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The city was just rising again. People were heading to their respective jobs, coffee shops were overflowing, the glow of street lamps was being replaced by sunlight between each building, and the cold pierced through anyone unfortunate enough to have forgotten their coat. Andrea, walking aimlessly, clutching her miserable journalist’s briefcase, had no idea she was being watched by the most commanding woman in the history of fashion. Miranda Priestly.
Andrea’s footsteps echoed dully against the damp sidewalk, lost among the sound of rushed heels, impatient cars, and coffee cups served in haste. But then, she felt it. She should have been alarmed, should have run, should have turned onto Fifth Avenue instead of continuing her way… to where, really? She’d been fired, one more item for her list of failures.
It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t a voice. It was a presence that sank into the core of her senses.
A tremble in the air. A chill across her nape. As if winter itself had held its breath or maybe it was just her frozen lungs. Andrea knew it instantly. Miranda.
She didn’t need to turn around. The cadence of those steps, the way the city seemed to fold itself around her, it was all the confirmation she needed. She felt that gaze like a subtle weight, elegant, impossible to ignore. A touch on her back, a touch without hands. Andrea had thought that after more than a year without contact with her former boss, she’d feel nothing. How foolish of her.
“I thought you’d stopped dragging that briefcase around a long time ago,” said a voice behind her, sharp as a whisper and powerful as a hurricane. Cold to others, warm to the brunette.
Andrea stopped.
The briefcase felt heavier than ever.
“And I thought you didn’t walk through the city,” she answered without turning, voice steady, though her fingers trembled slightly. “Are you following me, Miranda?”
Silence. Miranda shivered. It was true…what was she doing, striding behind her former assistant with all her expensive elegance? A wicked smile crept across her lips. Of course. She was losing her mind over the younger woman.
A car passed, raising a fine gray mist that enveloped them for a second. When it cleared, Miranda was still there. Standing. Motionless. Perfect.
“I’m not following you,” Miranda finally said. “You’re simply where I am.”
Andrea pressed her lips together. She knew that if she turned around, something would break. Or something she’d spent far too long pretending not to feel would finally reveal itself.
But Miranda took a step. Then another... and another. Suddenly, the street felt empty, everyone else absorbed in their worlds, their problems, their romanticized New York lives. Andrea could feel the warmth of Miranda’s body, even though they weren’t touching. She thought she saw a flash in the distance, and the chill crept in. She could already read the headlines on tomorrow’s newspapers.
“You flinch at the flash of cameras like you’ve got something to prove,” Miranda added, her tone low, almost intimate.
“And you still talk like the world belongs to you” Andrea finally replied, turning slowly. Their eyes met. No hatred. No distance.
Miranda’s knees weakened. She couldn’t explain how much she missed those brown eyes, that furrowed brow she used to scold so often at galas, those slightly parted lips she was dying to taste, no matter how much time had passed.
“It did.” Miranda said, not wanting to look away. “Until you left.”
A moment. A universe compressed into one look. Andrea felt her legs wobble, but stood her ground.
“I don’t want to talk about the past, Miranda.”
“Then give me the present” she whispered.
“What?” Andrea stared at her, incredulous. She couldn’t believe Miranda Priestly was asking for something.
“I know you got fired, Andrea. Come back to Runway.”
Come back to me. Were the words she wanted to let out.
Andrea laughed in disbelief. Of course Miranda knew. Of course she did.
“Miranda, I’m not coming back. It’s pretty damn clear I deserve to be blacklisted…” Andrea adjusted her secondhand scarf. “Shit, it’s painfully clear that you’ll probably get your revenge and make sure everyone knows I came crawling back like some pathetic puppy who couldn’t get her shit togeth—MIRANDA.”
Miranda cut her off by closing the distance between them, gripping her waist and pulling her in. She was hugging her. Another flash.
“Goddamn it, Andrea. You think I’d show up here, knowing damn well I’ll be on tomorrow’s headlines, just for revenge? Do you really think that little of me? Control your impulses. Can’t you hear what I’m saying? The world was mine until you left, for fuck’s sake.”
Andrea could feel goosebumps erupt on her skin, Miranda’s breath damp and hot against her ear. She stood still. She could hear the world around her, but couldn’t feel it. The only thing real was Miranda’s hands on her waist and that rough whisper crawling down her spine like a slow lightning strike.
“You don’t talk like this,” Andrea murmured, breathless. “You don’t say things like that, Miranda.”
“Well, it’s about time you noticed.”
Another flash.
“You also know I don’t slip up in front of shitty tabloids. Walk, Andrea.”
Miranda let go of her abruptly, still dangerously close. She turned and started walking, and the younger woman had no choice but to follow.
“Where are we going?”
Another smirk from Miranda. Andrea felt she’d collapse if she kept looking at her.
“You’ll have breakfast with me.”
Andrea nodded slowly, as if the world had suddenly turned illegible. Maybe a car had hit her and she was dreaming. She made a mental note to ask Emily later about what it’s like to be unconscious after getting hit by a car.
“Breakfast?” she repeated softly, not sure whether to laugh or shake. “With what intention?”
Miranda’s hand came to rest on the small of Andrea’s back, gently guiding her to the right, away from a group of gawking tourists.
“Do you always need an intention to sit down and eat with me?” Miranda replied without looking at her, walking as if she hadn’t just shaken the emotional balance of both of them. As if she weren’t breaking every rule of her life, every limit the Ice Queen forbade herself to cross.
“The last time I sat down to eat with you, you seemed more interested in other people’s dresses than in anything I had to say.”
Miranda stopped abruptly.
She turned.
Andrea nearly bumped into her.
“Don’t put all the blame on me” she snapped, the pain perfectly hidden behind that cutting stare. “Because I don’t recall being the one who packed up and vanished one random morning without saying goodbye.”
Miranda laughed.
“Not to mention you left when the media was drowning every inch of my life.”
Another damn flash, and they both felt it, but Miranda didn’t care. She only cared about the young woman.
Andrea swallowed hard. The weight of that morning still hung around her neck like a soaked scarf.
“I didn’t mean to…” she whispered. “I couldn’t stay, Miranda.”
Miranda raised an eyebrow, surprised. Hurt, maybe.
“And now?”
“Now it doesn’t seem like I have a choice,” Andrea said, her eyes shining with something between fury and nostalgia. “But that doesn’t mean I want to leave again.”
A pause.
Traffic roared in the distance. Steam rose from the manholes like stage smoke. The city kept going, but they stayed still, like nothing else existed.
Miranda sighed.
“Then let’s go to have breakfast. Not to talk about work. Not to talk about the past. Not to talk about anyone’s damn outfits. Just to have you look at me without running. Just to give ourselves the luxury of… being. Can we do that, Andrea?”
The way Miranda dragged her name out made Andrea’s legs go numb, made something pulse deep inside of her.
Andrea looked at her. The woman who once defined her world, who shattered her with impossible demands, the woman she forgot her damn ex-boyfriend for without shedding a tear… What would her lips taste like?
“Okay,” she finally said.
“Good,” Miranda nodded, and for the first time in years, she seemed to breathe. “There’s a discreet place on 64th Street. Table for two. No one bothers us. No one asks questions.”
“Perfect for a secret date,” Andrea said sarcastically, blushing the second the words left her mouth.
Miranda gave her the shadow of a smile.
“Call it whatever you want, Andrea.”
And they walked in silence, side by side, hands dangerously close, lips holding back, and hearts… breaking into a new shape. The flashes faded, maybe with enough material to create the wildest headlines in history. When they arrived, Andrea smiled to herself. It was warm and simple, tiny lights adorned the space, flowers overflowed every corner, everything the world thought Miranda Priestly was not.
Miranda gave her name, and they were led to a table in the back. Once seated, Andrea kept fiddling with the menu.
It began without much effort. The wine glasses arrived quickly, it was early, but they needed it, along with warm bread Andrea tore apart just to stay occupied, to distract herself from the eyes watching her from across the table.
Miranda didn’t speak much. She was looking. But one look was always enough. As if time hadn’t passed. As if Andrea still brought her coffee each morning and chased her Valentino coat.
Andrea pretended to read the menu.
“You still wear the same perfume,” Miranda said suddenly, her voice low, barely brushing intimate.
Andrea looked up, startled by the tone.
“Does it bother you?”
Miranda shook her head.
“It distracts me.”
Andrea laughed quietly, nervous. She wet her lips with wine and set the glass down half full.
“I guess that’s a compliment, coming from you.”
“It is.”
Silence. A comfortable one… but burning.
They ate. They made small talk. Andrea asked about Emily, about the girls. Miranda answered with measured courtesy. They didn’t touch anything deep, as if they both knew the truly important things couldn’t fit in small words.
But then, when the waiter cleared the plates, Miranda crossed one leg over the other, leaned toward Andrea…
“Come home with me.”
Andrea blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I told you…I don’t want to talk about the past. But I can’t stand for this to end here. Not again, Andrea.”
Andrea stared at her, her heart pounding in her throat. Miranda begging, Miranda looking at her like she mattered more than the entire Runway company. Miranda there, with her, in the warmest, humblest restaurant her former boss had ever chosen.
“And what exactly do you expect to happen?”
“Damn it, Andrea,” Miranda whispered. “I want you to stop running… and for me to stop pretending I don’t miss you like some damn teenager.”
Andrea couldn’t breathe. The confession hit her like a wave of heat in the middle of winter. She felt drunk, like whiskey euphoria crashing in her stomach with no warning.
“This isn’t a game, Miranda,” she warned, her voice shaking. “I… I don’t know how to go back without… if we—”
“And who said I want to go back?” Miranda cut in softly. “I don’t.”
Andrea froze.
Then, without looking at anyone else, without overthinking, she grabbed her purse with a slow, deliberate movement and stood. Her entire skin burned for Miranda, begged for a touch, her touch. She wanted to melt into the older woman’s hands. She wanted… what exactly? Andrea knew, and yet didn’t. Every time she asked herself, it felt unreal, because she felt like the same girl who went to that interview more than a year ago.
“Ask for the check.”
Miranda smiled. It wasn’t the smile of a woman who ruled every sky on every planet… but of someone who had just found her light again.
The penthouse door closed behind them with a soft click.
Andrea stopped in the middle of the living room. Nothing had changed. The contemporary art. The perfectly aligned books. The fresh flowers. Everything in order.
But this time, she was there by choice. No book in hand. No intention of impressing Miranda… just there, admiring Priestly’s immortal beauty.
Miranda removed her coat slowly, wordlessly. Andrea watched her. Her silhouette. Her neck. Her fingers unfastening each button like she knew she was being watched.
“Would you like something to drink?” Miranda asked, back turned, walking toward the kitchen.
“I don’t want anything that’ll distract me,” Andrea said, and her tone made Miranda freeze.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. You already distracted me enough with that dress.” Andrea took a step forward. “And your voice. And everything you didn’t say at that table. And… the way you’ve been looking at me.”
Miranda turned slowly, her silver eyes glowing under the dim light.
“Then tell me what you want, Andrea. What is it?”
Andrea stepped closer. The air between them crackled.
“You” she whispered. “All of you.”
And Miranda kissed her. Kissed her like someone finally breathing again. Melting into Andrea’s lips as if they were her medicine and they were. They opened the door after being locked in their own denials for too long. Miranda felt like she found home in that mouth.
And Andrea finally, truly, fell into the kiss.
They pulled apart, breathless, flushed, stories untold, still clinging to one another.
“Don’t leave me, Andrea, please…” Miranda’s lips brushed Andrea’s nose as she pleaded. “Don’t go when the only thing I’ve ever done right is love you.”
“I…” Andrea kept her eyes closed, savoring every feeling. “I can’t leave when my skin has always carried your name, Miranda. I loved you, I love you, I will love you.”
And they melted into one another. Miranda like a starving vampire, and Andrea offering herself without hesitation, because she would sacrifice her entire life just to feel the older woman’s body forever.