you exactly where you could shove your personal belongings. Andy knew this. She had seen the glares. She had even received a particularly eloquent tut from an elderly woman who had clearly decided Andy was a menace to public transport.

Normally, Andy would have agreed with her. But the bag was a small thing. A silly thing. A last flimsy string of hope she could hold onto for a few minutes each morning. As though, if she kept that seat free, Emily might somehow find her way back to it. And so Andy kept saving it.

On Thursday, the light began to go out of her. She still woke early. Still dressed for work. Still made her way to the station and boarded the same train. She still took her place beside the doors, her bag guarding the seat next to her like a particularly stubborn placeholder. But she no longer pretended to read the newspaper, barely looked at her phone. Instead, she watched the stations pass, counting them without meaning to, her stomach twisting tighter with every screech of the brakes.

There. Emily's station.

The train slowed. The brakes squealed. The doors slid open. Passengers got on. Passengers got off. And then the doors closed, and the train carried on without her.

Andy stared at the empty space where Emily should have been. For the first time in months, she wondered whether something had happened. Not a different carriage. Not an earlier train. Not a new apartment or a sudden, inexplicable decision to abandon the subway forever. Something.

Had Emily been ill? Had she been hurt? Had something happened at work? Had she gone away? Andy had no way of knowing. She didn't know where Emily lived, where she worked, or if anyone in her life was looking out for her. She didn't even know whom she could ask. She knew the scent of her perfume, knew the rhythm of her foot-tapping, knew the exact angle at which her head settled against Andy's shoulder when she finally drifted off to sleep. But she didn't know enough to find her. And that thought frightened her far more than she cared to admit.

By Friday, Andy was a thoroughly miserable human being. She had begun to hate the station announcements. She hated the hiss of the doors. She hated the brief shuffle of passengers preparing to board, the familiar rush of cold air as the train pulled into the platform, and the awful, growing certainty that the next person through the doors would not be Emily.

She hated the empty seat beside her. She hated that she still saved it. And, most of all, she hated herself for spending months assuming tomorrow would be soon enough. Tomorrow, I’ll learn her name. Tomorrow, I’ll say hello. Tomorrow, I’ll find some perfectly natural, completely non-insane way to ask if she would like a coffee. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

And now Andy would have given anything to have one ordinary morning back. One morning of red hair and sharp eyeliner and a muttered complaint about signal delays. One morning of pretending not to notice Emily settling beside her. One morning of the familiar, gentle weight of her head against Andy's shoulder. She would even have welcomed the foot-tapping. God, she would have thrown a parade for the foot-tapping.

Then the weekend arrived, and Andy discovered that not having a commute to look forward to was somehow worse than having one. She had absolutely no reason to be thinking about Emily on Saturday. Or Sunday. There was no train to catch, no empty seat to save, no station at which to hold her breath. She could have spent the time doing something useful. Laundry, perhaps. Grocery shopping. Reading a book. Catching up on the work she'd brought home.

Instead, she spent forty-eight hours thinking about a woman she didn’t even truly know. She wondered whether the woman was all right, whether she was sleeping, whether she was eating properly, whether she had someone to look after her if she was unwell, and whether she had anyone to bring her a cup of tea if she needed one. At one point, she caught herself with a jolt, wondering whether Emily liked tea with milk. She had absolutely no idea. A new low, she decided

By Sunday evening, she had constructed at least seventeen possible explanations for Emily's disappearance, ranging from the perfectly mundane to the deeply catastrophic. She rejected the more alarming ones on principle, then immediately thought of them again.  She slept terribly.

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ ACT 2: EMILY 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

So on Monday morning, Andy dragged herself to the platform. Because what else was she supposed to do?

She boarded, took her seat, placed her bag beside her, and waited.

The journey began as it always did. The familiar rumble of the carriage. The flickering lights. The passengers staring blankly into their phones. The man who insisted on reading his newspaper with his elbows spread wide enough to occupy three seats.

Andy barely noticed any of them. She was counting the stops. One. Two. Three. And then—

Emily's station.

The train slowed, its brakes squealing against the tracks. Andy sat up a little straighter, her heart doing something thoroughly embarrassing inside her chest.

The doors opened. A rush of passengers stepped aboard, carrying with them the cold morning air and the familiar jumble of perfume, coffee, damp coats, and city life.

And then Andy smelled it. That perfume. Tom Ford Black Orchid. Rich, spicy, unmistakable. The one she had learnt to recognise before she could even see its owner. The one that had become so familiar that it seemed woven into the fabric of her mornings.

Her head snapped up. Emily was back.

Without a second thought, Andy snatched her bag off the seat beside her and shoved it between her feet so fast the guy across from her flinched. 

There was a brief shuffle of footsteps. And then Andy paused. Something was wrong. The footsteps sounded different. Not the familiar, brisk, purposeful click of Emily's heels against the carriage floor, but something slower. Uneven. Careful.

Andy frowned and turned towards the doors, her heart suddenly caught somewhere between her ribs. For one horrible second, she lost her in the crowd.

Then a familiar flash of red emerged between two passengers. Oh, thank God.

The relief that swept through Andy was so immediate, so overwhelming, that she nearly laughed aloud. She let out a breath that felt as though it had been trapped inside her for an entire week and watched as Emily made her way towards their usual seat. She was back. She was okay— Andy’s eyes dropped. And froze.

A cast.

A massive, indisputable plaster cast encasing Emily’s leg, paired with a crutch and the excruciating, awkward shuffle of someone whose life had recently been upended.

For a moment, Andy's brain simply refused to process what she was seeing. Emily Charlton, the woman who looked as though she could march into a hurricane and demand that it rearrange itself to suit her schedule, was hobbling towards the seat beside Andy with a broken leg.

Andy stared. Then she stared some more, because apparently all those years of education had done absolutely nothing to prepare her for this particular situation.

Emily lowered herself into the seat with a small, tightly suppressed grimace, arranging her bag in her lap and adjusting her injured leg with painstaking care. Her expression was pinched with discomfort, and the usual sharpness in her eyes was dulled by what looked suspiciously like exhaustion. She looked thinner, somehow. Paler. And, now that Andy was looking properly, there were dark smudges beneath her eyes that hadn't been there a week before.

Andy felt her heart drop straight through the floor. What on earth had happened to her? Was she in pain? Had she fallen? Had she been in an accident? Had someone hurt her? Her gaze flicked back to the cast. Then to Emily's face. Then back to the cast again, as though the answer might somehow materialise if she looked at it hard enough.

Emily sighed, leaned her head back against the carriage wall, and closed her eyes for a brief moment.

Andy sat frozen beside her, Months of rehearsing icebreakers, witty remarks, and casual intros evaporated instantly. All those things she had been trying to work up the courage to speak to this woman. 

Now, at long last, Emily Charlton was sitting right beside her again, and Andy couldn't think of a single thing to say. Except, perhaps, Are you all right? Or What happened? Or, if she could somehow manage to stop being the world's most hopelessly lovesick idiot for five consecutive seconds, I've been worried about you.

Instead, she sat there in silence, staring at the cast, with her heart in her throat and a thousand questions crowding her mind. 

Emily shifted in her seat, let out another quiet sigh, and turned her head slightly towards Andy.

For one brief, astonishing moment, their eyes met. And Andy realised that after a week of imagining the worst, the reality was sitting right next to her—looking utterly, devastatingly exhausted. And Andy had never wanted to take care of someone more in her entire life.

And so, stupid Andy, decided tomorrow was going to be today.

It was a decision she made somewhere between the third glance at Emily's cast and the fifth attempt to convince herself that staring at it was not, in fact, a socially acceptable way to begin a conversation.

She was going to speak to her. She was going to open her mouth, produce a perfectly ordinary sentence, and establish herself as a normal, functioning member of society who could interact with another human being without mentally rehearsing the interaction thirteen times beforehand.

It couldn't possibly be that difficult. People spoke to strangers all the time. They did it on buses, in cafés, in queues, in lifts. New Yorkers, in particular, seemed to have perfected the art of talking to people they had never met, usually to complain about something.

Andy could do this. She was a journalist, for God's sake. She had interviewed people. She had asked questions. She had once spent forty minutes persuading a snobbish professor to explain his research on a subject Andy had barely understood before the interview began. Surely she could manage one sentence with a woman sitting merely inches away from her.

Emily shifted beside her, adjusting her injured leg with a small, frustrated huff.

And Andy's carefully assembled confidence promptly burst into flames. "Are you—"

Oh, God.

Emily turned her head.

Andy forgot every language she had ever learnt. "—comfortable?" she finished, with all the effortless grace of someone who had just swallowed a dictionary.

There was a pause. Emily glanced at the cast. Then at Andy. Then back at the cast. "Not particularly."

Her voice. Andy had heard it before, of course. Hundreds of times, in little fragments, clipped complaints under her breath, brief phone calls, the occasional irritated sigh, but never directed at her. Never quite this close, with Emily's bright blue eyes fixed on her face and the velvety British accent wrapping itself around two totally ordinary words.

Andy was going to die. Cause of death: a red-haired woman with a broken leg on the subway.

"Oh," Andy said intelligently.

Emily's eyebrows twitched upward. Andy wanted to fling herself through the nearest window.

"I mean—your leg. Obviously. The cast. I was just—" She stammered, every additional word digging her grave deeper. "Sorry. That was a stupid question."

"No, a perfectly reasonable question." Emily's gaze flicked back towards the plaster. "Although I imagine the answer was fairly obvious."

There was something dry in her delivery, a familiar sharpness that Andy had come to associate with Emily's most irritated mornings. Except now, impossibly, it was aimed at Andy.

Andy had never been so thrilled to be insulted in her life. She offered a small, nervous laugh. "Right. Yes. Obviously."

Emily looked at her for another moment. Then, to Andy's complete and utter astonishment, the corner of Emily's mouth twitched. Not quite a full smile, but close enough that Andy's brain briefly flashed a SYSTEM FAILURE warning before shutting down entirely.

"I'm Emily, by the way," the redhead said, as though she hadn't just rearranged the entire structure of Andy's universe with three syllables.

Emily.

Andy blinked.

For months, she'd been The Girl on the Train. The woman with the immaculate clothes and impossible heels. The woman who complained under her breath when the train was delayed and tapped her foot impatiently whenever they stopped between stations. The woman who had somehow, without ever speaking to her, become the best part of Andy's morning.

But she had never known her name. Not really. She'd heard fragments of conversations before, of course. A name might have been mentioned in passing, swallowed by the noise of the subway or buried beneath the chatter of a phone call. But Andy had never been certain enough to claim it as knowledge. Now Emily was sitting beside her, looking at her expectantly, and giving it to her.

Emily.

It suited her effortlessly. Of course it did. Andy had absolutely no idea why a name could suddenly feel like something precious.

"And you are?" Emily prompted.

Oh, hell. Andy realised, with a small burst of horror, that she'd been staring. "Andy," she managed. "I'm Andy."

Emily gave a small nod, apparently satisfied with this exchange of information. “Nice to meet you, Andy."

Nice to meet you. Andy nearly burst out laughing. Nice to meet you? NICE TO MEET YOU? 

They had spent months travelling together! Emily had slept on Andy's shoulder so many times that Andy could probably have identified the precise angle of her head in a police lineup! Andy had followed her four extra stops every morning, crossed platforms, retraced her steps, all to protect Emily’s morning nap!

And Emily Charlton was sitting beside her, smiling faintly, and telling her it was nice to meet her. Well. Technically, it was.

Andy swallowed. "Nice to meet you, too."

And just like that, the world did not end. The train rattled on. Someone's headphones leaked tinny music. A man two seats away sneezed with absolutely no regard for the wellbeing of his fellow passengers.

And Andy Sachs, who had spent months dreaming about speaking to Emily Charlton, had finally done it. She had said hello. She had learnt her name. She had even managed not to spontaneously combust. It was, by any reasonable measure, an extraordinary morning.

Then Emily shifted her leg again, her face tightening with a flash of pain, and Andy's little burst of triumph disappeared beneath a fresh wave of worry.

"So..." Andy began, before her courage fled. "What happened?"

Emily exhaled through her nose. "Car accident."

Andy went cold. "A car accident?"

"Yes." Emily gave her a look. "That's generally how these things happen."

"Right. Of course. Sorry." Andy pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to ask approximately thirty-two follow-up questions. "Are you okay?"

The question came out softer than she intended.

For the first time since she'd boarded, Emily's expression changed. The faintly amused sharpness faded, leaving something more tender behind. "I'm fine," she said automatically.

Andy looked at the cast. Then at Emily's face. Then back at the cast.

Emily followed her gaze and sighed. "Well. I will be fine."

A significant difference, Andy noted.

She wanted to ask how long Emily had been in hospital. Whether she had been alone, whether anyone had visited her, whether she had been frightened, whether she'd been in pain. She wanted to ask why she had come back to work so soon, why she looked so exhausted, why she'd spent an entire week away from the train without anyone telling Andy where she was. That last question, she realised, was perhaps not appropriate to ask a woman she had known for approximately three minutes.

So instead, she softly said, "I'm glad you're back." The words escaped before she could stop them.

Emily turned to look at her, her blue eyes still. Andy froze. Oh, God. That sounded strange. That sounded far too familiar, too personal. That sounded like something one might say to a friend, or a colleague, or someone whose absence one had actually been entitled to notice. Not a stranger. Not a woman who had only just learnt her name.

Andy opened her mouth to explain, then closed it again. There was no explanation that wouldn't make everything worse.

But Emily didn't laugh. She didn't look suspicious, or uncomfortable, or as though she were mentally calculating the safest route to the next carriage. Instead, she looked at Andy for a moment, then she smiled. It was small. Tired. Barely there. But it was real.

"Thank you," Emily said.

And Andy, hopeless, ridiculous, catastrophically lovesick Andy, smiled back.

And for the first time in months, she got to have a real conversation with the Girl on the Train. Not the kind she’d rehearsed four hundred times in her head, where she was effortlessly charming and Emily was utterly charmed by her wit and normal eye contact, or the kind where Andy seamlessly asked for her number without sounding like a woman who had built her entire mental stability around a morning commute. No. This was an actual, real-life conversation, and Andy was doing a surprisingly decent job of not making an absolute fool of herself.

Well. A moderately decent job.

Emily had settled as comfortably as possible, her cast stretched out carefully. She still looked exhausted, and her face tightened whenever the train jolted, but she seemed remarkably alert. And, rather wonderfully, she wasn't looking at her phone. She was looking at Andy. "So, Andy," Emily said, turning slightly toward her. "What do you do?"

Andy blinked. It was a standard question, the kind normal people asked without a second thought. But Andy had spent so long wondering what Emily's voice would sound like directed at her that her brain struggled to process being asked a direct question. "Oh. I'm a journalist."

Emily's eyebrows lifted. "Really?"

There was something in her tone that made Andy chuckle. "What? Does that surprise you?"

"A little."

"Why?"

Emily gave her a considering look. "You look far too tired to be a journalist."

Andy stared at her. Then she laughed, a startled, helpless sound. "That's fair, actually."

"I thought so."

"And what about you?" Andy asked.

Emily's expression shifted slightly, taking on a subtle air of professional pride. "I'm an assistant."

Andy realised a second too late that she was expected to ask a follow-up. "An assistant to whom?"

"Miranda Priestly."

Andy knew the name. Everyone knew the name. Anyone who had ever glanced at a fashion magazine or stood within five feet of someone who cared about clothes knew Miranda Priestly. Andy’s mouth dropped open. "Wait. That Miranda Priestly?"

Emily's lips curved upward. "How many do you know?"

"Oh, God."

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just—wow."

"An eloquent response."

"I'm sorry." Andy pressed her lips together, trying to salvage her journalistic dignity. "I just didn't expect—"

"What? That I'd work for Miranda Priestly?"

"No! I mean, yes. No. I mean..." Andy closed her eyes briefly. "I'm going to stop talking now."

"Probably wise."

There it was again. That dry, effortless British humour, delivered with a completely straight face. Andy was beginning to suspect Emily was funny. Which was a problem. A massive, catastrophic problem. Andy had already fallen for her based purely on her looks, her perfume, and her deeply unreasonable ability to look pristine at 7:30 AM. Now she was discovering that Emily had a razor-sharp tongue and a talent for making Andy laugh until she forgot to be nervous. This was getting completely out of hand.

"And where do you work, Andy?"

Andy mentioned the newspaper, explaining that she was still relatively new and mostly covering smaller pieces, though hoping for major assignments soon. Emily listened, she asked about Andy's writing, whether she preferred investigative research or human-interest interviews, and if she'd always dreamed of journalism.

Andy found herself answering without overthinking every single syllable. She talked about wanting to tell stories that mattered, and about coming to New York with a head full of ambition and a bank account personally offended by the cost of living. Emily laughed at that. Not the polite, barely-there exhale Andy had seen her give her phone. A real one, brief and bright, her head tipping back slightly. Andy forgot the next three sentences she’d planned to say.

"So," Emily said when she recovered, "where are you from?"

"Cincinnati."

"Cincinnati?"

"Ohio."

"I know where Cincinnati is, Andy."

"Right. Obviously. Sorry."

Emily shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "You apologise quite a lot, don't you?"

Andy opened her mouth. Closed it. Then, incapable of learning from her mistakes, said, "Sorry."

Emily burst out laughing. Andy wanted to lie face-down on the floor of the subway car and remain there until the end of time. "Oh, that’s just cruel," Andy protested, laughing despite herself.

"It's a little bit funny."

"It's not funny at all."

"It's very funny."

Andy tried desperately to look offended, but failed so spectacularly that Emily laughed again. And Andy thought, with a sort of helpless awe, that she could get used to this. She could get used to Emily laughing at her, could get used to the way Emily's blue eyes crinkled at the corners, could get used to sitting beside her, listening to her real life instead of quietly inventing one. She could get used to knowing her. The thought was so overwhelming that Andy almost missed Emily's next question.

"Cincinnati, then. Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes," Andy said honestly. "I miss my family. My friends. The familiarity. But I wanted to be in New York."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to do something with my life." Andy shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I know that sounds terribly dramatic."

"No, it doesn't."

"I wanted to write. And New York felt like the only place to do it properly."

Emily nodded slowly, as if she understood completely. "Well, you've certainly picked an expensive place to pursue a dream."

Andy chuckled. "You have no idea."

"Oh, I think I do."

"You're from here?"

"London."

Andy turned so fast she nearly knocked her bag off her lap. "London?"

Emily looked thoroughly amused. "Yes, Andy. London."

"You're British."

"Very observant."

"I mean—I knew you sounded British, obviously, but I didn't—" Andy caught herself. "I don't know why I'm surprised."

"Perhaps because you've spent months sitting next to me without asking a single question."

And there it was. A completely innocent observation. A reasonable statement. And yet Andy felt as though someone had given her heart an unceremonious squeeze. Months. Emily had noticed, too. She knew they’d been sharing this carriage for months. Andy had spent so long assuming she was just background furniture to Emily that the realisation of being noticed felt overwhelming.

"I suppose I have," Andy admitted quietly.

Emily tilted her head. "Why is that?"

Oh, no. Andy had zero defence prepared for her inability to speak to the woman she'd been helplessly pining over since early autumn. "I don't know," she said, with all the conviction of a woman who knew exactly why.

Emily studied her for a beat, then let it slide. "Well, I'm from London originally. Moved here for work."

"Do you like New York?"

Emily pulled a face. "Some days."

Andy snorted. "A glowing review."

"It's loud. It's expensive. Everyone walks as if they're personally late for the apocalypse." Emily paused. "And the coffee is dreadful. Just like London, but worse.”

"You're going to offend the entire tri-state area."

"I should hope so. Someone needs to tell them."

Andy smiled softly. "And yet you stayed."

Emily glanced toward the window, watching the dark tunnel rush past. "Yes," she said softly after a moment. "I suppose I did."

Something in her tone hinted at a deeper story, about London, leaving home, or why people uprooted their lives for a new city. But Andy didn't pry. There would be time for that, she hoped. Other mornings, other conversations, other chances to learn if Emily preferred tea, if she had siblings, or if she was seeing anyone. (Andy immediately shoved that last thought into a dark, locked vault in her mind. They’d been talking for ten minutes. Rules existed.)

Andy was so busy enforcing these imaginary rules that she almost missed her station announcement. Almost.

The crackle of the speaker hit, and Andy's head snapped up. Oh God. This is my stop. She looked at the doors, then down at her bag, then back at Emily. For a wild, unhinged second, she considered staying on the train. She could easily ride four more stops, get off with Emily, and double back. She could rationalise it, Emily was on crutches, she might need help! Complete rubbish. Andy had a job. And she was not going to become the kind of person who missed work because a gorgeous woman asked where she grew up. She gathered her things.

Emily watched her, a sharp crease forming between her brows. "You're getting off now?"

Andy tried to sound completely casual. "Yeah. This is my stop."

Emily stared at her, utterly bewildered. "But—"

The train slowed to a halt. Emily looked at the platform, then back at Andy. "But you—"

The warning chimes began to beep. Andy had three seconds to step off before the doors trapped her, while Emily Charlton looked like she was trying to solve a quantum physics equation over the fact that Andy didn't live at her station.

"I'll see you tomorrow!" Andy blurted out. Tomorrow. Like a promise. Like she had the right to make one.

Emily's mouth opened, but Andy was already stepping out onto the cold platform. "Andy—"

The doors slid shut between them. Andy, complete coward that she was, didn't look back until the train started moving. When she finally turned, Emily was watching her through the glass—head tilted in a mix of utter confusion and intense curiosity. Andy offered a helpless, radiant smile.

The train pulled away into the tunnel, taking Emily with it, and leaving Andy standing on the platform with her bag over her shoulder and a ridiculous grin on her face. Hooray! She knew where Emily worked. She knew she was from London. She knew she hated American coffee and thought Andy apologised too much. She knew the exact sound of Emily saying her name. Andy. And most importantly, Emily had been confused when Andy got off early.

Andy took a breath and stepped onto the escalator, practically floating upward. She made it halfway up before the full reality hit her. Oh God. Tomorrow I have to ask for her number. Her smile widened, and she let out a sudden, delighted laugh out loud, drawing a deeply suspicious glance from a commuter nearby. She was in so much trouble. And she had never been happier about it in her entire life.

And yet, tomorrow came, and Andy Sachs did not get on that train.

Not because she had suddenly developed a healthy sense of emotional detachment. Not because she'd come to her senses overnight and decided that perhaps building her entire morning around a woman she'd spoken to for ten minutes was a little excessive. No. Andy Sachs was betrayed by her alarm clock.

Well, technically, she was betrayed by herself, because she'd apparently decided that setting one alarm was sufficient for a woman who had spent the previous evening lying awake until nearly midnight, replaying a conversation in which she had managed to say approximately six coherent sentences and somehow convince herself that this constituted a personal triumph.

She had meant to set another alarm, with the clock on her desk.  She distinctly remembered thinking about setting another alarm. Unfortunately, thinking about doing something and actually doing it were two entirely different things, a distinction Andy was beginning to suspect was responsible for most of her problems.

So when she finally woke, sunlight was already spilling through her bedroom curtains, her alarm was silent, and the clock on her bedside table informed her that she was, in the words of her father, well and truly screwed.

"Oh, no." She sat bolt upright. "Oh, no, no, no."

She snatched up her bedside clock. Checked the time. Checked it again, because surely the universe had made some sort of administrative error. It had not. Andy was late. Not a little late. Not the sort of late that could be remedied by skipping breakfast and walking with a little more purpose. She was missed-her-usual-train-and-was-going-to-have-to-take-the-next-one late.

And the realisation hit her with such astonishing force that, for one absurd moment, she forgot she had an actual job to get to.

Emily. She was going to miss Emily.

Andy stared at her clock, willing the numbers to rearrange themselves into something more accommodating. They did not. "Shit."

She was out of bed in seconds.

The next twenty minutes were a blur of frantic activity, during which Andy managed to put on her blouse inside out, burn her tongue on coffee she had no time to drink, and nearly leave the apartment without her bag. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror on the way out and considered, very briefly, whether it would be possible to fake her own death and start over somewhere without a subway system. Then she remembered she had rent to pay. Tragic.

By the time she reached the station, the train she'd been meant to catch was long gone. And somewhere on that train, Emily Charlton was probably sitting in their usual carriage, in their usual place, with her injured leg stretched out as comfortably as she could manage.

Andy slowed to a miserable walk along the platform. Their usual place. God, listen to her. Their place. They'd spoken once. Once. They had exchanged names, occupations, hometowns, and a few opinions about the coffee in New York. Emily had laughed at her twice, which Andy was fairly certain should not count as a binding emotional contract. And yet Andy had spent the entire previous evening looking forward to sitting beside her again.

She'd even considered what she might say. She'd thought about asking how her leg was feeling. She'd thought about telling Emily a little more about her work. She'd thought about asking whether she missed London, and whether she had any favourite places in the city, and whether she might like to get a coffee sometime. A coffee. An actual coffee. She'd been so pleased with herself for finally having a conversation with Emily that she'd forgotten the rather important detail that conversations generally needed to happen more than once before one could reasonably ask a person out.

And now she had missed her train.

Andy boarded the next one, found a seat near the doors, and spent the first three stops feeling as though she'd personally disappointed every person who had ever believed in her. Then, inevitably, her thoughts turned to Emily. She's going to notice.

The thought arrived with such immediate certainty that Andy had to close her eyes. Of course Emily would notice. Wouldn't she?

Yesterday, Emily had seemed genuinely surprised when Andy stood to leave. She'd looked at her with those bright blue eyes and asked, You're getting off now? as though Andy had just announced she was moving to another continent.

She'd even started to say something else. But—

Andy had been thinking about that unfinished sentence ever since. But what? But aren't you coming further? But I thought we were travelling together? But where are you going? Andy had no idea. She'd had approximately two seconds to find out before the doors closed, and instead she'd blurted out a promise to see Emily tomorrow and fled onto the platform like a woman escaping a crime scene.

A promise. I'll see you tomorrow!

Honestly, what had possessed her? Why had she said it like that? Why had she sounded so certain? Why had she spoken as though tomorrow were a guaranteed event, an appointment already entered into the calendar of the universe? Tomorrow was not a guarantee. Tomorrow was a fickle, unreliable concept that had apparently conspired with her alarm clock to ruin her life. And now she wasn't there.

Andy pictured Emily boarding the train at her station, moving carefully through the carriage with her cast and her bag, perhaps already preparing herself for another conversation. Perhaps she'd even looked forward to it.

The thought made Andy's stomach twist. Would Emily have glanced towards the seat beside her? Would she have noticed the empty space? Would she have wondered where Andy was? Or would she have simply sat down, adjusted her leg, taken out her phone, and continued with her morning as though yesterday had been nothing more than a mildly entertaining exchange with a stranger?

That last possibility was, frankly, unbearable. Because Andy had spent the entire week of Emily's absence discovering just how much a person could miss someone they barely knew. She'd worried. She'd imagined terrible things. She'd saved a seat on a crowded subway for a woman who had never once asked her to do so. She'd spent days wondering whether Emily was all right. But Emily didn't know any of that. Emily had no way of knowing that Andy had spent an entire week feeling the absence of someone who hadn't even known her name. And now, for all Andy knew, she might not think of Andy at all. It was a sobering thought. A necessary one, probably.

Andy leaned her head against the carriage wall and stared at her reflection in the dark window. You're overthinking this. She was. Obviously, she was. Emily had a life. A job. Friends, presumably. Family back in London, perhaps. A whole world that existed beyond the forty minutes she spent on the subway each morning. Andy had no reason to believe she'd become an important part of it after a single conversation. They weren't friends. They weren't even acquaintances, not really. They were two women who happened to take the same train, one of whom had developed a frankly embarrassing attachment to the other.

And yet… And yet, Emily had asked her questions. She'd listened to Andy talk about her work. She'd laughed at her jokes. She'd told her about London. She'd seemed interested. And she'd noticed when Andy was leaving. That had to count for something. Didn't it?

Andy groaned quietly and pressed her palms over her eyes. This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. She was a grown woman with a university degree, a job, and a reasonably functional understanding of human behaviour. She knew how to interview people. She knew how to conduct research. She could write a coherent article about complicated political matters without once having to lie down. But apparently, when faced with the possibility that a pretty British woman might have noticed her absence on a subway train, all of that intelligence abandoned her. She was left with nothing but a pounding heart and a truly spectacular capacity for self-inflicted misery.

And the worst part? She knew exactly how to fix it. She could have asked for Emily's number yesterday. It was such a simple thing. So painfully, stupidly simple. They'd been talking. Emily had been friendly. The conversation had flowed more easily than Andy could ever have anticipated. There had been a moment—several moments, actually—when Andy could have said something.

Would you mind if I got your number? Or perhaps, Would you like to get coffee sometime? Or, if she wanted to be particularly brave, I'd like to see you again.

She could have asked any of those questions. Instead, she'd smiled, said she'd see Emily tomorrow, and got off the train. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Now, if she'd had Emily's number, she could have sent a quick text. Hey, it's Andy. My alarm didn't go off, so I missed the train. Sorry! See you tomorrow? Simple. Casual. Perfectly normal. It wouldn't even have been embarrassing.

Well, it would have been a little embarrassing, because the message would have revealed that Andy had, in fact, been planning to see Emily again, but that was hardly a crime. And Emily could have replied with something dry and cutting about Andy's apparent inability to operate an alarm clock, and Andy could have laughed, and they could have carried on with their conversation the following morning.

Instead, Andy was sitting on a different train, with no way of contacting a woman she had promised to see. A woman whose number she hadn't asked for. A woman whose surname she didn't even know. 

Oh. Oh, God. She didn't know Emily's surname. She'd introduced herself as Emily, and Andy had been so busy trying not to spontaneously combust that it hadn't occurred to her to ask anything else. Of course, she could probably find out. There were ways. Emily worked for Miranda Priestly, and Andy was fairly certain a woman in that position wasn't exactly impossible to locate.

But that wasn't the point. The point was that she shouldn't have to search the internet for the contact details of a woman she wanted to ask for coffee. She should have simply asked. Yesterday. When Emily had been sitting right beside her. When Emily had been smiling at her. When Emily had looked at her with that faintly curious expression and asked why she was getting off the train.

Andy let her head fall back against the seat. "I am such an idiot," she muttered.

The woman sitting beside her glanced over. Andy gave her a weak smile. "Sorry."

The woman turned away. Fair enough.

By the time Andy reached work, she’d convinced herself of at least twelve different versions of what Emily was currently thinking. In the first, Emily had barely noticed she was gone. In the second, Emily assumed Andy was sick or had changed her commute. In the third, Emily was mildly disappointed—a possibility Andy tried very hard not to dwell on. In the fourth, Emily had spent the entire ride staring at the doors, wondering when Andy would appear. Andy rejected that one immediately. It was absurd. It was self-indulgent. It was… the exact one she kept coming back to. Because what if Emily had looked for her? What if she’d boarded the train, settled into their seat, and found it occupied by a stranger? What if she’d glanced at the doors at every stop, expecting Andy’s face? What if she’d remembered Andy’s promise—I'll see you tomorrow—and actually believed her?

Andy stopped dead in the middle of the office corridor. A colleague nearly plowed right into her. "Sorry!" Andy blurted out, scrambling aside.

She continued toward her desk, her mind running in endless circles. Had Emily noticed? Had she cared? Was Andy important enough to be missed? That last question lodged itself deep beneath her ribs. Andy knew what it felt like to miss Emily. She knew the anxious, ridiculous hope at the station, the sinking feeling when the doors closed on an empty platform, the torture of spending a week imagining catastrophic reasons for a stranger's absence. But she’d never considered that Emily might feel even a fraction of that. Why would she? Andy was the one doing all the watching, saving the seat, and memorising the details of a woman who hadn't even known her name until yesterday. Emily had just been living her life. Or so Andy had thought. Now, for the first time, she wondered if she’d been wrong.

She sat down, opened her laptop, and stared at the screen. Nothing happened. She typed three words, deleted them, and spent five minutes reading the same sentence of an email without absorbing a single word. Her phone lay beside her keyboard. She picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again. As if Emily's number might have materialised overnight through sheer force of will. It had not.

At 11:15, Andy got coffee and returned with a cup she barely touched. At 11:40, she calculated where Emily would be on her commute if she were traveling right now. At 11:41, she realised she was calculating the commute of a woman who had been at work for hours. At 11:42, she considered resigning and moving somewhere remote to escape her own embarrassment. At 11:43, she decided she quite liked New York and would just have to live with her choices.

The morning dragged. And with every passing hour, Andy's anxiety gave way to raw regret. She hadn't asked for Emily's number because she was terrified of making things awkward. Afraid of misreading the room. Afraid Emily would look at her with polite pity and say no, thank you, ending their brief, lovely spark. So she’d taken the coward's route. She’d left. She’d gone home with the memory of a smile and the promise of another morning, reassuring herself there was time. There was always tomorrow. Except tomorrow had arrived, and Andy had missed her train.

Suddenly, the possibility of never seeing Emily again felt terrifyingly real. She could have been late for work, missed an appointment, or forgotten her own birthday. But missing the one thing that made her mornings bright? The one person she actually wanted to know?

Andy leaned back and stared at her ceiling. Why on earth did I have so much faith in tomorrow? It was a terrible habit. "Tomorrow" had become her excuse for everything she was too afraid to do today. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce myself. Tomorrow, I’ll ask her name. Tomorrow, I’ll ask for her number. And now here she was, wishing she’d just been brave today.

She remembered the look on Emily's face when she asked, You're getting off now? The crease between her brows. The unfinished question. The genuine confusion, as if Andy had broken a rule neither of them knew existed. Andy swallowed hard. Maybe Emily had just been surprised. Maybe tomorrow she’d be there, and Andy would get another chance. She held onto that thought for the rest of the day, not because she had proof, but because she wasn't ready to give up on tomorrow yet.

When she finally left the office that night, she did something she had never done before: she set three separate alarms. Andy set her clock down, brushed her teeth, and crawled into bed. Tomorrow, she told herself, she’d get on that train. She’d find Emily. And this time, she was asking for her number. No excuses. No running away. No relying on a future that hadn't promised her a thing. She’d just have to be brave enough to do it today. (Even if, technically, today was still tomorrow.)

Andy pulled the duvet over her head. She was going to be the death of herself.

The next morning, Andy Sachs woke up on time. Which, given yesterday's catastrophic alarm clock betrayal, felt like a massive victory.

Three alarms. One on her bedside table, one on the travel clock she'd panic-bought the night before, and one on her college clock radio. The combined noise was less a wake-up call and more a multi-alarm domestic emergency, but Andy wasn't taking chances.

When the first rang, she bolted upright. When the second rang, she was out of bed. When the third rang, she was already at the sink, brushing her teeth with the grim determination of a woman who had learnt her lesson about delaying romance. She was not missing that train again.

She dressed, grabbed her bag, and practically flew down the stairs. She bought a coffee she barely tasted, sprinted through the station turnstile, and boarded the train with approximately twelve seconds to spare.

Then she sat down. And waited. It was absurd how much calmer she felt simply knowing she'd made it.

The carriage rattled through the familiar dark tunnels, stopping at the same stations and swallowing the same exhausted commuters. Andy watched the doors at every stop, trying very hard to look like a normal human being who was just casually interested in transit logistics. She was not looking for anyone. She was merely observing her surroundings.

At the next station, a man got on clutching a folded newspaper. At the one after, a woman with a particularly aggressive briefcase shoved past Andy's knees. Andy checked her watch. Still early. Good. She had time to compose herself. She could think of something clever to say, something that would make Emily laugh again. Though realistically, she’d probably blurt out "How's your leg?" and follow it up by asking if it was still attached.

Andy sighed. She was just going to have to accept that she wasn't smooth. It was a harsh truth, but she was a journalist, she believed in facts.

And then the train slowed. Emily's station. Andy's heart, which had been behaving itself for the first time all morning, immediately abandoned whatever remaining dignity it possessed.

The doors slid open. Passengers filed in. And there she was.

Vivid red hair first, catching the harsh light in a way Andy thought was frankly unfair to every other colour in existence. Then the familiar structured coat, the sharp eyeliner, the carefully balanced bag, and the plaster cast that made her movement a fraction slower than usual. Emily Charlton.

Andy felt herself smile before she could stop it. Emily spotted her almost instantly.

And then, to Andy's absolute shock, Emily smiled first. "Morning, Andy."

"Hi," Andy managed. A brilliant start.

Emily settled into the seat, taking meticulous care with her injured leg. She placed her bag in her lap and turned toward Andy with a curious smile. "I didn't see you yesterday."

There it was. The exact sentence Andy had spent twenty-four hours dreading. She swallowed. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

Emily's eyebrows rose. "You don't have to apologise. I was just wondering."

Andy let out a nervous chuckle. "My alarm didn't go off."

Emily stared at her. Then she let out a short, delighted laugh that made Andy feel vastly better about being defeated by a clock. "Your alarm? You missed the train because you slept in?"

"Yes, Emily. Some of us aren't naturally blessed with the ability to function before 8:00 AM."

"Clearly."

Andy grinned. "I was late for work, too, so a wildly productive morning all around."

"How dreadful."

"Thank you for your overwhelming sympathy."

"You're very welcome."

Emily's smile lingered, and Andy felt the residual tension melt out of her shoulders. Emily didn't seem annoyed, she didn't look at Andy as though she'd broken a sacred promise, nor did she seem particularly shocked by the explanation. Still, a small, ridiculous part of Andy wondered if Emily had missed her the same way Andy missed her. If she’d glanced toward the doors, looked at the empty seat, or remembered Andy’s parting words: I'll see you tomorrow.

Andy didn't dare ask. Instead, she smiled and said, "I made sure it won't happen again."

"Oh? How?"

Andy hesitated. "I bought another alarm clock."

Emily stared at her, her mouth twitching. "You bought a second alarm clock?"

"I panicked!"

“Wow. One would think you were preparing for an international flight."

"Well, I had somewhere important to be."

The words slipped out before Andy could filter them. For one brief, horrific second, she considered leaping out the nearest emergency exit. Emily looked at her. Andy looked at Emily.

And then, mercifully, Emily laughed. "Well," she said, adjusting her bag, "I'm glad your original clock has been thoroughly reprimanded."

Andy laughed along, the last traces of anxiety vanishing. Just like that, yesterday's disaster became something shared, a joke that belonged to both of them.

They talked about work again, Andy venting about an editor who seemed convinced every article could be improved by cutting all the actual substance, while Emily countered with Miranda's latest impossible demands, a deadline that violated the laws of physics and an outfit that apparently needed to exist in a colour yet to be invented by science.

"She wants what?"

"A very specific shade of blue."

"Surely there are only so many shades of blue."

Emily turned to her with the grave, unblinking intensity of a diplomat explaining a declaration of war. "Andy, there are always more shades of blue."

Andy nodded with absolute solemnity. "Of course. My mistake."

"Honestly, sometimes I think she expects me to invent new colours on the spot."

"Have you considered it? You'd be rich."

"I'd rather be unemployed."

Andy laughed so hard the commuter across from them shot them a glare. She didn't care, she was having far too much fun. And Emily, who had spent months sitting beside her in icy isolation, seemed to be enjoying herself just as much. She asked about Cincinnati, and Andy talked about growing up in Ohio, and her childhood comfort food, and how she missed her mother’s cooking ever since she left home for New York. 

"Do you think you've found what you came for?" Emily asked softly.

The question caught Andy completely off guard. She glanced at Emily, and for one reckless, terrifying second, the truth almost spilled out. Yes. Because sitting next to Emily, with her red hair, dry wit, and tired, beautiful eyes, Andy couldn't remember the last time she’d looked forward to anything as much as these mornings. But that was an insane answer. Emily wasn't what Andy had come to New York to find, Andy had come for a career, for independence, for a life as a writer. She hadn't moved across the country to fall hopelessly in love with a stranger on the subway.

So she said, "I think I'm getting there."

Emily studied her face for a beat, then nodded. "Good."

Andy's heart did a strange little flip, because Emily said it so simply, as though she genuinely meant it. As though Andy's dreams mattered to her.

Andy wondered what it would be like to know her properly. Not just the subway version of Emily, impeccably dressed and armed with a precise complaint for every minor inconvenience, but the Emily who lived in London before New York. The Emily who had moved across an ocean for a job. The Emily who had favourite restaurants, old friends, and stories she didn't tell strangers. The Emily who had been terrified during that car accident. Andy wanted to know all of it, and she wanted Emily to know her, too.

Which was precisely why, when the train finally pulled into Andy's station, she did what any sensible, terrified person would do. She stood up, grabbed her bag, and said, "Well, this is me."

Emily looked up, surprised. "Already?"

Already. The word settled warm and glowing in Andy's chest. "Afraid so."

Emily glanced toward the doors, then back up at her. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

Andy nearly forgot how to breathe. Emily had said it first. Not if you're on the train, or if I run into you, but a direct expectation: I'll see you tomorrow, then? Andy beamed so wide her cheeks practically ached. "Yeah," she said softly. "Tomorrow."

The doors beeped. Andy stepped onto the platform. And once again, she left without asking for Emily's number. Again. She was beginning to suspect there was something fundamentally broken in her brain. She’d had plenty of opportunities, she could have asked yesterday, she could have asked today! “Would you like to exchange numbers?” or “Can I call you sometime?”—normal, standard human interactions. Instead, she’d just smiled, said goodbye, and fled onto the platform.

She watched the train pull away, catching a final glimpse of Emily through the glass, and pressed her lips together to fight off a massive grin. Tomorrow. She had another tomorrow. And somehow, that was enough.

The trouble was that tomorrow kept coming, and Andy kept getting on that train.

On Wednesday, Andy was already seated and had dusted the seat next to her when Emily got on. She was greeted by a smile and a crisp, "Punctual today."

"My new alarm clocks made several credible threats against my life."

"Good. They’re doing their job."

They spent the ride locked in a heated debate over American versus British television, a subject Emily treated with the fierce geopolitical seriousness of a UN council member.

On Thursday, Emily confessed to a disastrous attempt at cooking dinner that nearly resulted in calling the fire department. Andy, who had once managed to burn water while making pasta, felt an immediate, profound sense of soulmate kinship.

On Friday, Andy brought a newspaper and discovered Emily loved crosswords, provided the clues weren't "utterly brainless."

"They're all brainless," Andy murmured, leaning over her shoulder to inspect the grid.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't offer your assistance."

"Perhaps you shouldn't do crosswords in public if you're going to be so territorial."

Emily handed her the pencil with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. Six letters. Utterly hopeless."

Andy looked at the puzzle, then looked at Emily. "Is that the clue, or are you describing me?"

Emily let out a sudden bark of laughter that nearly made her drop the pencil. Andy thought she might hold onto the sound of that laugh for the rest of her life.

And so the days turned into a rhythm. Monday became Tuesday, Tuesday became Wednesday, and the mornings took on a completely new shape. There were still deadlines, packed train cars, terrible coffee, and commuters who insisted on taking up two seats. But now, there was Emily.

Sometimes they talked. Sometimes Emily read. Sometimes she vented about Miranda's latest absurd demands while Andy listened with an enthusiasm totally disproportionate to editorial assistant drama. Sometimes they just sat in comfortable silence, watching the tunnel lights flash past.

And every morning, as Emily's station approached, Andy looked toward the doors with something she had never dared to harbour before. Hope. She knew how Emily took her coffee now (even if she hadn't convinced her that New York brew was drinkable). She knew which topics made Emily's eyes light up and which ones made her roll them. She knew Emily was far more likely to admit to being tired than to admit to being upset, and that she pressed her lips into a tight line whenever she was trying not to laugh. She knew Emily missed London more than she let on.

And Emily knew things about Andy, too. She knew about Cincinnati, Andy's family, her writing ambitions, her atrocious cooking, and her uncontrollable habit of apologising for existing. She knew Andy was a journalist struggling to navigate a city that charged five dollars for every breath of air. She knew Andy's real laugh, knew the way Andy looked at her when she spoke, with a level of undivided attention that made Emily feel, occasionally, like the only person in the entire carriage.

And yet, somehow, neither of them had asked for the other's number. It became a running joke in Andy's head. Today I'll do it. Today I'll ask. She’d wait for a lull in the conversation, prep her smooth line—Hey, can I get your number?—and then Emily would say something witty about London or Miranda, and Andy would get so completely swept up in her smile that the question evaporated into thin air. Then her stop would arrive. She’d stand, Emily would look up, and Andy would say, "See you tomorrow!" And Emily would smile and reply, "See you tomorrow, Andy."

It happened Monday. It happened Tuesday. It happened Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. By the end of the week, Andy was almost afraid to break the spell. Because somewhere along the way, these mornings had stopped feeling like a fleeting opportunity she had to frantically grasp before it vanished. They belonged to them now. There was no formal agreement, no phone numbers, no official promises. There was only the train, the familiar carriage, the seat beside Emily, and conversations that started with weather complaints and ended with Andy learning about the house Emily grew up in. It was the mutual understanding that, for as long as their commutes overlapped, they had each other.

Andy had spent months imagining what it would be like to know Emily, picturing grand, dramatic introductions and witty charm that would make Emily fall at her feet. The reality was far better. It was Emily telling Andy her shoes were ridiculous. It was Andy insisting they were practical, despite almost tumbling down the stairs that morning. It was Emily laughing at her, Andy laughing back, and the accidental brush of their shoulders when the train lurched, a lingering warmth long after they separated. It was Emily asking, on a freezing morning, if Andy had remembered a scarf. It was Andy learning Emily’s favourite London bakery and secretly deciding she would visit it one day. There was no certainty, no late-night texts, no dinner dates. Just the thrill of wondering what Emily would say next, and the simple knowledge that every morning, they were both actively choosing to step into the exact same train car just to spend a few minutes together.

Neither of them had to be there. Neither of them had promised to be. But they kept showing up. And to Andy, that meant everything.

By Friday afternoon, Andy had developed a plan. It was a brilliant, highly sensible plan designed to solve the increasingly unhinged problem that had taken up residence in her brain rent-free.

She was going to ask Emily Charlton for her phone number. That was it. She’d get the number, save it in her phone, and suddenly they could communicate outside the confines of the MTA. They could call each other. They could make plans. They could grab coffee. Coffee. A completely ordinary beverage. People drank it together every single day without their hearts attempting to smash through their ribcages.

Andy could do this. She rehearsed the plan all Friday evening, carried it through the subway turnstiles, and brought it home to her apartment.

By Saturday morning, however, she had somehow managed to forget she was supposed to be a rational person with a plan.

The first issue was that there was no train to catch. No alarm to resent, no frantic search for a clean shirt, no reason to rush. It was Saturday. She had nowhere to be, and absolutely no legitimate excuse to be obsessing over a woman she had only officially spoken to for a week.

Naturally, she thought about Emily immediately. She thought about her while making coffee. She thought about her while staring into the open fridge, debating between eggs and cereal. She thought about her while eating the cereal, chosen because eggs required more culinary ambition than she possessed before 10:00 AM, and while washing the bowl afterward.

During the week, Andy could pretend her preoccupation served a practical purpose: She had to take the train. Emily was on it. Sitting together was efficient. On the weekend, there were no excuses. No shared car, no station announcements, no chance to turn her head and find Emily looking immaculate and mildly offended by existence. There was only Andy, alone in her apartment with far too much unstructured free time.

She wondered what Emily did on Saturdays. Did she sleep in? Unlikely. Emily didn't seem like the type to believe in sleeping in, just as she didn't believe in mismatched outfit tones. Perhaps she rose early, brewed a proper tea, and read the financial times. Or perhaps she spent her mornings doing something impossibly chic, like browsing an art gallery or buying artisanal cheese from a shop where nothing had price tags. Or perhaps she stayed in her pyjamas until noon and watched trashy reality television. Andy loved that possibility. She pictured Emily at home, barefoot, without the tailored trench coat and intimidating heels. Did she have comfortable clothes? A favourite mug? A specific armchair where she liked to read?

The image of Emily Charlton in an ordinary domestic setting was so unexpectedly overwhelming that Andy had to set her mug down. What did Emily eat for breakfast? It was a ridiculous question. Emily was an adult perfectly capable of sustaining herself. Still, Andy wondered: Toast? Fruit? Was she a proper sit-down-with-cutlery-and-zero-crumbs type of person?

Andy looked down at the stray cereal crumbs on her own table and felt personally judged by an imaginary woman. "Oh, for God's sake," she muttered to the empty room.

She tried to read the news, but halfway through an article, she caught herself wondering if Emily read the front page or skipped straight to the arts. She tried to draft a story, but three paragraphs in, she was imagining Emily dreading Monday's inevitable Miranda Priestly drama.

Andy wondered if Emily actually liked her job. She was brilliant at it, that was obvious. But being good at something and enjoying it were entirely different things. She wanted to know what Emily did when she wasn't being a hyper-efficient assistant. She wanted to know what she wanted out of life. She wanted to know what made Emily happy.

The realisation made Andy sit bolt upright. This was no longer just a harmless subway crush. This was a full-blown obsession over the breakfast habits, reading choices, and secret dreams of a woman she’d only just learnt the name of. She needed a hobby. Immediately.

That afternoon, she went grocery shopping and caught herself wondering what Emily put in her cart. She passed a bakery and wondered if Emily liked pastries. She spotted a woman with vivid red hair and nearly broke her neck turning around before realising it wasn't her.

By 6:00 PM, Lily called. "You're still coming to dinner, right?"

Andy blinked at her wall clock. "Yes."

"You sound surprised."

"I'm not surprised!"

"You sound like you're trying to remember if we made plans."

"I remembered!"

"Good, because I was about to drag you out by your hair. And Andy?"

"Yeah?"

"Please wear an outfit that didn't live on your bedroom floor."

Andy looked down at her clothes. Mostly clean. "You're a terrible friend."

"I know. See you in twenty."

Dinner with Lily was supposed to be the reset Andy needed, a normal night out without transit schedules or the existential weight of a woman saying See you tomorrow. She lasted roughly six minutes.

"So," Lily said, eyeing her over her wine glass, "what's going on with you?"

Andy kept her eyes glued to the menu. "Nothing."

"Nothing? You've been reading the pasta section for four minutes."

"It's a big decision!"

Lily leaned back, narrowing her eyes. "You're seeing someone."

Andy nearly dropped the menu. "What? No!"

"You're thinking about someone, then."

"No."

"Andy. I've known you for years. You have two work-thinking faces, and neither of them looks like that. Like you’re in high school again and hiding a secret crush.”

Andy's face flushed bright red. Lily’s jaw dropped. "Oh my God."

"Don't."

"There is someone! Who are they?”

Andy closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the table. Lying to Lily was impossible. "Her name is Emily," she confessed to the tablecloth.

Lily let out a strangled noise. "Emily."

"Yes."

"Who is Emily?"

Andy hesitated, knowing how unhinged this sounded out loud. "She's a woman on my train."

Silence. Lily slowly set her wine glass down. "I'm sorry. What?"

"On the subway."

"You have a catastrophic crush on a woman you see on the subway?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds strange."

"Andy, there is no way to say that sentence that doesn't sound strange!"

Andy groaned, covering her face. "Please don't make me talk about this."

"Oh, I am absolutely making you talk about this."

So Andy spilled. Not everything, she kept the months of silent pining and the sheer panic when Emily was in the accident to herself, but she told Lily about the cast, the first real conversation, and their daily morning banter. She admitted that Emily had noticed when she missed a train. And then she admitted the phone number situation.

Lily went from amused to utterly baffled. "Wait. You've been talking every single morning for a week and you haven't asked for her number?"

Andy winced. "I keep meaning to!"

"How do you forget?!"

"We get talking!"

"Yes, Andy! That’s what people do when they like each other!"

"And then my stop comes," Andy mumbled.

"And you just leave? Without asking?”

"Yes."

Lily stared at her in disbelief. Andy took a defensive sip of water. "I've been very busy being an idiot."

"Clearly." Lily shook her head, though a smirk was breaking through. "Andy, you need to ask her out."

Andy nearly choked. "Out?!"

"Yes! Out! On a date that doesn't involve moving train cars!"

"I was thinking coffee."

"Coffee is good."

“Ugh.” Andy groaned. Coffee was good, but in this context, coffee was not simply just coffee. Asking for Emily’s number was a practical step. Asking her to coffee meant stepping out from behind the safety of the commute. It meant risking a polite no, and having to sit beside her the next morning with a shattered ego.

Lily’s expression softened. "Look. You don't have to declare your undying love. Just ask if she wants to grab coffee sometime."

"I haven't declared anything!"

“Come on now, don’t be a chicken,” Lily winked, elbowing Andy in the arm. 

“Get your nose out of my business!” Andy defended and elbowed Lily right back.

They ordered dinner, but Emily kept drifting into Andy's thoughts. When the food arrived, Andy wondered if Emily liked pasta. When Lily complained about a bad date, Andy imagined Emily’s sharp commentary on it.

The commute had given them a lovely routine, but the weekend was a stark reminder that Emily had an entire life outside that carriage, friends, plans, an apartment Andy had never seen, a whole world that had nothing to do with her. Andy wanted to be part of that world. She wanted more time.

She stopped at the corner on her walk home, looking up at the lit windows of the city. Somewhere out there, Emily was having her own Saturday night, completely unaware that a journalist from Cincinnati was standing on a sidewalk having a crisis over coffee. It was ridiculous. It was terrifying. It was the most alive Andy had felt in months.

On Monday, Andy decided, I'm asking. Not for a number to sit unused in her contacts, but for an actual coffee date. "Would you like to get coffee with me sometime?"

She rehearsed it six times before reaching her apartment. She let herself in, set her keys down, and looked at her quiet living room. Looking forward to seeing Emily on the train wasn't enough anymore. She knew Emily's laugh. She knew her voice saying Andy. Now, she wanted to know her properly.

Andy turned off the lights and got into bed, eager for her alarm to ring. Coffee. Just coffee. She stared up at the dark ceiling, pulling the covers to her chin.

"Oh, God," she whispered to the darkness. "Please let me actually ask her."

Monday morning arrived with the exact level of cruelty Andy expected from Mondays.

Her alarms blared. She got dressed, drank coffee that tasted faintly of burnt cardboard, and hurried down the stairs with her bag clacking against her hip.

And the entire walk to the subway, she rehearsed: “Would you like to get coffee sometime?” Too formal. “Hey, do you want to grab coffee with me?” Too casual? Was there such a thing as too casual for coffee? It was caffeine, not a marriage proposal. People got coffee constantly!

Unless, of course, Emily said no. Andy shoved that thought away so violently she nearly plowed into a commuter exiting the station. "Sorry!" she muttered.

She was going to ask. Today. No excuses, no panic, no getting completely hypnotised by Emily's smile and forgetting to act like a functional adult. Simple.

By the time she stepped into the train car, she’d repeated the words so many times they’d lost all meaning. She took her seat and waited.

The train slowed at Emily's stop. The doors slid open. And Emily stepped inside.

Andy had seen her on Monday mornings before, but today, after forty-eight hours of absurdly detailed pining, seeing her felt like surviving a long, agonising ordeal. There she was. Red hair. Structured coat. Pristine handbag. The mildly offended expression of a woman who had already encountered three inconveniences before breakfast. Andy felt her entire body relax.

Emily spotted her and smiled. "Morning, Andy." And there went Andy's nervous system.

"Hi," Andy said, praying her voice sounded normal.

Emily settled beside her, carefully manoeuvring her leg. She turned to Andy. "How was your weekend?"

Andy nearly ascended to another dimension. It was a standard, polite Monday question. But Emily had actually wondered about Andy's weekend! Meanwhile, Andy had spent Saturday wondering if Emily liked her toast buttered. The sheer disparity was humiliating.

"Good," Andy said.

Emily raised an eyebrow. "Good? Wow. A remarkably detailed account."

Andy let out a breathless chuckle. "Sorry. Still waking up."

"Clearly." Emily's lips curved, and Andy decided she would happily spend the rest of her life being gently roasted by this woman.

"It was nice," Andy tried again. "Quiet. Caught up on reading, saw a friend for dinner."

"Oh, lovely."

"Yeah. My friend Lily spent most of it telling me I need to get out more."

Emily glanced at her. "Do you?"

Andy stared. Several responses flashed before her eyes, none of them safe:

1. Yes, actually. I thought we could start by going out together.
2. I spent Saturday imagining your apartment, so a change of scenery is urgent.
3. I’ve been trying to ask you for coffee for forty-eight hours and might combust if I don't.

Instead, she offered, "Probably."

Emily laughed. "Well, listen to your friend then."

"She's very bossy."

"Perhaps she has a point."

"She’s going to be insufferable when I tell her you agree with her."

Emily looked thoroughly amused. "Tell her I said so."

Andy had to look away for a second. Because that was the thing about Emily, she kept tossing out these casual little remarks, making room for herself in Andy's life.

They moved on to Emily venting about a late-Friday email that forced her to reorganise Miranda’s entire schedule before leaving the office. Andy listened, laughed, and asked questions. They were good at this now. Andy wanted to ask a hundred things, what Emily bought while shopping, if she liked cats, if she was seeing anyone. Most of all, she wanted to ask for coffee. Now. Do it now.

She prepped herself for a lull. Emily was making a cutting remark about a pair of hideous shoes she’d seen in a window, and Andy laughed so hard she forgot her train of thought entirely.

By the time she recovered, they were discussing New York rain versus London rain. Then Andy's article. Then Emily's leg. And suddenly, disastrously, Andy's station appeared outside the window.

No. No, no, no. She looked at the sign, back at Emily, then at the sign again, as if the subway might reroute itself out of pity. She had done it again! A whole weekend of prep, and she’d talked about everything except the one thing that mattered.

The train slowed. Andy gathered her bag with the frantic energy of someone fleeing a burning building.

Emily looked up. "Is that you?"

Already? Andy could practically hear the word in Emily’s eyes. She had four seconds. Four seconds to save herself.

The doors beeped. Andy stood. Emily looked up at her expectantly. And Andy, who had spent two days overthinking every detail, completely abandoned all subtlety.

"We should get coffee sometime!" she squawked while halfway out the door. Utter abandon of all sense of smoothness and gracefulness, she practically threw the sentence over her shoulder as she lunged onto the platform, one hand holding the rubber door seal, one foot on the concrete.

Emily blinked, momentarily stunned. Andy stared back, heart hammering against her ribs. Oh God. I did it.

Then Emily leaned forward, blue eyes shining. "When and where?"

Andy blinked. "What?"

"When and where, Andy?" Emily asked, a brilliant, genuine smile spreading across her face.

Andy’s brain completely wiped itself clean. "When—" The warning chimes began to blare. A commuter behind Andy grumbled. Andy panicked. "Starbucks!" she yelled over the crowd.

Emily squinted. "Which one?"

"The one on Fifty-eighth!"

"When?!"

"One?!" Andy shrieked, a desperate, high-pitched squeak that sounded like a plea for survival.

Emily’s grin widened. "One o'clock?"

"Yes!"

"All right!"

The doors began to slide shut. Andy stood frozen on the platform, her hand reluctantly sliding off the closing glass. Through the narrowing gap, Emily called out, "See you then, Andy!"

Clack. The doors sealed shut. The train pulled away into the tunnel. Andy remained glued to the floor. People surged past her. A man bumped her shoulder. The station speaker crackled with delay announcements. Andy heard none of it. She had a coffee date. With Emily Charlton. At 1:00 PM. At Starbucks on 58th Street. She had managed to secure an actual meeting outside the train, and she still didn't have her phone number.

Andy let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-hysterical laugh, slapping both hands over her mouth. "Oh my God."

A passerby gave her a bizarre look. Andy didn't care. She was going to see Emily in the daylight. Across a table. In a café. Without a subway train lurching beneath them. Then, as the tail lights vanished into the tunnel, another realisation hit her: Did Emily mean this as a date? Or just as friendly transit pals? She had no idea. But Emily had asked When and where? Not maybe, not sometime.

Andy checked her watch. It was 8:45 AM. She had four hours to survive her editor, finish an article, and process the fact that at 1:00 PM, Emily Charlton would be waiting for her. She turned and marched up the stairs, grinning so hard her face hurt. Lily was going to be utterly unbearable about this.

Andy had never been fond of Mondays. Mondays meant screeching alarm clocks, packed train cars, stale coffee, and the unwelcome discovery that her editor had invented twelve fresh problems over the weekend. Mondays meant deadlines, unread emails, and the depressing realisation that forty-eight hours of freedom had done zero to improve her survival skills.

But this Monday?

This Monday, Andy was head-over-heels in love with New York City. She loved the subway, even when a commuter stepped on her foot without apologising. She loved her morning coffee, despite it tasting like it had been brewed in a shoe. She loved the freezing wind whipping down the avenue, the honking taxis, and the chaotic surge of millions of people rushing around her. She loved the entire metropolis because at 1:00 PM, she was meeting Emily Charlton for coffee. It was an unhinged reason to feel affection for a city. Andy didn't care.

She breezed through her morning work with an efficiency that terrified her desk mates. Her editor sent back an article drowned in red ink, normally, this would ruin her entire afternoon. Today, she breezed through the edits, emailed it back, and moved on. A colleague asked a question, Andy answered cheerfully. Her phone rang, Andy answered cheerfully. Someone microwaved fish in the breakroom, Andy remained impossibly cheerful.

She was behaving like a woman who had sustained a minor head injury, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Every few minutes, the thought hit her like a lightning strike: I'm having coffee with Emily.

By 12:15 PM, she’d checked her watch six times. By 12:20 PM, she was convinced her watch was broken. By 12:25 PM, she concluded time itself was moving slowly out of spite.

At 12:30 PM, she couldn't take it anymore. She shut her laptop, grabbed her coat, and stood up.

"Lunch?" a colleague asked, checking the clock. "You're leaving early."

"I'm very hungry," Andy lied smoothly.

She practically skipped out of the office, catching herself on the sidewalk and forcing herself to walk normally. She was twenty-three years old, a professional journalist with bills and a lease, not a middle-schooler heading to her first crush's locker. She was simply meeting a woman she’d spent the entire weekend thinking about. A woman who had smiled through the closing train doors and called out: See you then, Andy!

Andy picked up her pace. Okay, fine. Maybe she was a middle-schooler with a crush. There were worse things to be.

She arrived at the Starbucks on 58th Street at 12:45 PM. Fifteen minutes early. Of course she was. She had entertained arriving at 12:55 PM like a normal, composed adult. But then she’d imagined Emily arriving first, standing outside in the cold, looking around for her, and the mental image had sent Andy into such a panic she’d bolted out of the building.

Now she stood outside, peering through the glass. No Emily. Naturally. Emily worked for Miranda Priestly, a woman who viewed "personal time" as an urban myth invented by the lazy. Emily was probably limping across Manhattan right now, executing three impossible errands at once while managing to look like a million bucks.

Andy pictured her hurrying down the sidewalk, vivid red hair bright against the grey city, crutch in hand, navigating the crowds on her injured leg just to get here. Andy's heart gave an abrupt, painful squeeze. Emily was coming here. For her. She pressed her lips together. Oh God. Oh, actual God.

She went inside. The café was buzzing with the scent of espresso, steamed milk, and chatty commuters. She snagged a small two-top by the window. 12:47 PM. Fifteen minutes had somehow become twelve. This was going to be an agonising wait. Should she order first?

Andy stared at the counter. If she ordered now, she could save them time. But as her brain cycled through the idea, a horrifying realisation hit her: She had no idea how Emily took her coffee. She knew Emily drank it, she’d seen her holding paper cups on the train. But did she take it black? Milk? Sugar? Oat milk? Espresso shots?

Andy almost burst out laughing at herself. She had organised her entire life around this woman for a week, and she didn't even know her coffee order. Journalistic failure of the highest order.

12:50 PM. Check watch.

12:53 PM. Realise she should have brought a book.

12:55 PM. Spiral into panic that she picked the wrong Starbucks. (What if there was another one on 58th? What if Emily was standing in a different café right now thinking Andy had stood her up?)

Andy sat up straight. No. Stop it. She repeated Fifty-eighth back to you. It's fine.

At 1:00 PM, Emily was not there. Andy forced herself not to panic. One o'clock was a target, not a hard deadline. Emily had a leg cast and a tyrannical boss.

At 1:03 PM, she worried Emily was stuck in traffic.

At 1:05 PM, she felt mildly ridiculous.

At 1:07 PM, she began rehearsing her opening line again: "Hi." (Too boring.) "You made it!" (Too golden-retriever energetic.) “I was worried Miranda chained you to your desk." (Risky.)

She decided on a simple smile. Smiling was safe.

Andy looked at her hands, forcing her fingers to stop fidgeting. Get her number today. Non-negotiable. Do not let another weekend pass without a way to call her.

The bell above the café door chimed. Andy’s head snapped up so fast her neck popped.

And there she was. Emily Charlton stood in the doorway, scanning the room. Her red hair was swept back flawlessly, framing a dark wool coat and a tailored skirt. She had her bag slung over one shoulder and a faint, familiar crease between her brows, looking every bit like a woman who had just survived an ordeal and fully intended to complain about it. She looked stunning.

Then Emily’s eyes swept past the counter, locked onto Andy’s table, and stopped. The sharp crease between her eyebrows instantly dissolved. The tight line of her mouth softened into a warm, genuine smile. Andy felt every rational thought in her head scatter like leaves in a gale.

Emily made her way across the floor, moving carefully, a bit slower than usual, but with purpose. Directing all that focused energy straight toward Andy's table.

She reached the chairs, setting her bag down with a soft exhale. "Hi, Andy."

Andy looked up, her own smile breaking out before she could even try to play it cool. "Hi."

Emily glanced at the empty table, then at Andy's bare hands. "Have you been waiting long?"

Andy debated lying to preserve her dignity. "Not too long."

Emily checked her watch, her mouth twitching. "It’s seven past."

"Well," Andy offered smoothly, "I didn't want to risk being late."

Emily’s blue eyes flicked back to hers, something deeply amused and warm sweeping across her features. "Neither did I." And just like that, Andy forgot every pre-planned, rehearsed line in her repertoire.

Emily pulled out the chair and sat down, carefully stowing her injured leg beneath the small table. She unbuttoned her coat, settled her bag, and looked around the warm café before turning back to Andy. "So," Emily said, her voice rich and smooth. "Coffee?"

Andy chuckled, the last lingering thread of nervousness vanishing into thin air. And she had a plan. It was a simple plan that required no grand intelligence, no exceptional courage, and zero elaborate prep.

She was going to get Emily’s coffee.

Emily had a cast on her leg. Emily worked for Miranda Priestly, which Andy assumed meant she’d already endured a full day's worth of suffering before noon. The least Andy could do was save her a trip to the counter. (Plus, it meant she’d finally learn Emily’s coffee order—a terrible journalistic oversight that had plagued Andy all weekend.)

Emily had barely settled into her chair when Andy leaned forward. "Why don't I get the coffee? You stay put. No need to queue on that leg."

Emily glanced at her cast, then back up at Andy. For a split second, Andy panicked that she’d overstepped. Then Emily smiled softly. "That's very sweet of you."

Andy's brain promptly abandoned its post. Sweet. Emily had called her sweet. "Well," she stammered, “You came all this way."

Emily tilted her head. "So did you."

"Yes, but I have two fully operational legs."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you. I work very hard on them."

Emily let out a bright, musical laugh, and Andy felt the sound echo straight down to her ribs. God, that laugh. "All right," Andy said, standing. "Can I take your order?"

Emily looked up, and gave her a smile so warm, genuine, and unguarded that Andy briefly forgot they were in a public Starbucks. She rattled off her order (a double-shot skim milk cappuccino, extra hot), and Andy listened with the intense concentration of a federal agent, committing every detail to memory: The drink, the milk, the precise temp preference.

"Got it," Andy beamed, unable to suppress a ridiculous smile.

"Thank you, Andy." She’d said her name again. Andy practically floated to the counter.

She ordered the drinks, double checked to make sure she remembered Emily’s correctly, and waited. When the barista called her name, Andy carefully balanced the cups and navigated back to the table.

"That was quick," Emily noted as Andy approached.

"I'm very efficient."

Emily eyed the two cups. "Really?"

"No, but I wanted to make a good impression." The words slipped out before Andy could filter them. For a beat, neither of them moved. Then Emily offered a knowing smirk that made Andy feel like she was standing dangerously close to an open flame.

"Well," Emily murmured, "you're doing rather well so far."

Andy nearly dropped both coffees. She managed to set Emily’s cup down without a disaster. "Here you go."

As Emily reached for it, her fingers brushed Andy’s. It was a fleeting touch, skin against skin, lasting less than a second, but Andy felt it like an electric shock.

Emily took a sip, closing her eyes briefly. "Very good."

"Excellent," Andy squeaked.

Emily’s mouth twitched. "Did you want to sit down, Andy?"

"Right. Yes. Chair." Andy sat opposite her, wrapping her hands around her own mug and taking a sip so hot it instantly seared her tongue.

Emily watched her over her rim, eyes sparkling. "Careful."

"Thanks," Andy muttered, trying to look like a woman who hadn't just suffered a third-degree burn. Their eyes met, and they both burst into soft smiles.

The lovely thing about coffee with Emily, Andy discovered, was the total absence of subway interruptions. No screeching brakes, no automated station announcements, no commuters shoving past. It was simply Emily, sitting across from her, stirring her drink twice. Emily, who had folded her coat over her chair with surgical precision. Emily, who was actually talking to her.

They finished their coffees, and lunch somehow materialised. Emily produced a small yogurt from her bag from thin air, Andy picked apart a muffin she was too distracted to actually eat.

"You can't be serious," Emily said, eyeing her over her cup.

"I am a hundred percent serious."

"Your college roommate tried to cook pasta in a kettle?"

"She was deeply committed to one-pot dining."

"A kettle is not a pot, Andy!"

Emily laughed, a sharp, delighted sound that set off a dangerous reaction in Andy’s chest. She wanted to make Emily laugh like that forever.

Once again, they talked about London, Cincinnati, outrageous New York rents, and a nightmare London flat viewing that involved a dubious smell and a bathroom so small Emily had to choose between standing up or opening the door.

Andy snorted so hard she nearly dropped her muffin. "You're making that up."

"I am not! Darling, you have no idea what London landlords consider acceptable."

Darling. Andy’s brain short-circuited. Darling. She was going to replay that single word on a loop for the next forty years.

The afternoon loosened around them. Andy learnt that Emily hated raisins, had fierce opinions on hotel pillows, and had once spent an entire weekend in Paris hiding in her hotel room sleeping off Miranda Priestly.

"You went to Paris and stayed in bed?"

"I went to Paris to recover from a tyrant," Emily corrected playfully. "A cultural experience."

Andy loved hearing her talk. She loved the way Emily got animated over gossip, the way her intimidating barrier dissolved when she was amused, and the adorable little crease between her brows when she concentrated. Most of all, she loved that Emily clearly wanted to be here with her.

Then, Emily’s phone rang. The shift was instant. One second Emily was smirking over her yogurt, the next, her posture went rigid, her shoulders squared, and the fun disappeared into professionalism.

Emily glanced at the screen. "Oh, God." She picked up immediately. "Yes, Miranda."

Andy watched, fascinated and terrified, as Emily transformed back into Miranda Priestly’s first assistant in two seconds flat.

"Of course," Emily said, sliding her phone between her shoulder and ear while frantically gathering her coat and crutch. "Right away."

Andy sat frozen. She’s leaving. And then the realisation hit Andy like a freight train: She still didn't have Emily's phone number. She had remembered it before the date, during the date, when their fingers touched, and when Emily called her darling. And now Emily was leaving! Ask her! Andy commanded herself. Say the sentence!

Emily was slinging her bag onto her shoulder, phone still clamped to her ear. "Yes, Miranda. I'm on my way."

Andy opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Journalist Andy Sachs, who had interviewed hostile politicians, was currently being defeated by a simple request for ten digits.

Then, Emily grabbed a napkin from the dispenser on the table. While still listening to Miranda, she pulled a pen from her bag and scribbled furiously across the paper. Andy blinked.

Emily capped the pen with her teeth, folded the napkin once, and shoved it directly into Andy’s hand. Andy stared at it.

Emily looked at her, her blue eyes warm, urgent, and focused on Andy. She lifted her free hand, curled her thumb and pinky out, and pressed them to her ear in a universal call me gesture. "Sorry, I have to go—" Emily whispered over the mic.

"Of course," Andy managed.

Emily offered an apologetic smile. "I’ll see you tomorrow?"

Tomorrow. "Yes," Andy said instantly. "Absolutely. Tomorrow."

"Good."

And then Emily was gone, limping briskly out the door, phone pressed to her ear, disappearing into the bright afternoon.

The café fell quiet. Andy looked down at the paper napkin in her lap. Written in elegant, slanted, impossibly chic handwriting was a string of digits. And beneath them, two words: Call me.

Andy stared. She blinked once. Twice. "Oh my God," she whispered. A guy at the next table glanced over. Andy didn't care. "Oh my God!"

She smoothed the napkin against the wood table with trembling hands. Emily had given her her number, without even being asked! While being barked at by Miranda Priestly!

Andy let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and buried her face in her hands. "She's an angel," she muffled into her palms.

Carefully, as if handling an ancient, fragile scroll, Andy folded the napkin and tucked it into her wallet behind her driver's license for safekeeping. She looked back at the table, the empty coffee cups, the small yogurt container, the muffin crumbs. She had made Emily laugh. Emily had called her darling. She had Emily's phone number.

Andy stood up, her face aching from a massive, unstoppable grin. She had work to finish, emails to answer, and an editor to deal with, but none of it mattered. She had a phone number. She had Call me. She had tomorrow.

And of course Andy called. She called that very evening. There was no universe in which she’d be handed Emily Charlton’s telephone number with call me written beneath it and simply sit on her hands.

She waited until what she considered a reasonable hour, then waited another ten minutes, just in case Emily was still working and Andy didn't want to look like she'd been staring at the receiver with the desperate concentration of a psychic summoning a spirit. (She was, in fact, sitting right beside the telephone.)

When she finally dialled, she nearly chickened out before the first ring finished.

“Hello?” Emily’s voice. Andy sat up so fast the cord yanked against the side table. "Hi. It’s Andy."

A beat. Then, unmistakable warmth in Emily’s tone, “Hello, Andy.” Oh, she was never going to survive this.

"I just wanted to make sure you got back alright," Andy stammered, attempting to sound like a normal human. "You seemed in a bit of a rush."

"I survived, thank you. Miranda was in a state about a document being in the wrong folder for seven entire minutes."

"Tragic."

"Devastating. I expect a memorial service will be held next week."

Andy laughed, Emily joined in, and somehow the call lasted forty minutes.

They discussed Miranda’s ability to turn minor inconveniences into geopolitical crises, the café, and whether Andy’s muffin had been any good—a subject Emily analysed with the grave intensity of a lead prosecutor.

When they finally said goodnight, Emily murmured, “I’m glad you called.”

Andy lay awake for another hour, grinning helplessly at the ceiling.

After that, it was almost embarrassingly easy.

By Saturday morning, Andy discovered Emily was just as delightful over the phone as in person, with certain tactical advantages. For one, Andy could pace her apartment without Emily witnessing the full extent of her nerves. For another, Emily couldn't see the ridiculous, besotted grin taking over Andy's face every time she laughed.

On Saturday, Andy called to ask if Emily wanted to get brunch.

"I thought you’d never ask," Emily replied effortlessly. Andy nearly dropped the receiver.

They went to a cozy spot Emily knew. The coffee was strong, the eggs were great, and Emily informed the waiter, with absolute authority, that she would not be held responsible for the consequences if he brought her overcooked toast. Andy watched her with helpless affection. "You're very demanding."

"I have standards."

"Of course you do."

"Someone has to."

When they parted, Emily said, “Call me later if you’re bored.”

Andy didn't call later. She called forty minutes later. She claimed she'd forgotten to ask about something Emily had mentioned at brunch, a detail that could easily have waited until Monday.

Emily answered the question, then paused. "Was that really all you called for?"

Andy froze, the silence stretching. "Well," Andy said, clinging to her dignity, "I was also wondering what you were doing."

Emily let out a low laugh. "I'm having a bath, Andy."

"Oh!”

"Would you like a detailed report?"

“Um… not really.”

"Shame."

Andy pressed the phone to her ear and closed her eyes. This was going to kill her.

Then, Emily started calling, too. One Tuesday, Andy was heading out the door when her phone rang. She sprinted back and answered, breathless. "Hello?"

"Andy? It's Emily. I won't make our train this morning. Miranda wants me in early."

Andy leaned against her wall, bag slipping from her shoulder. "Oh! Right. That's fine."

"I thought I'd tell you rather than leave you wondering."

Emily had thought of her. She’d pictured Andy standing on the platform, looking for her, and called so she wouldn't be left waiting. "I wouldn't have wondered," Andy lied terribly.

"Of course not."

"I wouldn't!"

"Andy."

"Fine. I might have wondered a little."

Emily chuckled. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Andy missed her train anyway, spending the next five minutes standing by the phone, replaying the call in her head until it was far too late to run for the station.

By Sunday, Emily called to invite Andy to an art exhibition. They began building a life out of small, casual invitations: Do you want to see this? Have you eaten? I'm walking past that bookshop you mentioned. There's a film on Sunday. I found a place that does proper tea. It's raining. Tell me something interesting. Sometimes Andy called Emily on her walk home, sometimes Emily called from her kitchen to complain about a recipe that promised to be simple but involved three pans and what she described as "an unforgivable betrayal by a lemon."

Andy learnt the quiet sounds of Emily’s life, the soft sigh when she sat down after a long day, the click of her kettle, the rustle of papers in her bag, and the way her voice softened when she was tired, losing its sharp edge, letting Andy see the private, guarded version of herself.

And one evening, Andy learnt Emily was single. They were discussing a terrible date one of Andy's colleagues had been on, and Emily made a noise of such profound disgust that Andy had to ask.

"Men," Emily stated flatly.

"A fairly broad category," Andy laughed.

"I'm comfortable with my assessment. I went out with one once—a friend of a friend. It was dreadful. He spent the entire evening explaining his own job to me, and then informed me I seemed 'rather intense.'"

"What did you say?"

"I told him I hoped he enjoyed his evening, and I went home."

Andy snorted. "What was he expecting? A medal?"

"Apparently, I was supposed to find his inability to listen absolutely enchanting."

"Have you dated anyone since?"

"No," Emily paused. "I haven't really wanted to."

Andy tried to stay cool. "I suppose I thought someone would have snapped you up by now."

The words flew out before she could stop them. Silence on the line. Andy squeezed her eyes shut. Brilliant. Very subtle.

Then Emily said quietly, "No one has."

"Well... their loss."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

A long beat passed. "Thank you, Andy," Emily whispered. And Andy spent the next ten minutes wishing desperately that she could kiss her.

In return, Emily learnt about Nate. The subject came up naturally during a talk about past relationships.

"I was with someone for a while," Andy admitted. "Nate. We met in college and stayed together out of habit. It was comfortable. But I was changing, trying to build a career in New York, and he wanted me to stay the same. We started fighting... and eventually realised we wanted completely different lives."

She told Emily about the slow, painful realisation that being loved by someone didn't automatically mean being understood by them. Emily listened quietly. "I'm sorry, Andy."

"It's okay. I think I was more afraid of being alone than I was of losing him."

"And now?"

Andy looked out at the dark city skyline. "Now I'm not so sure being alone is the worst thing." She didn't add that she measured her days by the sound of Emily's voice, or that the idea of going back to being strangers felt impossible.

-

When Emily's cast finally came off, she called Andy instantly. "I'm free."

"From the cast?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"How's your plan to climb Mount Everest coming?"

"I'm hanging up."

“Liar.”

When Andy saw her that weekend, Emily was walking without her limp, standing taller, radiating her usual confidence. The urge to reach out and take Emily's hand was almost overwhelming. She didn't. Not yet.

By now, they called every night. Their lives had woven together so seamlessly that Andy couldn't imagine a morning without looking for Emily on the subway, or an evening without hearing her voice. It was a dangerous, terrifying way to fall for someone. It was also the happiest Andy had ever been in her life.

The Sunday they went to see Chicago, Andy spent most of the afternoon convincing herself it was not a date.

This was a ridiculous mental exercise, given that she had spent the previous three days obsessing over what to wear. It was also a necessary one. They were going to a musical. They had tickets. They were getting dinner beforehand. Emily had suggested it, and Andy had agreed so fast Emily had laughed and asked if she’d even caught the title of the show.

It was not a date. It was just two friends going to the theatre. Two friends who talked on the phone every single day. Two friends who knew each other's coffee orders, sleep habits, and workplace enemies by heart. Two friends who said goodnight and then kept talking for another twenty minutes. 

Two friends who— Andy forced her brain to shut up. She was not going to ruin this for herself. Not today. She was going to enjoy the show, enjoy Emily's company, and behave like a functional adult capable of spending an evening with a gorgeous woman without turning it into an existential crisis.

And for the most part, she managed. The show was phenomenal, the choreography flawless, the vocals stunning, the set a marvel of moody shadow and light. Andy loved every second of it.

Though if she were being honest, she spent a substantial portion of the night looking sideways at Emily. Not constantly. She maintained some dignity. Enough to follow the plot, at least. But every so often, her gaze drifted from the stage to the woman beside her, utterly captivated by the small, private reactions: the way Emily’s blue eyes widened at a belts-out number, the tiny smirk when a joke landed, the way she leaned forward, completely absorbed, hands resting together in her lap, the flicker of awe when a dance sequence hit a flawless climax.

Andy had seen Emily angry, tired, amused, exasperated, and triumphant. She had heard her laugh over the phone and watched her tear into a bad cup of tea. But seeing her here, in the dark, stage lights glinting in her eyes, felt like discovering a brand-new room in a house Andy thought she already knew inside-out. Andy wanted to memorise every expression. She wanted to know what Emily was thinking. She wanted to be the first person Emily looked at when the lights came up.

The realisation hit her like a physical blow right in the middle of a big ensemble number, and Andy sat stock-still. Oh, shit.

The performers moved across the stage, the music swelled, and the audience erupted into applause. Andy barely registered it. I have to ask her out. Not for coffee. Not to a gallery. Not to brunch, where they could pretend they were just hungry at the same time. She needed to ask Emily on a proper, indisputable date. Because the terrifying truth was that Andy had begun to dread the thought of anyone else sitting beside Emily. Anyone else making her laugh. Anyone else learning the tiny, precious details Andy had been gathering so carefully, one conversation at a time. Anyone else being the person Emily called after a terrible day at work.

Andy didn't want to possess Emily. She knew that. She didn't want to rush her or demand anything Emily wasn't ready to give. She just wanted permission to want her. She wanted to stop pretending that the absolute best part of her life was merely a "very good friendship." And she desperately needed to know if Emily felt the same way.

When the show ended, the audience stood up. Thunderous applause filled the theatre, and Emily stood beside her, clapping enthusiastically, her face bright with joy.

Andy stood, too, watching her. And something settled firm and quiet inside Andy’s chest. She was going to do it. Tonight. No more waiting for the "perfect moment." No more excuses.

They joined the crowd pouring out into the lobby, talking over the noise as they descended the stairs.

“Wasn't the choreography brilliant?” Emily asked, glowing.

“Absolutely.”

“And the tailoring on those costumes—”

“Emily.”

Emily turned to her, her blue eyes bright. “Yes?”

“I—”

A couple squeezed past them, forcing Andy to step aside. By the time she looked back, Emily was already raving about the lighting design in the second act, and Andy nodded along, trying to rebuild her shattered courage.

Outside, the freezing winter air hit them both like a wall. The sidewalk was a chaos of theatregoers, honking cabs, and commuters with their collars pulled up against the wind.

Emily pulled her scarf tighter. “God, it’s freezing.”

“Yeah,” Andy breathed, fumbling with her bag. “I think I brought a scarf...”

“Honestly, Andy,” Emily murmured, her voice fond, exasperated, and suddenly much too close. “Here, let me.”

Before Andy could react, Emily stepped in and gently pulled the scarf from Andy’s tangled bag. It was a simple, unprompted act of care. Emily shook the scarf out, wrapped it around Andy's neck, and began arranging it with careful, precise fingers.

Andy stopped breathing. Emily was standing inches away, eyes lowered as she concentrated on the fabric, her dark lashes fanned against her cheeks. The cold had turned the tip of her nose a delicate pink. She tucked one end beneath the other, smoothing it down against Andy's coat.

“There,” Emily whispered, giving the fabric a gentle, reassuring pat, as if Andy were someone infinitely precious worth taking care of.

Then she looked up. Her bright blue eyes met Andy's. Emily's lashes were impossibly long. Andy had known this for weeks, of course, she’d seen them from across subway cars and coffee tables, but now, standing right in front of her, Andy could see the tiny flecks of silver in her irises and the way her expression softened when she realised Andy was staring.

“Better?” Emily asked softly.

And every single word Andy had rehearsed vanished into thin air. The sensible explanations, the casual jokes, the carefully constructed pitch, swept away, left no crumbs. Emily was still looking at her, hands resting lightly against the scarf at Andy's collar, waiting for an answer. Andy could have said yes. She could have thanked her. She could have asked if Emily wanted to get dinner next weekend.

Instead, Andy leaned in and kissed her. It wasn't planned. It wasn't smooth. It was the single most terrifying thing Andy had ever done in her entire life. One second she was looking into Emily's eyes, the next, she closed the tiny gap between them and pressed her lips to Emily's.

Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. For one awful second, Emily went completely still. Oh God, Andy panicked, cold terror washing over her. I ruined everything. She began to pull back—

And then she felt Emily's fingers twitch against her scarf. A tiny hesitation. A sharp intake of breath. And then Emily’s hands slid upward, abandoning the wool, her fingers weaving up into the hair at the back of Andy's neck. Emily kissed her back.

The world didn't stop. Taxis kept honking, people kept walking, the New York night kept rushing past. But Andy's entire universe shrank down to a single point. There was Emily's mouth, warm despite the freezing air. Emily's fingers at her neck. The soft, breathless little gasp Emily made as Andy pulled her a fraction closer. Andy had imagined kissing Emily. She’d imagined it on the train, in cafés, over late-night phone calls. None of those fantasies came close to the reality. Because Emily was here. Emily was kissing her.

When they finally parted, Andy felt like she’d just surfaced from the deep ocean. They didn't pull far apart, Emily's hands remained draped over Andy’s shoulders, Andy's hands had somehow found their way to Emily's waist, holding her gently—afraid to press too hard, and even more terrified to let go.

Both of them were breathing fast.

Emily looked completely undone. The pristine, untouchable shield had dropped, leaving something soft, flushed, and vulnerable in its place. Her lips were parted, her cheeks pink, her eyes searching Andy's face with an intensity that made Andy's breath catch.

“Emily,” Andy whispered.

Emily swallowed hard. “Andy.” The sound of her name in that velvety voice almost broke Andy completely. She wanted to pour her heart out, tell her how long she’d been pining, how every phone call had been sweet torture, how she’d spent the entire musical staring at her profile.

Instead, the truth spilled out, quite bluntly, “Let me take you on a proper date sometime.”

Emily blinked. Her breath caught in her throat. For a terrifying beat, Andy couldn't tell if she’d made a mistake.

Then, slowly, a smile broke across Emily's face, growing until she looked so radiant, so genuinely happy, that relief flooded through Andy's entire body. “Wasn't tonight our first date?” Emily asked quietly. Andy stared at her. Emily’s smile widened into a smirk. “I mean, we went to dinner. We went to the theatre. You bought the tickets, and I distinctly remember you insisting on paying for the drinks.”

“I didn't insist—”

“You absolutely insisted.”

“You reached for your wallet, so I handed the bartender my card first!”

“Which is the definition of insisting, Andy.” Emily laughed, and Andy’s heart settled into a happy, rapid thrum. “So,” Emily continued, her fingers lightly tracing the nape of Andy's neck, “I would argue we've already had our first date.”

Andy looked at her, unable to stop the massive grin spreading across her face. “And that makes this a date?”

“Andy.” Emily said her name with such fond, exasperated affection Andy wanted to kiss her again instantly. “You called me on Thursday to ask me to a musical, and then spent the entire show staring at me as if I were the only person in the building.”

Andy’s mouth dropped open. “I did not! I was watching the performance!”

“Of course you were.”

“I was!”

Emily gave her a flat, knowing look. Andy closed her mouth, clearing her throat. “...Okay, fine. I may have been watching you a little.”

“A little?”

They stared at each other for a second, and then both burst into breathless laughter, the last remnants of anxiety melting into the cold night air. Emily’s expression softened again. “But,” she murmured, her voice dropping, “if you’d like to take me on another proper date… I won't object.”

Andy’s smile turned completely helpless. “No?”

Emily looked down for a second, biting her lip, before looking back up with a spark of playfulness returning to her blue eyes. “Well…you could start by asking me properly.”

Andy laughed, her chest tight with pure joy. “Alright. Emily Charlton, will you let me take you on a proper date? One that is definitely, unmistakably, a hundred percent a date?”

Emily pretended to deliberate. “Hmm.”

“Emily.”

“I need to evaluate my schedule.”

“Please don't.”

Emily laughed again, her hands smoothing against Andy's coat. “Yes, Andy. I’d love to.”

The answer vibrated all the way down to Andy’s toes. “Really?”

Emily’s face melted into an expression so tender it took Andy’s breath away. “Really.” No subtle hints or guessing over napkin notes, a definitive yes.

Andy’s gaze flicked down to Emily’s lips. Emily noticed immediately, her eyes darkening with a playful smirk. “Oh,” she purred softly. “You want to do that again, don't you?”

Andy didn't bother lying. “Very much.”

“Well,” Emily whispered, using the scarf to pull Andy an inch closer, “you could just ask.”

Andy let out a chuckle. “Can I kiss you again?”

Emily’s answer was to close the distance herself. The second kiss was deeper, slower, unhurried. Andy wrapped her arms fully around Emily's waist, pulling her flush against her, drowning in the warmth of Emily's mouth and the soft sigh Emily let out against her lips.

When they finally separated, Emily rested her forehead against Andy’s, both of them grinning like idiots.

“Next Sunday?” Andy whispered.

Emily tilted her head. “For our second first date?”

“Our first official proper date.”

“Ah. Naturally.”

“Next Sunday?”

Emily’s eyes sparkled. “‘Kay. I’ll be there.”

Then, Emily reached down and slid her fingers between Andy’s, squeezing tightly. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the station.” Andy looked down at their intertwined hands, then up at Emily. “You don't have to.”

“I know,” Emily said softly, her smile bright and unwavering. “I want to.”

They walked together down the avenue, hand-in-hand, their shoulders brushing with every step. When they reached the subway stairs, Emily paused, looking up at Andy with a soft, lingering gaze. “Call me when you get home,” she instructed.

Andy beamed. “You know I will.”

Emily leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Andy’s mouth. “Goodnight, Andy.”

“Goodnight, Em.”

Andy stood on the sidewalk as Emily turned and walked toward her cab, watching her until the red taillights vanished into the traffic.

Andy took a deep, shivering breath, resting a hand against her cheek where Emily’s lips had been. She turned and began walking down the subway stairs. She hadn't even made it to the platform when her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She pulled it out and flipped it open.

Em: I know I just said goodnight, but I have to admit I miss you already.

Andy stopped dead on the stairs. A commuter grumbled and brushed past her, but Andy didn't care. Her heart was soaring. She typed back with shaking, happy fingers:

Andy: Me too. Ridiculously so.

The reply was instant:

Em: Call me soon.

Andy stared at the screen, smiling so wide her face hurt, before tucking the phone close to her heart and stepping onto the platform, ready for next Sunday, and every day after.

The trouble with falling in love with Emily Charlton was that Andy had zero intention of ever getting over it.

In the beginning, she’d assumed there was a natural cap on the amount of happiness one relationship could generate. Eventually, the novelty of holding Emily's hand would fade. There would come a day when she could kiss Emily goodbye without obsessing over it for the next three hours, or hear her laugh without instantly needing to hear it again.

Five years later, Andy was prepared to admit her theory had been spectacularly, catastrophically wrong.

Their first proper date was a triumph. Their second proper date was a triumph, too, though Emily insisted the first had already been proper, making the second technically their third. Andy gave up arguing the point somewhere around the moment Emily kissed her outside a restaurant and forgot what they were talking about.

After that, they dropped the numbering altogether. There were simply dates. Dinner at tiny bistros. Museums on rainy Sundays. Movies neither paid attention to because they were too busy whispering back and forth. Long walks through Manhattan, with Emily occasionally hooking her fingers through Andy's and pretending she only did it because the sidewalk was crowded. Andy never called her out on it. She wasn't an idiot.

And then there was the business of walking Emily home.

It started as a matter of courtesy. Emily lived a distance from the subway that Andy claimed was "perfectly far enough to justify an escort." Emily pointed out that she was a grown woman fully capable of walking four blocks unassisted. Andy agreed. And walked her home anyway. It was only sensible. Emily was breathtaking, New York was unpredictable, and Andy loved the walk. She loved the feel of Emily's hand in hers, the way their conversations drifted, and the way Emily leaned against her shoulder while waiting for traffic lights. Mostly, she loved what happened when they reached Emily's door.

The first time, they exchanged a goodnight kiss, shy and sweet. Andy stepped back, Emily smiled, and Andy managed to make it all the way to the sidewalk before turning around. Emily was still standing in the doorway, eyebrow raised. Andy went right back.

The second time, they kissed twice.

The third time, Andy made it halfway down the steps before Emily called her name, turning around so fast she nearly plowed into the handrail.

By the end of the month, they had established a ritual that would have been embarrassing if either were capable of feeling embarrassed about it. 

Andy would walk Emily to her door. They would stand there. They would kiss. Andy would draw back, "You should go inside." Emily would nod solemnly, "Yes. I should." Then one would smile, and the other would kiss her again.

Five minutes later: "Really, you have to go." 

"I live here," Emily would point out.

"I'm aware."

"And yet you're physically preventing me from entering."

"I'm a terrible influence."

"Appalling."

Then Emily would kiss her, and they’d remain on the landing for another ten minutes.

On one freezing night, Emily finally got the door unlocked, only for Andy to snag her hand and pull her back. "Just one more," Andy pleaded.

Emily narrowed her eyes in exaggerated suspicion. "You said that three kisses ago."

"This is a completely different one."

"Oh, is it?"

"Entirely distinct."

"I'm intrigued." Andy kissed her. Emily let out a soft, pleased hum against her mouth, and Andy instantly forgot the temperature was below freezing and that she had an 8:00 AM meeting.

When they parted, Emily rested her forehead against Andy's. "I have to go," she whispered.

"I know."

Neither moved.

"Andy. I really have to go."

"I believe you."

Emily snorted, kissed her one last time, and stepped inside. Andy stood on the sidewalk, grinning at the closed door like an absolute fool, realising this was what the rest of her life was going to look like. She was utterly thrilled.

Andy loved kissing Emily. She loved how Emily's mouth softened the second she saw her, the way a quick greeting turned lingering if they’d been apart for even a few hours, the way Emily reached for her without thinking, as if space between them were an inconvenience she intended to correct. She loved holding her hand, the absentminded way Emily's thumb brushed over her knuckles while they sat on the sofa, under table tops, or in the middle of crowded streets.

She loved hugging her, too. Emily hadn't been demonstrative at first, affection came in subtle gestures like a hand at Andy's elbow or a touch to her shoulder. But over time, she’d become wonderfully tactile. She’d come home from work, drop her bag, and walk straight into Andy's arms, pressing her face into Andy's shoulder until the day's stress melted away. Andy learnt not to push. Sometimes Emily needed to vent about Miranda, sometimes she needed a distraction, and sometimes she just needed to be held. Andy was happy to provide all three.

She loved the private version of Emily no one else got to see. The Emily who called in the morning with a voice so low and drowsy Andy had to press the receiver flat against her ear. "Andy?"

"Morning, baby.”

A beat. "It's too early."

“Did you need something?"

"No."

Andy smiled into her pillow. "Then why'd you call?"

"...Wanted to hear your voice."

Andy’s heart did a violent flip. "Okay,” she murmured.

"Come over tonight," Emily mumbled.

"Are you asking me over?"

"I'm asking you to stop asking questions."

"Right. Obviously."

"And bring dinner."

Then, silence. "Em?"

"Mm?"

"Are you falling asleep?"

"No..." A second later, the faintest snore came through the line. Andy lay there smiling helplessly, listening until she whispered goodnight to a woman already fast asleep. This was the woman who could make a boardroom of fashion executives snap to attention with a single glance. But Andy's Emily was completely undone by a warm bed and a morning phone call.

Andy's Emily fell asleep on the sofa while Andy read beside her, her head gradually sinking onto Andy's shoulder, waking up just enough to mumble "I'm not sleeping" before curling closer.

Andy's Emily made breakfast in her pyjamas.

It was one of life's greatest gifts, Emily padding around the kitchen in soft pants and a faded tee, red hair delightfully tousled, glasses sliding down her nose as she searched for a frying pan. Watching her concentrate on a piece of toast as if it had personally insulted her was magic.

"You're staring," Emily would note.

"I'm admiring."

"Admiring what?"

"You."

Emily would roll her eyes, though the tips of her ears turned bright pink. "Eat your eggs."

"Yes, baby.”

"And stop calling me that when I'm trying to be cross with you."

"Would you prefer Miss Charlton?"

"I'd prefer you stop talking."

Andy would grin and kiss her cheek, and Emily would pretend to be annoyed before catching Andy’s sleeve and kissing her properly.

She loved Emily with no clothes on, her skin smooth and delicate beneath Andy’s fingertips, the hitch in her breath, the way her voice climbed, and the way her fingers instinctively sought out Andy's hair or slipped into her hand.

The first time Andy stayed overnight, she’d been so nervous she almost swallowed her toothbrush. Emily had appeared in the bathroom doorway in pyjamas, looking at her with sleepy confusion. "Are you planning to sleep in here?"

"No."

"Good. Come to bed."

And that was that.

In the morning, Emily woke first, blinking up at Andy before softening into a sleepy kiss.

After that, staying over became a habit. Emily kept a toothbrush for her without a word. Andy left a book on the nightstand. Then came a spare shirt, socks, a cardigan left on a chair. Emily cleared out a drawer. Andy left her shoes by the door. Emily bought a second coffee mug because Andy kept reaching for her elegant white one.

"You didn't have to buy me a mug," Andy teased, eyeing the new blue ceramic one with a slightly chipped handle.

Emily kept her eyes on her newspaper. "I didn't buy it for you. I bought it so you'd stop stealing mine."

"Of course."

Emily lowered the paper just enough to glare. Andy kissed her forehead and went to pour the tea.

By year two, Andy spent so little time at her own place that keeping it was just an expensive way to store old books. When she finally officially moved in, it was a breeze. She packed the last box, turned in her keys, and took a cab to Emily's building. Emily opened the door before Andy could even finish knocking. "Hello," Emily said softy, looking at the box, then at Andy. "Is that everything?"

"That's everything."

Emily didn't say a word. She just stepped forward, wrapped her arms tightly around Andy's waist, and buried her face in Andy's neck. Andy held her close. There was no grand speech, they didn't need one. Emily had cleared the drawer. Andy had the key. Two mugs in the kitchen, two toothbrushes in the bathroom, two pairs of shoes by the door. And Emily, holding her as if she'd been waiting for Andy to come home all along.

They still took the subway together. That was Andy's favourite part of their life, how some things remained sacred even as everything else evolved.

Sometimes they chatted all the way to Andy's stop, sometimes they just sat in comfort, fingers intertwined, watching the city blur past the windows. And then Andy would have to leave, four stops before Emily's. For years, those four extra stations had been a symbol of longing. She’d ridden them just for a few more minutes beside a beautiful stranger whose name she didn't even know. Now she got off because her office was there, while Emily continued on to hers. She no longer had to wonder if she'd see Emily again. She’d see her tonight. She’d call her at lunch. She would come home to her.

Still, on some mornings, Andy hesitated at the closing doors. Emily would squeeze her hand. "Go on."

Andy would look back at her. "See you tonight?"

Emily would smile, warm, steady, radiant. "Of course."

The doors would chime, Andy would step onto the platform, and she’d turn to watch the train pull away, with Emily watching her through the glass.

By 2011, Andy had learnt that love was not one enormous feeling that arrived and stayed unchanged. It was a thousand smaller ones, recurring in different forms.

It was Emily's hand finding hers under the covers, it was the sound of the shower running while Emily read in bed, it was arguing over dinner and settling on pasta because neither could be bothered to go to the store, it was knowing which silences meant Emily was tired and which meant she was worried, learning when to ask and when to just sit quietly beside her until she was ready to speak. It was being the first person Emily called with good news. And the only person she called with bad news. It was the ordinary, extraordinary fact that they had built a life together that neither had to pretend was anything other than what it was.

And then, in the summer of 2011, New York passed marriage equality.

Andy remembered where she was when the news broke, the way the joy rippled through the city, a door opening where there had once been a wall. She remembered Emily's face when they talked about it that night. They’d been together nearly five years by then. They’d lived together long enough that Andy couldn't remember which books had originally belonged to whom. They had made future plans so naturally that neither called them "plans" anymore.

They’d never been great at discussing marriage, not because they didn't want it, but because there was always another deadline, another trip, another minor domestic crisis. And underneath it all lay the mutual understanding that love didn't require a legal document to be real. That was true. But it didn't mean Andy didn't want one. She wanted to marry Emily. She wanted to stand beside her and say the words. She wanted Emily to be her wife, not just in the private language of their home, but out in the world, too. She wanted it so much the thought terrified her.

So she did what any sensible, mature woman would do. She thought about it for weeks, panicked, and then blurted it out at the worst possible moment.

It was an ordinary Tuesday evening. Andy had just showered after work, damp around the edges, wearing a faded soft t-shirt and old pyjama bottoms she’d stolen from Emily years ago. She was drying her hair with a towel as she walked into the bedroom.

Emily was propped against the pillows, glasses on, reading a book. Their bed. Their bedroom. Their life. The bedside lamp illuminated Emily's profile. Her red hair fell loose over one shoulder, one knee tucked beneath the duvet. She looked up when Andy entered.

"Hi, darling."

Andy froze. It was a standard greeting, Emily said it every day when Andy came home, when she answered the phone, when she passed her in the kitchen. But that evening, it struck Andy squarely in the chest. Darling. This woman. This astonishing woman who had once been a stylish stranger on the subway, who had fallen asleep on Andy's shoulder without ever knowing her name, who had written her digits on a napkin and changed Andy's entire universe. This woman, reading in their bed, looking so thoroughly at home that Andy couldn't imagine a future without her in it.

Andy stood in the doorway, towel in hand. Emily glanced up again, brow furrowing. "What?"

Andy opened her mouth. She’d imagined asking a hundred times, at a nice restaurant, on a holiday, somewhere scenic with perfect lighting. She’d thought about rings and speeches and proper occasions. She’d thought about everything except what to say when the moment actually arrived.

"Marry me."

Emily went dead still. Andy stared at her. Then, because she was Andy, and because her brain routinely abandoned her in Emily's presence, she tacked on, "Please."

Emily's book lowered slowly to her lap. "What?"

Andy swallowed hard. "Marry me," she repeated, her voice wobbling disgracefully. "I mean, if you want to! Obviously. I don't want you to feel pressured, and I know we haven't formally talked about it, and I should have planned this better, and I don't have a ring, which I realise is a massive oversight, but—"

"Andy." Emily had taken off her glasses. Her blue eyes were shining. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"Yes," Andy said, her voice steadying. "Yes, I am."

Emily stared at her for a long beat. Then she set her book on the nightstand, threw back the duvet, and swung her legs out of bed. Andy's stomach plummeted into her shoes. "Oh God. You don't have to—I'm sorry! I should have talked to you first, I know this is a lot, and if you don't want—"

Emily crossed the room and stopped directly in front of her. "Andy."

"Right. Sorry."

Emily looked at her for a long, breathless second, then reached up and cupped Andy's face in both hands. "Yes," she whispered.

Andy blinked. "What?"

"Yes, you absolute idiot."

Andy's towel slipped from her hands, hitting the floor. Emily let out a watery laugh, and then she was kissing Andy, her hands warm against Andy's cheeks, and Andy holding her so tightly Emily had to pull back slightly just to breathe.

"Yes?" Andy asked, needing to hear the word again.

"Yes."

"You'll marry me?"

Emily offered a tearful, radiant smile. "Of course I'll marry you."

Andy let out a sound that was devoid of dignity. Then she started laughing, and Emily laughed with her, both of them crying softly in their pyjamas in the middle of their bedroom, without a ring or a bottle of champagne in sight. Andy kissed her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.

Emily caught her by the shoulders. "Darling."

"Yes?"

"You are going to have to stop kissing me long enough for us to actually discuss this."

"Absolutely." Andy kissed her again.

Emily laughed against her lips. "Andy!"

"Sorry!" (She was not sorry. Not even a little.)

They married at the City Clerk's office. Simple, elegant, exactly as they wanted. No grand ballrooms or a hundred acquaintance guests, just the people they loved, a day that felt authentically them, and the chance to make a legal promise they’d already been keeping for years.

Andy's parents flew in from Ohio, along with her sister Jill, who spent the entire morning crying and teasing Andy about finally making an honest woman out of Emily Charlton. Emily's nana and grandpa traveled all the way from England. They were thoroughly charmed by New York, slightly overwhelmed by the place, and head-over-heels in love with Andy's family.

Nana took Andy's hands before the ceremony, telling her so solemnly it made Andy's throat tighten, "I am so very glad Emily found you."

"I promise I’ll take good care of her," Andy said softly.

Nana gave her a knowing smirk. "I'm sure she takes wonderful care of you, too."

"She does," Andy smiled. It was the simplest truth in the world.

And then, there was Emily. Andy had seen her dressed in everything, couture work suits, evening gowns, jeans, oversized tees, bare feet, messy morning hair. She thought she knew every iteration of Emily Charlton. She was wrong.

Emily wore a simple, clean-lined white gown with a sheer veil falling softly over her red hair. No dramatic train, no busy lace, nothing that distracted from the woman inside it.

Andy's breath hitched the moment she saw her. The vivid red of Emily's hair stood out brilliantly against the white. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes luminous, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips. She looked breathtaking. She looked like Emily. She looked like Andy's entire future. For a moment, the rest of the room blurred away, the families, the clerk, the city noise outside. All Andy saw was her bride.

Emily’s smile widened when she caught Andy staring. "What?" she whispered.

Andy shook her head, momentarily speechless. Emily’s eyes melted. "Oh, darling."

That broke Andy completely. She laughed through a burst of tears as Emily reached for her hand. "You look beautiful," Andy managed.

Emily looked down at her dress, then back up. "Thank you."

"No, I mean—" Andy took a breath. "You're stunning."

"So are you," Emily murmured.

Andy glanced down at her own tailored cream suit, her dark hair resisting every attempt at staying neat. "I don't think I can compete."

Emily squeezed her fingers. "You don't have to."

The clerk began the ceremony. When it came time for Andy's vows, she pulled out the paper she had carefully drafted and memorised. She looked at Emily, and promptly forgot her opening line. Emily’s eyebrows twitched up in amusement.

Andy laughed nervously through her tears. "Sorry," she whispered.

Emily smiled softly. "It's alright."

Andy took a deep breath, letting the paper fall away. "I love you," she said simply. It wasn't the speech she’d written. "I loved you before I even knew you. Which sounds completely absurd, but it's true. I saw you on the train every morning, and I wanted so badly to know you. And when I finally did, I discovered the real person was a million times more wonderful than anything I’d imagined."

Emily's eyes sparkled with tears.

"You became the person I called when something great happened, and the only person I wanted when things went wrong. The person I wanted to tell about the weather, my terrible articles, and what I had for lunch. You became my home. And I want to keep coming home to you for the rest of my life." Andy wiped a tear from her cheek, smiling radiantly. "I promise to keep choosing you, even on the days you're cross with me, even when you steal all the blankets, and even when you insult my coffee choices."

Emily let out a watery chuckle. "Because your coffee choices are a crime, Andy."

"I know, baby.” Andy took another breath. "I promise to love you in all the ordinary moments, because those are the ones I treasure most. Wherever we go, whatever happens, you’ll never have to wonder if I'm coming back to you. I'm coming home. Always."

Emily was crying openly now. She took a breath, holding Andy's hands tightly as she delivered her own vows. She spoke of the life they’d built, the quiet rituals, and how Andy made her feel safe enough to put down her armour. She spoke of how Andy made room for her, not by asking her to shrink, but by making their shared world bigger. And, of course, she brought up the subway.

"I think," Emily said, her voice trembling with affection, "I ought to thank you for all those extra train stops you took for me." Andy snorted through her tears. Emily squeezed her hands. "You could have woken me up. You could have gotten off at your stop. You could have decided I was a total psycho and moved to another car. But you didn't."

"You were very comfortable," Andy whispered.

"I was asleep, Andy! I had no idea!" Emily shook her head, a radiant smile breaking through her tears before carrying on. "You loved me before you even knew my name. And then you gave me yours. You gave me a place to just be Emily." She paused, steadying her voice. "I choose you. Today, tomorrow, and every day after. When life is thrilling, when it's boring, and when we're just sitting on the sofa arguing over what to watch. There is no one else I'd rather come home to."

Andy squeezed her hands tight. "Oh, Em."

The clerk smiled, letting the moment breathe before delivering the formal declarations, the rings, and the final seal. "I now pronounce you married."

Andy stared at Emily. Emily stared back. "Hello, wife," Andy whispered.

Emily broke into the most dazzling smile Andy had ever seen. "Hello, wife."

Then Andy pulled her in and kissed her. She had kissed Emily in a thousand places over five years, outside apartment doors, in crowded kitchens, on the sofa, in the dark before sleep. But this kiss felt different, it carried the weight of every morning behind them and the bright, infinite promise of every morning ahead.

When they drew apart, Emily wiped a tear from Andy's cheek. "You're crying."

"So are you."

"I'm allowed. I'm the bride."

"So am I!"

Emily laughed softly, resting her forehead against Andy's. "Yes, darling. You are."

Behind them, Jill was sobbing into a tissue, their parents were embracing, and Emily's grandparents were beaming with unspoken pride. Outside, New York City kept moving. Taxis honked, commuters rushed, and underground, the trains rattled along their tracks, carrying thousands of strangers toward their own lives.

Andy thought back to the twenty-three-year-old girl she’d been in 2006, sitting quietly on a subway seat with a beautiful red-haired stranger fast asleep against her shoulder, too terrified to say a word. She wished she could go back and tell that girl that every missed stop, every nervous morning, and every quiet prayer had been leading right here.

Andy looked at Emily. Emily looked back. "Ready to go home?" Emily asked softly.

Andy smiled, holding her wife's hand tight. "Always."

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ ACT 3: JESSIE 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

“And then you had meee!” Jessie announced this with the triumphant volume of a child who had been waiting patiently, by her own generous definition of the word, for her favourite part of the story.

She was perched squarely on Andy’s lap, little pyjama-clad legs kicking the air, brown hair flopping into her eyes. She pushed it back with a dramatic sweep of her hand and beamed up at her mother, utterly convinced she had just made an essential contribution to human history.

Andy laughed, tightening her arms around her daughter’s waist. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “And then we had you.”

Jessie practically bounced off her knees. “And I was a baby!”

“You were, in fact, a baby.”

“A tiny baby?”

“The tiniest.”

“Was I cute?”

Andy looked down at the small girl, who had somehow inherited Andy’s habit of asking questions she already knew the answer to. “Oh, unbearably.”

Jessie giggled, thoroughly pleased with herself. Across the sofa, Emily lowered her book just enough to look at them over her glasses. “Unbearably is right,” she chimed in dryly. “She screamed for three consecutive hours the first night we brought her home.”

Jessie gasped, looking scandalised. “Mummy!”

“What? You did.”

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was a baby!”

“An impressive defence,” Emily conceded smoothly.

Andy kissed the crown of Jessie’s head before the debate could devolve into a formal tribunal on infant behaviour. Jessie snuggled into her chest, satisfied, and Andy began to weave the rest of the story.

The chapter where their family grew. Jessie loved this part best, partly because she made her grand entrance, but mostly, Andy suspected, because she liked hearing that her mothers had loved each other long before she existed. She liked knowing she’d been wanted before she was even a thought, and that her arrival hadn't been the start of their love, but another way for it to expand.

Andy had always loved the idea of a family. Not that she’d ever been unhappy with just Emily. Quite the opposite. For years, the two of them had been blissfully content in their own little universe, building a life of demanding careers, shared holidays, late Sunday mornings, and an entire language of private jokes that would make zero sense to anyone else.

They loved being married. They loved coming home to each other. There was something magnificent about shutting the front door on New York City and finding Emily in the kitchen, or curled on the sofa, or sitting cross-legged in bed with a fashion magazine spread around her. Andy cherished that certainty, the knowledge that no matter what chaotic investigative story she’d been chasing, or what fresh apocalypse had struck Runway, they would always find their way back to one another. She’d never felt their life was incomplete.

But sometimes, passing a family in the park or watching Jill’s kids tumble over their parents, Andy found herself wondering what it might feel like to raise a little person together. Someone who might inherit Emily’s red hair or Andy’s brown eyes. Someone who would grow up in a home where love was unconditional, never something to be earned by being clever, beautiful, or successful. A child who would know, without ever having to ask, that she belonged.

Andy never pushed the thought. She had learnt over the years that the best things in her life arrived when she stopped trying to force them. Emily had come into her life slowly, one train ride and one phone call at a time. Their marriage had begun with a blurted question in a quiet bedroom. They had built their home organically, one toothbrush and one forgotten cardigan at a time. So Andy kept the wish quiet. If Emily brought up a family, they’d talk. If she didn't, Andy knew she’d still be happy. She had Emily. That was already more than she’d ever dared to dream.

By then, Andy had transitioned into investigative journalism. The work was demanding and unpredictable, chasing sources, digging through public records, and pissing off powerful people. Emily, meanwhile, had stepped into her element in Runway’s fashion department. It suited her brilliantly, Emily had an instinct for fashion that went far beyond looking sharp, she understood how a garment moved, how a silhouette shifted a room, how the smallest detail could elevate or ruin a collection. She still worked under Miranda, which meant survival required a specific level of steel, but Emily was no longer just surviving. She was thriving. She had earned her place. Andy loved listening to her vent and rave over dinner, loved the brilliant spark in her blue eyes when she explained a collection, and loved, selfishly, falling into bed together at night where the world couldn't reach them until morning.

Which was why Andy was entirely unprepared for the night Emily changed everything.

It was an ordinary evening. Andy had just wrapped a gruelling piece that kept her late at the office, and Emily had come home from Runway with a headache and a long list of grievances involving a difficult photographer and a pair of hideous shoes that should never have been manufactured. They’d eaten, vented, and washed up. Emily changed into soft clothes, and Andy pulled her close beneath the duvet. It was their favourite part of the day, when there was no one left to impress, nowhere left to run, nothing left to do.

Emily lay curled against Andy’s side, an arm draped across her waist, her face buried in the crook of Andy’s neck. Andy held her tight, lazily tracing circles against her back.

As Emily’s breathing slowed, Andy assumed she was drifting off. Then Emily spoke quietly into the dark. "Andy?"

"Mm?"

A long pause. "Let’s have a baby."

Andy's hand froze. For a second, she was certain her tired brain was playing tricks on her.

Emily lifted her head slightly. In the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp, her expression was unusually soft, almost shy, a look so rare on Emily Charlton that Andy’s heart gave a violent lurch. "What?" Andy whispered.

Emily swallowed. "Let’s have a baby," she repeated, her gaze searching Andy's face. "I’ve been thinking about it."

Andy stared at her. She’d imagined this talk in quiet, private moments, pondering what a child might look like, what their home would sound like, what it meant to be a mother. She’d imagined bringing it up someday. She had never imagined Emily would say it first. "Are you sure?" Andy asked instantly, her voice laced with protective worry. She wanted it, God, she wanted it, but wanting it for herself and asking Emily to want it were two vastly different things.

Emily nodded firmly. "I am."

"Really?"

"Andy."

"I know, I'm sorry, I just—" Andy gently brushed a stray strand of red hair from Emily’s forehead. "I want to be certain. This is massive. And you don't have to do this because you think I want it," Andy pressed earnestly. "I mean, I do, but I don't need it. Not if you don't. I'm completely happy with just us, Em. You know that, right?"

Emily’s gaze melted into something devastatingly tender. "I know."

"I mean it. I already have everything I could ever want."

Emily looked at her for a long moment. Then she whispered, "I want to build a family with you, Andy."

Something inside Andy’s chest broke wide open. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, sudden and uncontrollable. She pulled Emily flush against her and kissed her, once, twice, before burying her face in Emily’s hair to hide the sudden sob. "Oh, my love,” Andy choked out.

Emily let out a soft, amused laugh against her collarbone. "Don't start crying yet. I haven't even said anything proper sentimental."

"I’m not crying," Andy sniffled into her shoulder.

Emily pulled back, smiling gently, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. "You’re going to be a wonderful mother, Andy."

Andy's heart simply gave up the fight. There was zero defence against that. None. Emily could have told her she’d personally invented the sun, and Andy would have been less undone. She kissed Emily again, pouring every ounce of love, awe, and gratitude into the touch. "I love you," she breathed against her lips.

"I love you, too."

"And you're one hundred percent sure?"

Emily rested her forehead against Andy’s. "I'm sure."

Andy let out a shaky laugh. "Alright," she whispered, grinning through her tears. "Alright. Then let's have a baby."

Emily’s smile broke wide and brilliant. And just like that, their world got a little bigger.

Choosing Andy’s egg and having Emily carry was a decision they’d arrived at with the kind of careful logic that usually preceded a major life choice. It meant the baby would belong to both of them in every way that mattered, a little piece of Andy and a part of Emily, woven together from the very beginning.

Still, Andy had asked. She had asked when they first discussed it. She had asked again when they met with the doctor. She had asked on a Tuesday evening while they were washing the dishes, and again on a Sunday morning when Emily was sitting in bed with a cup of tea.

"Are you absolutely sure, Em?" Andy had pressed, drying her hands on a dish towel and looking at her wife with intense, furrowed concern. "You don't have to carry just because it makes logical sense. I can do it. Truly."

"Andy," Emily had sighed, setting her tea down with a pointed click. "We've discussed this."

"I know, but your job. You work in fashion. Under Miranda Priestly. Your body is going to change, and people in your industry are... well, they're savages about that sort of thing."

"I am perfectly aware of how fashion standards work, thank you," Emily said dryly. "Which is precisely why I am uniquely equipped to handle it. Besides, have you looked at your own schedule lately?" Andy had opened her mouth to protest, but Emily held up a hand. "You are an investigative journalist," Emily pointed out, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You spent last Thursday chasing a corrupt councilman through a rainy parking garage in Queens. You travel at a moment's notice. I, on the other hand, have a desk, an office, and a highly structured environment, even if my boss is a terror. It is far more sensible for me to carry." She had looked at Andy then, her blue eyes softening, her voice dropping into that soft private register reserved only for their home. "And I want to do this, Andy. I want to carry your baby."

That had been the end of the argument.

What followed was a whirlwind blur of appointments, hormone shots, legal paperwork, clinic waiting rooms, and tense, holding-their-breath moments. And then, sooner than either of them dared to hope, the doctor smiled, handed them a tiny slip of paper with a dark little circle printed on it, and told them the transfer had been successful. Emily was pregnant.

The initial wave of pure ecstatic relief lasted approximately two weeks. Then the morning sickness arrived. It wasn't merely "morning" sickness, as Andy quickly and bitterly discovered. It was morning, noon, late afternoon, and three in the morning sickness.

On a bleak Wednesday, Andy stood in the doorway of their bathroom, clutching a cold, damp flannel and a glass of water, watching her wife kneel on the cold tile floor. Emily’s forehead was pressed against her arm, her red hair tied back in a messy knot, her breath coming in ragged, exhausted hitches.

Andy’s heart curled painfully inward, squeezing until it felt like a physical ache in her chest. "Here, Em,” Andy murmured, kneeling beside her and gently pressing the cool cloth to the back of Emily's neck. "Drink a tiny sip if you can."

Emily let out a weak, miserable groan, leaning back against the edge of the bathtub. She looked pale, her skin almost translucent, faint dark smudges beneath her eyes. "I hate this," she whispered, her voice raw and small. "I hate ginger tea. I hate crackers. I hate the smell of the refrigerator. I hate everything."

"I know," Andy said softly, smoothing a stray lock of hair away from Emily's face. "I'm so sorry, Em. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's not your fault," Emily muttered, closing her eyes as she leaned her head against Andy's shoulder.

But Andy felt useless. Utterly, completely useless. She was a journalist. Her entire career was built on solving problems, finding answers, fixing broken narratives, and making things right. Yet here she was, completely helpless while her wife suffered to grow their child. Andy couldn't take the nausea away. She couldn't carry the physical exhaustion, or fix the wild, overwhelming hormonal mood swings that sometimes left Emily weeping over a ruined piece of toast or snapping viciously about the volume of the television before bursting into tears two minutes later. All Andy could do was hold the hair back, sweep the floor, keep the cold flannels coming, and rub Emily’s back in steady circles while her heart broke a little more every single day.

The changes came gradually, then all at once.

Emily’s clothes began to fit differently. She adapted her wardrobe with characteristic skill, choosing pieces that kept her comfortable without sacrificing the immaculate style she lived for. There were days when she radiated a pride in the way her body was changing, and others when she stood before the bedroom mirror in silence, frowning at a dress that had fit effortlessly only a few months ago.

Andy learnt to tread with utmost care during those moments. She knew what the fashion industry demanded of a woman’s body. She had spent years watching Emily navigate an environment where an inch was treated like an emergency, and a precise silhouette was considered a moral triumph. Emily didn't care about her appearance out of vanity, fashion was her career, her art, and her creative language. She loved the discipline of tailoring. She loved the confidence of walking into a room feeling completely like herself. Andy never wanted Emily to feel like she had to sacrifice the woman she had always been to become a mother.

So when Emily emerged from the bedroom one morning in a sleek navy dress she’d been trying on for ten minutes, her brow creased in frustration, Andy immediately set her paper down.

"What do you think?" Emily asked, her tone carefully guarded.

Andy looked at her. She saw the familiar, striking elegance, the vivid red hair, the poise in her shoulders. And beneath the tailored fabric, she saw the soft, undeniable curve of her stomach, a blooming bump that made Andy’s chest ache with overwhelming tenderness. She saw her wife.

"I think you're breathtaking."

Emily let out an exasperated sigh. "That isn't a proper critique, Andy."

"It's my honest answer."

Emily shot her a dry, warning look.

Andy pushed off the chair, walking over to stand directly behind her in front of the full-length mirror. She slid her arms loosely around Emily’s waist, careful not to press, and rested her chin against her shoulder. "You look like yourself," Andy murmured softly, meeting her eyes in the glass. "Just... a little more of you."

Emily went quiet, the tension in her posture softening. Andy pressed a warm kiss to her cheek. "And you look beautiful."

Emily searched Andy's face in the mirror. "You're just biased."

"Wildly."

A tiny, genuine smile finally tugged at the corner of Emily’s mouth. She leaned back against Andy’s chest, resting her hands over Andy's where they folded across her stomach. There they stood, holding each other in the room, their daughter growing between them, safely tucked beneath the fabric while the rest of the world rushed past outside.

Andy could hardly process how lucky she was to share this. She had worried so much early on, about the brutal physical toll of pregnancy, the pressure of Runway, the shallow, casual cruelty of an industry that demanded perfection even from women who were exhausted or sick. But Emily wasn't fragile. Andy knew that better than anyone on earth. Emily was fiercely strong, resilient, and stubborn enough to argue with an ob-gyn over whether a pair of heels qualified as 'sensible footwear.' Yet she was still allowed to have hard days. She was allowed to feel exhausted, to miss her vintage collection, and to feel glorious one morning and deeply uncomfortable the next.

Andy made it her mission to ensure Emily knew she could feel all of those things, and still be loved beyond measure. So she showed her. Every single day. Sometimes with words. Sometimes by bringing her favourite tea or rubbing her swollen feet at the end of a long day. Sometimes by listening to her rant about Miranda's latest absurdities and agreeing wholeheartedly that everyone else in fashion was a total incompetent. Sometimes by kissing her softly in front of the mirror until Emily laughed so hard she forgot what she'd been worrying about in the first place. And sometimes, by simply sitting together on the sofa in the dim evening light, hands intertwined over the curve of Emily's bump, imagining the little girl who was on her way to meet them.

Andy’s job did not become any less demanding simply because Emily was pregnant. If anything, the universe seemed to take the timing as a personal dare.

There were suddenly leads that required state-line travel at a moment’s notice, sources who would only speak in dark diners three hours away, and sensitive documents that needed to be verified in person immediately.

Andy loved her work. She had fought tooth and nail for her investigative seat, and she believed fiercely in the stories she chased. She knew the people impacted by her reporting deserved someone who kept asking hard questions when everyone else looked away. But now, every time she pulled her suitcase out of the closet, a pang of guilt settled in her chest.

The first time she had to pack after learning about the baby, Andy stood in their bedroom surrounded by an open bag and a scattered pile of clothes.

Emily leaned against the doorframe, watching her with an arched eyebrow. "You're making that face again."

Andy looked up. "What face?"

"The one where you look like you're contemplating quitting journalism to become a stay-at-home potted plant."

"I am not."

"You've folded that exact sweater four times, Andy."

Andy looked down at her hands. She had, in fact, folded the sweater four times. "It's a very complicated knit."

Emily crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress. "Andy. I'll be fine. I am going to work. I'm going to come home. I'm going to eat something that doesn't make me nauseous—if the universe is feeling merciful—and then I'm going to sleep."

Andy zipped the bag, paused, and immediately unzipped it because she’d forgotten her phone charger.

Emily sighed gently. "Darling."

Andy stopped her frantic hands, looking up. "I hate leaving you."

Emily’s expression softened instantly. "I know."

"Especially right now."

"Andy, I am pregnant, not made of fine china. And I'm not marooned on a desert island. I have a job, I have friends, I have a phone—and I have a wife who will inevitably call me every three hours."

"Every two," Andy corrected quietly.

Emily rolled her eyes. "Naturally."

Andy sat beside her on the bed, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. "I just wish I could be here."

"You can't be in two places at once."

"It's one of my worst flaws."

"Among many," Emily agreed dryly.

Andy shot her a wounded look, but Emily just smiled, leaning in to press a warm kiss against her lips. "Go do your story," she whispered against Andy’s cheek. "I'll be right here when you get back."

Andy rested her forehead against Emily’s, breathing her in. "Promise?"

Emily’s blue eyes softened. "Promise."

Andy left early the next morning. She called from LaGuardia, then again from her hotel room after check-in. She texted when she woke up, when she finished her afternoon interview, during her brief dinner break, and right before bed, even though she knew she was bordering on insufferable.

Emily never seemed to mind. Sometimes she answered right away, sometimes she sent a quick text saying she was locked in a layout meeting and would call back. Once, she sent Andy a photo of a simple plate of pasta with the caption: Look. I managed to feed myself without your suffocating supervision.

Andy texted back: I'm so proud of you. Did you drink enough water?

Emily replied instantly: I am filing for divorce.

Andy burst out laughing in her empty hotel room. Then she called her anyway. The calls kept her grounded. They made the distance manageable, anchoring her in strange hotels and unfamiliar cities. She learnt to recognise the subtle sounds of Emily settling into bed on the other end of the line, the rustle of the duvet, the click of her nightstand lamp, the soft, contented exhale when she finally found a comfortable position.

Andy would always ask about the baby. "Did she move today?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"No, Andy, I hallucinated the entire thing."

"Em."

"Yes, darling," Emily murmured, her voice warm over the receiver. "She kicked. Right when I sat down to read."

Andy smiled into her pillow. "She's demanding your attention already."

"Her mother’s daughter."

Andy chuckled softly, then paused, her voice dropping. "Are you feeling okay, Em? Truly?"

Emily let out a soft sigh. "I'm fine."

"You'd tell me if you weren't?"

"Yes."

"I mean it."

"I know you do, darling," Emily said, her tone softening sweetly. "I miss you. But we are perfectly okay."

"I miss you, too."

"Come home soon."

"I'm on the first flight tomorrow."

And Andy always was. She wrapped interviews early whenever humanly possible, drafted her pieces on bumpy train rides and in chaotic airport lounges, and practically sprinted through the front door the second her foot hit Manhattan.

There were days when a story demanded more, an extra night, an unexpected lead, a delayed flight, and those were the hardest. She’d sit in a hotel room staring at a photo of Emily sitting by their sunlit window, one hand resting protectively over her bump, wishing desperately that she was home making her tea.

Then her phone would chime with a text or a call. And hearing Emily's voice across the line, Andy would remember that they were already a family, simply waiting for their newest member to arrive.

As Emily’s bump grew, so did Andy’s tendency to fuss. She became deeply suspicious of stairs, uneven pavement, heavy groceries, and any chair that looked even slightly questionable. Emily found this completely insufferable.

"Andy, I have been sitting in chairs for thirty-two years."

"Yes, but this one looks structurally unsound."

"It's an armchair."

"It has terrible lumbar support."

"It is in a five-star restaurant, Andy."

"Precisely."

Emily gave her a long, unblinking stare. Andy offered a serene, entirely innocent smile. Beneath the linen tablecloth, Emily kicked her gently under the table. Andy deftly caught her foot with hers, lacing their ankles together, and grinned into her glass.

There were other, subtler changes, too. Emily began to tire more easily, and Andy trained herself to spot the exact second her wife needed to sit, even when Emily herself was stubbornly determined to pretend otherwise. They adapted their lives in increments. They swapped frantic subway scrambles for taxis when the station stairs became a nightmare. They traded wild weeknights out for early evenings in. Andy became an expert at improvising dinners out of whatever was left in the fridge, a feat Emily dryly praised as "a culinary miracle that defies the laws of physics."

Together, they prepped the apartment as best they could, though Andy secretly suspected no amount of nesting could ever truly prepare two humans for a newborn. They cleared out the spare room, constructed a crib, devoured stack after stack of parenting books, and took meticulous notes at every ob-gyn checkup. Emily tackled the practical logistics with the ruthless precision she usually reserved for Runway fashion week; Andy tackled them with the frantic energy of someone who believed that if she just bought enough baby manuals, she could somehow achieve a PhD in mothering before the water broke.

The naming agreement had been remarkably civilised, all things considered. Since Emily was doing the actual physical labour of growing and delivering a human being, the baby would take her surname. In return, Andy was awarded absolute, unchallengeable naming rights for the first and middle names.

Andy had approached the task with the secrecy and discipline of a covert CIA operation.

She chose Jessica Jane. It was strong, classic, and sounded infinitely elegant when paired with Charlton. Jessica Jane Charlton. It was a name fit for an author, a judge, or a future editor-in-chief. It was also, entirely by design, a secret, brilliant pop-culture joke.

Jessica Jane Pride. Because Andy Sachs was a woman who appreciated clever parallels. Emily and Andy were, after all, iconic Toy Story names. And as anyone who had ever watched the films knew, Jessie’s original owner, the girl who loved her, was a red-headed girl named Emily. It was poetic. It was hilarious. It was delightfully perfect.

It was also something Emily could never, ever know. If Emily Charlton ever discovered that her firstborn daughter had been secretly named after Pixar cowgirl merchandise, she would murder Andy with a single glance and file for sole custody on the grounds of severe emotional distress. Andy knew this as a fundamental truth of the universe. So she kept the secret buried deep within her chest.

When Emily had approvingly murmured, "Jessica Jane... yes, that's actually quite lovely, Andy," Andy had simply smiled her sweetest, most innocent smile and nodded solemnly, making mental notes never to let Emily watch Toy Story 2 without adult supervision.

The months continued, carrying them steadily toward the life they had been imagining. Emily’s bump became impossible to miss. Her movements grew more careful, her stride a little slower, and her hand began to rest beneath her stomach almost by instinct. Andy caught herself watching that hand constantly.

Sometimes Emily would notice. "What? You're staring."

"I'm admiring."

"Again?"

"It's a magnificent view."

Emily rolled her eyes, but the soft curve of her mouth always gave her away.

Andy found her breathtaking in every single stage. Beautiful when she was dressed for work, smart and polished, her vivid red hair pinned neatly back. Beautiful when she came home exhausted and changed into soft clothes, letting her hair fall loose over her shoulders. Beautiful when she stood in front of the mirror, studying her changing silhouette with an expression that flickered between awe and vulnerability. Beautiful when she laughed. Beautiful when she cried. Beautiful when she was cross with Andy for bringing home the wrong brand of crackers. Beautiful when she fell asleep halfway through a movie, her head resting against Andy’s shoulder and one hand curved protectively over their daughter.

Andy had loved Emily’s body before, the familiar, elegant lines of her, the way she carried herself through the world with a confidence that made people forget how much effort it took to maintain. Now, Andy adored these new changes just as deeply, the soft swell holding their child, the radiant warmth of her skin, the undeniable proof that their daughter was growing closer every second.

Andy knew pregnancy was hard. She knew Emily sometimes missed her old routines, missed reaching into her closet without calculating comfort, and missed having a body that didn't demand constant energy. Andy never told her she wasn't allowed to feel that way. She simply reminded her, whenever Emily needed it, that she was still Emily. Still brilliant, still striking. Still the woman who could make Andy forget how to breathe just by looking at her across a room.

And Emily, in return, let Andy love her through every step of it. She let Andy tuck pillows behind her back, fetch glasses of water, and help her get comfortable at night. She let Andy gently rub lotion over tight skin and hold her close when she woke up restless in the middle of the night. On evenings, they would lie together in the dim light of their bedroom, Andy’s hand resting over Emily’s bump, speaking in hushed tones about the little girl growing inside.

The days melted away. The bump grew bigger. Their apartment filled with tiny outfits, soft blankets, stacked board books, and an absurd assortment of baby gear they hadn't known existed six months ago. Andy still traveled when investigative stories demanded it, counting down the exact hours until she could sprint back to New York. Emily kept working, though she began looking forward to evenings when she could put her feet up and let Andy fuss over her without bothering to pretend she was annoyed.

They were still themselves. They still teased each other, still argued over dinner choices. They still kissed in the kitchen, held hands on the train, and fell into bed together at the end of every long day, adored, and ready.

May arrived in New York with soft green leaves, warm afternoons, and the sort of golden sunshine that made people believe winter had been nothing more than a bad dream. Emily had always liked spring. The city seemed to loosen its shoulders. People lingered outside cafés, Central Park burst into bloom, and the sidewalks filled with commuters who had apparently forgotten how to walk now that they no longer had to hurry through the freezing wind.

Their daughter was due in a week. A week. Andy had been repeating it for days with the sort of awed, golden-retriever disbelief that made Emily laugh at her.

"One week," Andy had announced that Monday morning, crouching on the floor in front of Emily on the edge of their bed to kiss the enormous, beautiful curve of her stomach. "One week until we get to meet you."

Emily had looked down at her wife affectionately. "Unless she decides to be late."

"Don't even say that."

"She might, darling. Babies are not particularly famous for respecting calendars."

Andy had rested her cheek flat against Emily's bump, letting out a long dramatic sigh. "I've been looking forward to meeting her for months. I think she could make an exception for us."

Emily had chuckled, weaving her fingers through Andy's dark hair. "I'm sure she'll take your formal request under advisement."

It was the last Monday before everything changed.

That afternoon, Andy had been called out of town for an investigative story. A high-level source she’d been chasing for weeks had suddenly agreed to meet in person, and the opportunity was too critical to pass up. The source was terrified, the documents were sensitive, and the window was tiny. Andy had spent hours trying to calculate if she could make the drive, conduct the interview, and sprint back in time for dinner.

Emily had practically pushed her out the door. "You cannot put your entire career on pause because I'm pregnant," she had insisted, standing in the kitchen as Andy frantically packed. "Besides, she isn't due for another seven days. And I'll call you the second anything happens."

"I know."

Emily had narrowed her blue eyes. "Then why do you look as though you're leaving me to cross the Atlantic in a wooden rowboat?"

Andy had looked at her, helpless. "Because I don't want to leave you."

Emily's expression had softened instantly. She’d crossed the floor, taken Andy's face between her hands, and kissed her deeply. "I know, darling. Now go do your job. I'll be right here when you get back."

Andy had held her close for a long time, kissing her once more before resting a hand against Emily's stomach to instruct their daughter to be patient.

Their daughter, apparently, had other plans.

Emily was at her desk when it happened. Andy would only learn the details much later, when Emily relayed them in hushed, trembling tones.

The morning had been routine. Emails to answer, layout documents to review, and a collection of autumn shoe samples that needed final approval before the afternoon deadline. Emily had been typing steadily, shifting occasionally in her chair to ease the persistent ache in her lower back. She was exhausted. She was enormous. She was beginning to suspect their daughter had developed a personal vendetta against her ribs. But she was fine.

She had gone to work, answered her correspondence, and flatly informed a junior editor that no, she would not be approving a pair of bizarre clogs merely because someone described them as "conceptual." She’d even managed half a cup of warm tea. It was a perfectly ordinary day.

Then, Emily stood up to retrieve a folder from the filing cabinet beside her desk.

When she glanced back down at her chair, her breath caught. A small, vivid patch of red stained the fabric.

For a terrifying second, Emily’s mind refused to process what she was seeing. She stared at it, frowning, as if it were an ink smudge she could rationalise if she looked close enough. Then her gaze dropped to her skirt, and a cold wave of dread washed through her, pooling in her fingertips. "No," she whispered.

She went straight to the bathroom. Her hands were shaking violently as she locked the stall door and checked. Blood. Not a massive haemorrhage, but enough. Enough that she couldn't pretend it was nothing.

Emily stood frozen. She had been warned about light spotting, but this was different. She was nearly full-term. Stay calm, she told herself. She knew the protocol. She had memorised the emergency numbers weeks ago because Andy had insisted on three separate contingency plans.

She pulled out her phone and dialled Andy. It rang. And rang. And went straight to voicemail. Emily closed her eyes, squeezing them tight. Of course. Andy always silenced her phone when meeting a sensitive source, especially one who had agreed to speak only on the condition of privacy.

Emily knew that. She knew Andy hadn't done anything wrong. She also knew, with a pained clarity, that she wanted her wife.

"Andy," Emily said into the beep, fighting to keep her voice from cracking. "It's me. I'm at work, and I've had some bleeding. I'm heading to the hospital to get it checked out. Please call me once you get this."

She paused, gripping the phone tightly. There were a thousand things she wanted to scream into the receiver. I'm terrified. I hate the sight of this blood. I need you here. Tell me everything is going to be okay. Instead, she swallowed hard and whispered, "I love you. I'll update you as soon as I can."

She ended the call, immediately notified her department that she was having a medical emergency, and walked out.

Outside, Manhattan was bright, warm. So, indifferent. People were laughing on the sidewalk, taxis honked, the city moved with an offensive degree of normality.

Emily flagged a cab, gave the driver the hospital address, and slid into the back seat. Only as the car lurched into traffic did she allow herself to whisper the word she’d been holding back: Please. Please let our baby be alright. Please let me be alright. Please let Andy get my message.

At the hospital, the world accelerated into a blur. Emily was rushed into an examination room the moment she arrived. Questions, blood pressure cuffs, monitors, a doctor speaking in a measured voice while a nurse helped her onto a bed. Someone asked when the bleeding started. Someone else asked if the baby was moving.

"Yes," Emily said, her voice tight. "She was moving this morning."

They placed the doppler monitor against her abdomen. Emily held her breath, stopping the air in her lungs, until—

Thump-thump-thump-thump. A rapid, steady, galloping heartbeat filled the room.

For one glorious second, the icy grip around Emily's chest loosened.

Then the doctor leaned in to explain the situation. There was a partial placental abruption, the placenta was beginning to detach from the uterine wall prematurely. It was the cause of the bleeding, and it posed an immediate, dangerous risk to both mother and child. The baby needed to be delivered urgently. They were prepping her for an emergency C-section.

Emily stared at the doctor, her heart pounding against her ribs. "Now?"

"Right now," the doctor said gently but firmly. "We need to act immediately."

Emily's knuckles turned white as she gripped the edge of the hospital sheet. She had prepared for birth. She had read the books, attended the classes, and mapped out scenarios with Andy. But knowing the theory was a world away from lying alone on a gurney while a team of medical strangers explained that her body was failing her right now.

"Is she alright?" Emily choked out.

"Her heart rate is stable, but we need to get her out before the abruption progresses. The safest path for both of you is to deliver immediately."

Emily swallowed down the panic. "Alright."

She wanted to beg them to wait for Andy. She wanted to demand five minutes, just five minutes, for her wife to sprint through those doors. But the medical team was already moving efficiently, synchronised, prepping consent forms, wheeling in equipment, and getting the OR ready. There was no time.

They helped her change into a surgical gown, checked her wristband, and asked her to confirm her name and date of birth. Question after question, dragging her further into a terrifying reality she hadn't anticipated when she’d put on her shoes that morning. She signed where they pointed. She answered what she could. She focused solely on keeping her breathing slow and steady.

When they wheeled her down the wide corridor toward the operating room, the overhead blinding lights flashed past in a bright, rhythmic blur. Emily stared up at them, tears stinging her eyes.

She thought of Andy. She thought of Andy kissing her stomach that morning, whispering ridiculous sweet-nothings to their unborn daughter. She thought of Andy's hands, always warm, always protective, always reaching for her. She thought of the nursery waiting at home, the yellow crib, the tiny, folded onesies, the name they had chosen together. Jessica Jane Charlton. Jessie.

She had pictured Andy standing beside her when Jessie entered the world. She’d pictured Andy holding her hand, sobbing hysterically with joy, overwhelmed. She had pictured looking across the room and locking eyes with her wife the moment they became a family. Instead, she was being wheeled into surgery alone.

She turned her head toward the nurse walking beside her gurney. "Has my wife called back?"

"Not yet, Ms. Charlton. We're keeping the desk updated."

Emily nodded silently. She wanted to tell the nurse that Andy was coming. That Andy would be here the second she saw the missed call. That her wife would never, ever leave her willingly. Please don't blame yourself, darling, Emily thought into the void, praying the message would somehow reach Andy's heart. Please don't think I was alone because you weren't here.

The operating room was icy cold and blindingly bright. The surgical team worked in hushed tones, saying things that Emily didn’t understand. They positioned her, administered the spinal block, and tested the numbness before raising the blue sterile screen across her chest. Her lower body went completely weightless and numb, Emily couldn't see what was happening below the drape. She could only hear the clinking of metal instruments, the rapid medical terminology, and the hum of monitors. She felt strange, blunt pressure, but no pain.

An anaesthesiologist standing at her head asked how she was feeling.

"Fine," Emily managed to say.

It was a ridiculous, absurd lie. She was terrified out of her mind. She was paralysed from the waist down, listening to doctors cut into her, about to meet her daughter in a room full of strangers. But she was fine enough to keep breathing. Fine enough to anchor herself to Andy.

She pictured Andy at their kitchen table, frowning over a draft. She pictured Andy on the subway, holding the pole, hair falling into her eyes. She pictured Andy’s bright, helpless laugh, the sound that had made Emily fall in love with her all those years ago. Come home, darling, she repeated mentally, wrapping herself in the memory of her wife. Come home. Come home. Come home.

Andy saw the notification nearly an hour after Emily had sent it.

The interview with her source had run long, tense and exhausting, held in a windowless room where Andy had been hyper-focused on her notes. The moment she stepped out into the hallway, she pulled out her phone.

One missed call. One voicemail. Her stomach plummeted before she even clicked play. Emily never called during work hours unless it was an emergency.

Andy pressed the phone to her ear, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Andy. It's me. I'm at work, and I've had some bleeding. I'm heading to the hospital to get it checked out. Please call me once you get this."

The message ended. Andy stood frozen, her brain refusing to process the words. Bleeding. Hospital. Emily.

She dialled Emily instantly. No answer. She called again. Straight to voicemail. Andy’s hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the phone onto the floor. "Come on, Emily, pick up..."

She left a frantic message: "Baby, it's me. I just got your message. I'm coming! I'm coming right now! Please be okay, I love you, I love you so much, I'm on my way!"

She didn't remember saying goodbye to her source. She didn't remember sprinting down the stairs, bursting out into the street, or slamming into the back seat of a taxi. She only remembered barking the hospital address at the driver and dialling Emily’s number over and over again, staring at the screen as if sheer willpower could make it connect. It didn't.

Andy pressed her knuckles against her teeth, her chest heaving. Their baby wasn't due for another week. Emily was supposed to be at work, complaining about her sore back and constant need for the bathroom. They were supposed to have seven more days to finish the nursery, to double-check the car seat, to double-check the hospital bag. They were supposed to have time.

Andy had kissed her wife goodbye that morning with a promises to be back for dinner. Now she was trapped in New York traffic, terrified out of her mind, ignorant of whether her wife and child were even alive. "Please," Andy whispered into the cab, tears blurring her vision. "Please, God, please..."

By the time the cab slammed to a halt outside the hospital, Andy was in a state of panic. She threw a handful of bills at the driver, sprinted through the automatic doors, and followed the overhead signs to the maternity ward.

She practically threw herself against the nurses' station desk. "Emily Charlton," she gasped out, breathless and pale. "My wife. She was brought in an hour ago—she left me a message, I just got it—where is she? Is she okay?"

The nurse quickly scanned the monitor screen. Her expression turned serious. "Are you Andrea Sachs?"

"Yes! Where is she?"

"Ms. Charlton was taken into the operating room for an emergency C-section approximately twenty minutes ago."

Andy stopped breathing. The floor beneath her felt like it was shifting. "An emergency... C-section?"

"Yes. She experienced a placental abruption. The surgical team is with her now."

"Is she okay?! Is the baby okay?!" Andy pleaded, her voice rising in terror.

"They are taking care of both of them, ma'am. The team is doing everything—"

"Can I go in?" Andy interrupted, tears spilling over her lashes. "Please, let me in there, I'm her wife, she shouldn't be alone—"

"I'm so sorry," the nurse said gently, coming out from behind the desk to take Andy's trembling arm. "Because it was an acute emergency abruption, we couldn't wait to scrub you in. The procedure is already underway. You need to wait here."

Andy looked past the nurse down the long double-doored hallway. Beyond those doors, Emily was lying on an operating table alone. Emily, who had been terrified enough to call her. Emily, who had endured months of sickness, fatigue, and physical toll without a single complaint. Emily, who had needed her wife... and Andy hadn't picked up the phone.

A wave of suffocating, crushing guilt crashed over Andy. She should have checked her phone. She should have stayed close. She shouldn't have taken the meeting. She should have been there.

"Ma'am?" the nurse asked softly. "I need you to fill out the partner intake forms while we wait for an update."

Andy nodded mechanically, her hands trembling as she took the clipboard. "Yes. Anything."

She sat down on a hard plastic chair in the waiting area. Her handwriting was a quick illegible scrawl. She filled in Emily's name, her own name, their address, medical history, writing through a blur of tears.

When the paperwork was finished, Andy was left with nothing to do except wait. She sat in the empty corridor, pressing her palms against her eyes, her breathing ragged. She stood up and paced the length of the hall. She sat back down. She checked her phone every ten seconds. She wrung her hands until her knuckles turned white.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the empty hallway, burying her face in her hands. "I'm so sorry, Em... I'm so sorry..."

She had promised Emily on their wedding day that she would always come home. She had promised she would be there to hold her when she was scared. And when the most terrifying moment of Emily's life arrived, Andy had been miles away in a room with her phone on silent. The guilt threatened to eat her alive.

Andy lost all track of time. It could have been twenty minutes or three hours when a doctor in blue scrubs finally pushed through the double doors at the end of the hall.

"Family for Emily Charlton?"

Andy bolted off the chair so fast her knees nearly buckled. "I'm her wife! How is she? How's the baby?"

The doctor pulled off his mask, offering a warm, tired smile. Andy felt her soul re-enter her body before he even spoke.

"The surgery was a success," the doctor announced smoothly. "Your wife is doing remarkably well—we caught the abruption in time and stabilised the bleeding. And you have a healthy, beautiful baby girl."

Andy froze, staring at him. "They're both okay?"

"Both are doing wonderfully," the doctor reassured her, his eyes twinkling. "Your daughter is currently in the nursery receiving routine newborn care—she's a bit small, but breathing great and crying vigorously. Your wife is in the recovery suite, coming out of anaesthesia. She's asking for you."

Andy let out a shattered, sobbing gasp, covering her mouth with both hands as tears flooded down her face. "Thank God," she wept, collapsing back onto the chair as her legs gave out. "Oh, thank God..."

The doctor patted her shoulder kindly. "Take a breath, mom. You can go in and see your wife soon.”

When Andy pushed open the door to the recovery room, her heart stopped all over again.

Emily was lying in the hospital bed, propped up on pillows. Her red hair was pushed back, her face pale and exhausted, but a soft touch of colour was returning to her cheeks. She had an IV in her arm and monitors hooked to her chest, but her blue eyes were open. She was looking directly at the doorway.

And the second she saw Andy, Emily's entire face transformed. "Darling," she whispered softly.

Andy couldn't move. She stood frozen in the doorway, staring at her wife. After an hour of imagining the absolute worst—picturing a world without Emily, a world without their child—seeing her wife alive, breathing, and looking at her with love was almost too much for Andy's heart to bear.

A nurse beside the bed smiled at Andy. "Would you like to go to the nursery and see your daughter first, Ms. Sachs? She's just down the hall."

Andy heard the words, but she didn't break eye contact with Emily. Their daughter was waiting, the baby girl they had spent months dreaming about, Jessie. Andy wanted to see her more than anything in the world. But then she looked at Emily's pale lips, the tiredness in her eyes, and the way her hand was reaching out across the blanket toward the door.

Andy shook her head, her voice cracking. "No... not yet. Please."

The nurse nodded sympathetically and quietly stepped out of the room, giving them privacy.

Andy crossed the floor in several quick strides, falling to her knees beside the hospital bed. She grabbed Emily's hand in both of hers, pressing it hastily against her face. Emily’s fingers instantly curled around Andy's.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Andy just buried her face in Emily's palm, breathing in the familiar scent of her skin underneath the sharp hospital antiseptic, sobbing silently. "Oh, Emily..." She choked out.

Emily’s thumb brushed softly against Andy’s wet cheek. "Hello, darling."

Andy let out a broken laugh, kissing Emily's knuckles over and over again. "I'm here, baby. I'm here. I'm so, so sorry... I am so sorry I wasn't here..."

Emily’s brow creased slightly. "Andy—"

"I should have looked at my phone! I should have been with you! I left you alone, and you were scared, and I—"

"Andy. Look at me."

Andy lifted her head, tears streaming down her face. Emily watched her with soft, exhausted blue eyes. Her voice was scratchy, but steady. "You came. The second you got the message, you came. I knew you would."

Andy bowed her head, fresh tears spilling onto the white sheets. "I hate that you had to go through that surgery without me holding your hand."

"I didn't want to do it without you either," Emily admitted quietly, her own eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I was terrified, Andy."

The honesty of it pierced Andy's heart. "Oh, baby..."

"I just kept thinking about you," Emily whispered, her voice trembling. "I kept picturing you coming through those doors. I kept thinking about our daughter. And I kept telling myself that I had to be brave so I could see you again."

Andy leaned up, carefully wrapping her arms around Emily's shoulders, burying her face in the crook of Emily's neck. "I love you," Andy sobbed against her skin. "I love you so much, Em. You are the strongest, most incredible person in the entire world."

Emily rested her chin against Andy's head, letting out a contented exhale. "I love you, too."

Andy pulled back just enough to kiss Emily's forehead, then her cheeks, and finally pressed her lips softly to Emily's mouth. Emily closed her eyes, kissing her back sweetly.

For a long time, they just stayed like that, knees on the tile, hands tightly intertwined, listening to the rhythmic beat of the heart monitor.

Andy traced her thumb over Emily's knuckles, her heart swelling with an overwhelming gratitude. She had thought the birth of their daughter would be the moment her life changed forever. But standing here, looking at her wife, Andy understood that the greatest miracle in the room was that Emily was safe.

"Andy?" Emily whispered softly into the quiet room.

"I'm right here."

Emily offered a small, exhausted, but bright smile. "We have a daughter."

Andy smiled through her tears, her chest aching with joy. "Yes, my love. We have a daughter."

Emily’s blue eyes sparkled. "Jessie.”

"Jessie," Andy echoed softly, pressing another gentle kiss to Emily's lips. "Our Jessie."

Emily held Andy’s hand tight, her eyelids fluttering shut as the exhaustion and pain medication finally began to take over. Andy didn't move an inch. She stayed right beside the bed, holding her wife's hand, watching the steady rise and fall of Emily's chest. She had missed the emergency delivery. She could never erase the fear Emily had endured alone behind those swing doors. But she was here now.

And when Emily's eyes finally drifted closed, her hand still clasped in Andy's, Andy bent to kiss her forehead and whispered the promise she had made years ago, on the day they married. “I'm home, darling.”

When Emily woke again an hour later, the room was quiet, bathed in the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. Andy was still right where she had left her, seated on the edge of the chair, holding Emily’s hand in both of hers, watching her breathe.

Emily shifted slightly, her gaze focusing on Andy’s tired, tear-stained face. A soft, small smile touched her lips. "She has a magnificent cry, you know," Emily whispered, her voice floaty and raspy from the anaesthesia.

Andy looked up, her thumb stroking the back of Emily’s hand. "Yeah?"

"Yes," Emily murmured, a gentle warmth spilling into her eyes. "Right after they got her out... before they swept her off to the nursery to check her over, they laid her right here." Emily tapped her collarbone softly with her free hand. "Just for a moment. She was so tiny, Andy. So warm. And then she let out this bellow. So strong already. A proper, stubborn little voice."

Andy felt a familiar ache twist in her chest. A fresh wave of guilt rose in her throat, the sharp, lingering sting of having missed that first breath, that first cry, that sacred moment.

Emily saw the shadow cross Andy’s face instantly. She squeezed Andy’s hand with surprising strength. "Hey," she said softly, her blue eyes locked onto Andy’s. "Stop that. Go see her, darling. She’s waiting for you."

"Em, I don't want to leave you—"

"I am perfectly fine," Emily insisted, nudging Andy’s hand. "I’m just going to drift back to sleep anyway. Go meet our daughter. And take pictures for me. Millions of them."

Andy swallowed the knot in her throat, leaning in to press a kiss to Emily’s temple. "I’ll be right back," she promised against her skin.

"Take your time," Emily whispered, her eyes already fluttering shut again. "Tell her her mothers love her."

The neonatal nursery was quiet, dimly lit, and filled with the steady, rhythmic hum of monitors. A nurse guided Andy toward a small plastic bassinet near the window, giving her a reassuring smile before stepping back to afford her privacy.

Andy approached the crib with hesitant, trembling steps, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked down. And the entire universe, in that moment, shifted on its axis.

Resting inside the bassinet, swaddled tightly in a striped hospital blanket, was the most precious thing Andy had ever laid eyes on. She was tiny, impossibly, miraculously small. And rising from her little rounded scalp were delicate, unmistakable wisps of soft brown hair. Just like Andy’s.

Andy let out a shaky, breathy gasp, resting her hands on the clear plastic rim of the crib. As if sensing her presence, the baby stirred slightly, her tiny rosebud mouth making a little snuffling sound. Slowly, lazily, her little eyelids cracked open. Andy froze.

Staring up at her were two wide, luminous, chocolate-brown eyes. Tears spilled freely down Andy’s cheeks, hot and silent. "Hi," Andy whispered, her voice cracking. "Hi, sweet girl..."

She carefully picked up the baby under the nurse’s guidance, holding their child close, her heart full. Her gaze drifted down to the small, hand-written card tucked into the plastic slot on the side of the bassinet: Emily Charlton’s daughter.

Oh, God. Andy’s mind flashed back across ten years in a blinding, beautiful instant. She thought of the very first time she had ever heard Emily’s name. The crisp, polished, distinctly British way Emily had introduced herself on the loud, rattling N train, as if she were merely offering Andy something ordinary, completely unaware that she was handing over the key to an entire life. She thought of those four extra subway stops she had taken every single morning, sitting perfectly still while Emily slept deeply against her shoulder, terrified to move even an inch lest she wake her. She thought of the paper napkin tucked into her wallet, Emily's elegant handwriting spelling out Call me. The first nervous coffee. The freezing street corner outside the theatre. The first terrifying, perfect kiss. The first time Emily had ever called her darling.

And now... this. A tiny, perfect girl asleep in her arms, an exquisite, living tapestry woven from both of them. Brown hair and brown eyes from Andy, a stubborn, fierce spirit and a surname from Emily.

Andy reached down with a trembling index finger. The baby’s little hand flared open and instantly latched onto Andy’s finger with an astonishing, fierce grip. Andy had once believed that falling in love with Emily Charlton was the absolute greatest thing that would ever happen to her. She had been right. She had simply not known that love could keep making room.

Standing by the window in the hospital nursery, wiping her tears with her free shoulder while her daughter held tightly to her finger, Andy pulled out her phone. With trembling fingers, she took pictures, capturing the wisps of dark hair, the wide brown eyes, and the little card bearing Emily’s name. Everything was perfect.

When Andy walked back into the room, she was holding her phone like a holy relic, her eyes red-rimmed and shining.

The moment she reached the side of the bed, the floodgates opened. "Thank you," Andy breathed, taking Emily’s hand and pressing her face into her palm. "Em, seriously, thank you. Thank you so much. I don't—I don't even know how to thank you. You're incredible. You carried her, you went through that, you brought her here. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you—"

Emily, who had been resting quietly, opened one eye and looked at her wife with an expression that drifted rapidly from touched to deeply amused. "Andy," she murmured, her raspy voice laced with warmth.

"—I mean it, I'm going to spend the rest of my life thanking you," Andy blurted out, her thumb stroking Emily's knuckles continuously. "I'm making breakfast every day for the next fifty years. I'm doing all the midnight feedings. I'm—"

"Darling."

"—buying every single pair of shoes you ever glance at. Truly, Emily, thank you—"

Emily held up her free hand, making a firm stop gesture. "Okay, okay," she drawled, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of her lips despite her exhaustion. "Message received, darling. You are profoundly grateful, I am a heroic saint, and you are at my mercy for the foreseeable future. We are in agreement."

Andy let out a tearful, breathless laugh, bowing her head against Emily’s fingers. "I mean it, though."

"I know you do," Emily said, her tone softening into something impossibly gentle as her fingers stroked the dark hair at the nape of Andy's neck. "Now show me the photos before you burst into tears again."

Andy wiped her cheeks with her shoulder, unlocking her phone with trembling hands and leaning in so Emily could see the screen. "Look at her, Em," Andy whispered, her voice tight with awe. "Look at her hair. Look at her eyes."

Emily leaned her head against Andy’s shoulder, staring at the little face on the screen. The teasing faded completely, leaving a sense of wonder in her eyes as she looked at their daughter, brown-haired, brown-eyed,  perfect.

"Oh my sweet,” Emily breathed, her own eyes brimming with tears. "She really does look like you."

"She has my eyes,” Andy murmured, kissing the top of Emily's head. "And your stubbornness. The nurse said she was already demanding milk."

Emily let out a watery chuckle, closing her eyes and resting against Andy. "Good. Someone in this house needs to keep you on your toes."

The first few days of being a family of three were, Andy quickly discovered, a very particular kind of beautiful chaos.

There was very little sleep. There were an astonishing number of diapers. There were tiny clothes that seemed to become dirty the second they were washed, swaddles multiplying across every flat surface, and an array of baby gear that had completely conquered their apartment, despite the fact that Jessie herself was still small enough to fit comfortably in the crook of Andy’s arm.

And there was crying. A great deal of crying. Sometimes Jessie cried because she was hungry. Sometimes because she was tired. Sometimes because she had been changed, or was currently being changed, or because the universe had committed some unspeakable offence by requiring her to exist outside the warmth of Emily’s womb. 

Occasionally, she cried for reasons neither of her mothers could begin to comprehend. Those were the moments Andy found most humbling. She had investigated corporate corruption, confronted ruthless politicians, and once spent three weeks pursuing a whistleblower who communicated exclusively through cryptic emails and public phone booths. She had never been so thoroughly defeated by a human who weighed less than eight pounds.

“What's wrong with her?” Andy whispered at 3:34 in the morning.

Emily, propped against the headboard with Jessie tucked in her arms, turned her exhausted face toward her wife. “She’s a baby, Andy.”

“Yes, I understand the mechanics of that. But she's been fed, she's been changed, she's warm, I verified that her onesie tag isn't poking her—”

“And she's a baby.”

Andy looked at their daughter. Jessie was protesting with impressive conviction, her little face scrunched red, her tiny fists clenched beside her cheeks. The volume was entirely disproportionate to her size, as if a much larger, much angrier person were concealed inside her tiny body. Andy felt a fresh wave of helpless affection. “Sweetheart,” she whispered to Jessie, “we're doing our best here.”

Jessie continued her vocal objection. Emily let out a tired, raspy chuckle. “I don't think she's impressed with our management.”

“Clearly.”

“You might need to improve your customer service.”

Andy shot her a look. Emily offered a sleepy, soft smile, her blue eyes heavy with fatigue. She was still recovering from the C-section, and Andy had become absurdly, vigilantly attentive. She ensured Emily had water constantly within reach, brought every meal on a tray, and hovered over every slight wince when Emily shifted positions. She had memorised the discharge papers so thoroughly she could have delivered a lecture on post-operative care to strangers in the street. Emily had informed her twice that she was fully capable of looking after herself. Andy had agreed both times, and then brought her a third pillow.

“Andy,” Emily murmured now, watching her adjust the duvet over her legs.

“What?”

“Come sit down.”

“I am sitting down.”

“You are crouching beside the mattress like a deeply concerned woodland creature.”

Andy glanced down at her posture. “...Oh.”

“Come here.”

Andy stood, pressed a soft kiss to Emily’s cheek, and climbed into bed beside her, carefully tucking herself against Emily’s side with her head resting on her wife’s shoulder. Jessie’s cries had softened into intermittent, dramatic little grunts. Emily looked down at her. “Hello, darling,” she whispered softly.

Her voice shifted completely whenever she spoke to Jessie, a change Andy had noticed instantly. Emily’s public voice could cut through a chaotic office, silence an arrogant designer, and make an entire room of senior executives reconsider their life choices. It was sharp, precise, and delightfully dry. But when Emily spoke to their daughter, every sharp edge melted away. Her words slowed, warm and gentle, as if every syllable were a precious gift she wanted Jessie to hold.

“What's the matter, little love?” Emily murmured, tracing a single finger along Jessie's soft cheek. “Have we had a terribly difficult evening?”

Jessie opened her tiny mouth and let out another indignant squeak. “Oh, yes,” Emily agreed gravely. “Dreadful. Absolutely tragic. I can see that.”

Andy laughed quietly against Emily’s shoulder. Emily looked up, and for a beat, their eyes met over Jessie's dark-fuzzed head. There it was again. That look. The expression Andy had first glimpsed on the subway years ago, when a red-haired stranger had fallen asleep against her shoulder without knowing her name. The look that had slowly blossomed through late-night phone calls, rainy Sunday walkouts, and years of building a quiet, private life together. Only now, it carried a new dimension.

Emily looked at Jessie as if she still couldn't quite believe their daughter was real. Andy understood the feeling entirely. They had wanted this baby for so long. They had talked about her before they knew her face, before they felt her kick, before she had a name. They had imagined holding her, debated whether she’d inherit Andy’s eyes, and filled their apartment with tiny yellow clothes. And now she was here, noisy, demanding, and impossibly small. She possessed a terrifying talent for generating laundry, and had already made both her mothers cry multiple times. And Emily loved her with a fierce, instant devotion that felt as old as time.

Andy had always known Emily would be an extraordinary mother. She had known it when Emily first blurted out “Let’s have a baby” into the dark of their bedroom. She’d known it when Emily insisted on carrying, and when she’d whispered to her bump in the quiet of the night. But watching it was something else entirely.

Watching Emily hold their daughter against her chest, one hand cradling Jessie's head, the other resting gently across her back, felt like being granted access to the most sacred part of Emily's soul. Emily had always been fiercely loyal and deeply loving, even when her posh exterior made it hard to show. Now all that boundless, protective love had a brand-new centre. And little Jessie, oblivious to her monumental luck, was basking in it.

“She's looking at you,” Andy whispered.

Emily looked down. Jessie's eyes were cracked open, dark and sleepy, her tiny face tilted toward her mummy's voice. Emily went completely still, her breath catching in her throat. Her lips parted slightly, her entire universe shrinking down to the tiny girl in her arms. “Hello, my love,” she whispered softly.

Jessie blinked lazily. Emily broke into a beautiful smile. Andy felt her heart swell so intensely she had to look away for a moment to catch her breath. She had fallen in love with Emily Charlton in so many different chapters, on the noisy train, over a handwritten phone number on a paper napkin, outside a theatre in the freezing cold, in a sunlit kitchen with Emily in pyjamas making eggs, and standing at the City Clerk’s office while Emily wore a white veil.

Andy had assumed she understood the capacity of her heart. She had been dead wrong. Because watching Emily lean down to press a soft kiss against Jessie's forehead unlocked a door inside Andy she hadn't known existed.

Emily looked back up at her. “What?” she asked quietly.

Andy shook her head. “Nothing.”

Emily narrowed her eyes affectionately. “That is your lying face.”

Andy smiled softly. “I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Extremely.”

Emily waited, her hand stroking Jessie's back. Andy looked at her daughter, then up at her wife. “I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my life.”

Emily stared at her, then looked down at her oversized lounge clothes, her messy hair, and the tiny baby nestled against her chest. “Andy,” she said with weary, affectionate patience, “I have not slept a full hour in days. I haven't brushed my hair since yesterday. I am wearing a shirt that smells faintly of spit-up.”

“I know,” Andy murmured.

“And my feet are swollen.”

Andy reached over, gently brushing a stray lock of red hair behind Emily’s ear. “I mean it, Em. I have never loved you more than I do right now.”

Emily went quiet, the room bathed in the warm amber glow of the nightstand lamp. Outside, the distant murmur of New York City hummed along the pavement, but inside, time seemed to freeze. Emily searched Andy’s face, her expression softening into something so open and vulnerable it took Andy's breath away. “You can't possibly love me more every single day, Andy,” she whispered softly.

Andy smiled, kissing her knuckles. “Apparently I can.”

Emily let out a small laugh. “That's terribly inconvenient.”

“I'm afraid you're stuck with it.”

“What if I become more insufferable?”

Andy leaned in, pressing a sweet kiss to Emily’s cheek. “Then I'll simply have to fall more in love with you.”

Emily’s blue eyes sparkled with tears. “You are an idiot.”

Andy kissed her again, gently, properly on the mouth, careful not to disturb the sleeping bundle between them. Emily’s hand reached up, cupping Andy’s cheek, holding her close.

For a long moment, they simply held each other. Then, right on cue, Jessie made a tiny, indignant squeak between their chests.

Emily immediately looked down, her face melting. “Oh, hello. Sorry, darling. Were we ignoring you?”

Andy chuckled softly. “She's been on Earth for seventy-two hours and she’s already demanding full exclusivity.”

Emily beamed, brushing her lips over Jessie’s forehead. Andy rested her head back on Emily’s shoulder, closing her eyes as the peace of the night settled over them. This was everything. Not a fairytale where nobody ever cried or got tired, but this, Emily’s hand in hers, Jessie’s warm weight against their chests, and a home filled with a love so massive it defied description.

The weeks drifted by, and the days grew steadily easier.

They learnt by doing. They learnt that Jessie made a funny little scrunch-face right before she sneezed, that she instantly settled when Emily hummed, and that she possessed a deeply suspicious attitude toward being placed in her bassinet the second she fell asleep in their arms. They learnt to distinguish her hungry cry from her tired cry. They learnt to eat dinner one-handed, to hold entire complex conversations in rapid whispers, and that love could be measured in unprompted acts, a warm mug of tea placed on a nightstand, a freshly folded blanket within arm's reach, a gentle hand on a shoulder at 4:00 AM whispering, “I’ve got her, go back to sleep.”

They learnt that Andy was a terrible judge of how many photos constituted a "reasonable amount" (her camera roll was entirely overrun), and that Emily, who had once guarded her designer wardrobe with her life, could hold Jessie against her shoulder with a burp cloth and not give a single care about a milk stain on her silk sleeve. Andy found that detail especially exquisite.

And during those days, Andy fell in love with Emily Charlton all over again.

She realised then that this was simply how loving Emily worked. There was no finish line. No maximum capacity. There would always be a new chapter to discover, a new kindness, a new smile, a new way Emily would hold their daughter’s hand or look across a crowded room and make Andy’s world feel whole.

Andy beamed at her daughter, who was staring up at her with the solemn concentration of a four-year-old who had heard this exact tale approximately four hundred times and still considered it a masterpiece.

“And that,” Andy announced grandly, “was the story of how I met your mother!”

From the side of the sofa, Emily drawled, “And derailed completely.”

Andy whipped her head around. “Hey!”

“What?” Emily asked innocently, closing her book. “You started with a stranger falling asleep on your shoulder on the subway. We’ve somehow traversed five years, an emergency C-section, thousands of photos, and your frankly excessive emotional attachment to a plastic hospital tag.”

“It was a very meaningful name tag!”

“It read Emily Charlton’s Daughter, Andy. Not the collected works of Shakespeare.”

Jessie immediately dissolved into a fit of giggles. Andy pointed a dramatic finger at her. “Don’t encourage her, Jessie. I am telling your origin story.”

“You told her our entire marriage, darling.”

“It’s relevant context!”

“Apparently, a twenty-minute commute in 2006 was vital context, too.”

“It was the beginning!”

Emily leaned over, resting her chin on Andy’s shoulder and pressing a sweet kiss to her cheek, looking insufferably pleased with herself. “Yes, darling. We know. You’ve told us.”

Andy tried to muster a dignified, offended scowl, but Emily was beaming at her, Jessie was practically bouncing with laughter, and really, there were far worse fates in the world than being teased by her two favourite people in the middle of their own living room.

“Fine,” Andy huffed, gathering Jessie tighter into her arms to give her a dramatic raspberry on the cheek. “Next time, I’ll skip straight to the part where I actually met your mother.”

Emily raised an eyebrow, blue eyes dancing with mischief. “So... the first five minutes?”

“Em!”

Jessie shrieked with delight, and Emily, the unrepentant traitor, simply laughed and kissed Andy again.

So. That was the story of how Jessie’s mothers met.

Andy suspected there would be plenty of chaotic days ahead. Days when she and Emily disagreed, when exhaustion made them snap, or when Jessie drove them so utterly mad that they’d have to look at each other across a messy room and laugh before either of them lost her mind. There would be difficult days, ordinary days, and days that completely defied the plan.

But Andy knew one thing with unshakable certainty, that through every single moment of it, she would fall in love with Emily a little more every day. She would fall in love with the way Emily loved their daughter, with the way her fingers still instinctively found Andy’s hand in a crowd, with the sharp, familiar edge of her wit, and with the profound softness she reserved only for home. She would fall in love with her on the triumphant days, the terrible ones, and in all the unremarkable moments in between.

After all, she had started falling in love with Emily Charlton before she even knew her name. And somehow, after all these years, she still wasn’t finished.

Across the sofa, Jessie had spotted her mummy peeling a fresh orange. Abandoning Andy’s lap in an instant, she scampered over to press herself against Emily’s side, opening her mouth with unquestioning entitlement, because naturally, food tasted infinitely better when stolen directly from her mother's hands. Emily rolled her eyes affectionately, pulling off a sweet segment and feeding it to her, watching as Jessie chewed with a look of triumphant victory.

Thank God for my idiotic over-preparedness, Andy thought, watching her wife and daughter together in the sunlit room. Four extra subway stops turned out to be a rather excellent investment.

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ The End. 𝜗𝜚˚⋆