Chapter Text
Miranda Priestly did not frequent establishments where chairs creaked. Nor, was she in the habit of waiting.
Yet, here she was seated at a slightly uneven bistro table, one leg shorter than the others, wobbling every so often like it was reminding her she didn’t belong. The place smelled like garlic and a not yet discovered cheese, and the laminated wine list doubled as a menu. She had been here once before dragged by Andrea on some spontaneous midweek dinner after a disastrous press screening and somehow, the memory had dulled enough for her to say yes again.
It wasn’t terrible. The lighting was soft enough to be forgiving, the music low enough to stay out of the way, and the clientele too distracted by their own conversations to bother with her. And the food, though decidedly not haute cuisine had the distinct virtue of being made by people who gave a damn. Andrea liked that. Miranda… was beginning to understand why.
She had ordered a glass of wine. Not her usual, not anything that would pass muster at a proper tasting, but serviceable. A dry Sauvignon Blanc with too much citrus and not nearly enough chill. She took small sips and tried not to think about the fact that she had been sitting alone for eleven minutes.
She had reached the point of low-level existential reflection, the kind that creeps in when your phone battery’s low and your server is too afraid to interrupt, and had begun cataloging, without meaning to, the culinary terrain she had traversed since Andrea Sachs reentered her life.
There had been the tapas bar in Alphabet City with chairs designed to punish posture. The dumpling place in Flushing where Miranda had been the only person in a three-block radius wearing Valentino. The coffee shop that served everything in mason jars and smelled faintly of sage and generational apathy.
And yet, she had gone. Willingly. Sometimes more than once.
She wouldn’t call these places comfortable, but they were... grounding. The kind of spaces that didn’t care who you were, as long as you ordered something and stayed out of the way. They reminded her, in their own stubborn way, that there was a world outside of photo shoots and fashion weeks. One that Andrea had always moved through with an ease that Miranda found quietly astonishing.
Her phone vibrated against the table.
STEPHEN PRIESTLY FILES FOR EXPEDITED DIVORCE.
Miranda tapped the alert away without opening it and turned the device face-down. The table wobbled again, and she welcomed its rebuke of her soon-to-be ex-husband’s idiocy.
The door chimed.
“I’m sorry,” Andrea said as she crossed the room, not rushing but walking with the kind of purposeful stride that implied she knew all was already forgiven. “I lost track of time finishing edits. They’re expanding the subway series and my managing editor is allergic to periods, so I’ve been arguing about punctuation for the last forty-five minutes.”
She slid into the seat opposite Miranda with the same hapless intent she had when wandered into that elevator in Elias Clarke all those months ago when they first met.
Miranda regarded her over the rim of her glass. “You’re late.”
Andrea offered a crooked grin. “Only by nine minutes.”
“Eleven,” Miranda corrected. “Though I suppose it’s irrelevant. You’re here.”
Andrea didn’t apologize again. She never did. Not for work. Not for being a person with ambition. And Miranda, who had built an empire on ambition, could hardly fault her for that.
She had, after all, rescheduled on Andrea more than once for events she couldn’t miss, crises she couldn’t delegate. Andrea had never made her feel guilty for it. And so Miranda didn’t, now.
“I know this place isn’t exactly your scene,” Andrea said, unfolding her napkin. “But the food is oddly life-affirming, and the owner makes the ricotta himself in a kitchen that should probably be condemned.”
“How reassuring.”
“You’ll live.”
The waiter arrived and refilled their water glasses with careful delicacy as if he knew spilling a single drop would cost him a lucrative tip that Miranda could easily afford. Andrea ordered without looking at the menu. Miranda waited a beat longer, then asked for the same.
“You liked it last time,” Andrea said once the waiter was gone. “You just stoically ignored the joy from your tastebuds.”
Miranda raised her brow. She was clearly and accurately called out. “I… didn’t completely hate it,” she replied.
Andrea smirked. “You finished your plate.”
Miranda lifted her glass again. “That’s hardly a reliable metric. I’ve finished entire plates at editor luncheons that should have been classified as biological threats.”
Andrea grinned, then quieted, watching her. “I saw the news.”
“You and a few hundred thousand or so.”
Andrea hesitated. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”
Miranda looked down at her wine. “I want to enjoy this terrible sauvignon blanc and the food you keep insisting will change my life.”
Andrea nodded, letting it go.
The table wobbled again. Miranda pressed her palm against the edge without thinking. Just enough pressure to steady it. Just enough to stay grounded.
The food arrived just as Andrea finished recounting a particularly gruesome sentence she’d cut from a draft about subway sanitation. The story had involved the word “sludge” and an unwise metaphor about moral decay. Miranda had waved a dismissive hand before the punchline, but her eyes had betrayed the smallest flicker of amusement.
Their plates were set down. Generous bowls of pasta that released a warm, peppery scent as the steam curled upward. Miranda leaned back to allow the server space, then glanced down with the practiced skepticism of someone who’d been served thousand-dollar dishes on private jets.
Andrea picked up her fork and took the first bite with the urgency of someone eating for the first time all day.
Miranda followed with more restraint.
The noodles were firm. The cheese sharp and impossibly fresh. The pepper hit with more confidence than elegance — bold, messy, unapologetic. But there was something about it. It was…more than serviceable. It was another one of Andrea's discoveries.
Miranda didn’t speak for a moment. Just chewed, swallowed, and set her fork down with deliberate grace.
Andrea leaned forward, voice low. “You like it.”
“I tolerate it,” Miranda replied, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
Andrea’s eyes sparkled. “You almost smiled.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You did,” she insisted. “You can't hide it from me.”
Miranda shook her head but made no effort to deny it further. Her fork found its way back to the bowl. A second bite. Smaller than the first.
They ate quietly for a few minutes. Not in silence. There was always ambient noise, clinking glasses, bursts of laughter from neighboring tables, but in a kind of shared stillness that had grown between them over the past few months. Comfortable. Companionable. Confident.
Then Andrea looked up, her expression softening.
“Can I ask how your day went?” she said. “Not the divorce. Just... everything else.”
Miranda blinked, not startled, still caught off guard by the ways Andrea’s curiosity wasn’t casually performative. She asked the question, because she wanted to know the answer.
Andrea didn’t fill the silence. She just waited.
Miranda stirred her pasta once, then looked up. “I had a meeting this morning with a young designer from São Paulo. Promising. Entirely too fond of fringe.”
Andrea nodded. “The horror.”
“And then two stylists had a row over who gets first pull for a campaign shoot in Iceland. One of them cried. The other left early claiming food poisoning. I suspect revenge will be swift and passive-aggressive.”
“So… a typical day.”
“A typical day,” Miranda affirmed.
Andrea twirled a bite of pasta around her fork, then pointed it toward Miranda. “And you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You,” Andrea said. “How did your day go today?”
The question hung there, as sincere as the first time Andrea had asked.
Miranda looked at her a moment longer than necessary. Then she exhaled. Slow, through her nose, and replied with something unguarded.
“I was tired,” she said. “Even before the headlines.”
Andrea’s shoulders softened. “Yeah?”
“Yes. It’s not the meetings or the interviews or the press. It’s…” She paused, considered. “It’s the noise. The… constant doubt everyone throws my way despite them being completely incapable of doing half of what I do every day. I have never once rested on my laurels.”
Andrea nodded again. “I think you’re incapable of it.”
“No,” Miranda said quietly. “I suppose I’m not.”
“I can say from firsthand experience,” Andrea said. “You’re amazing because you force yourself to do the impossible every day.”
Miranda didn’t answer. But when she took another bite of pasta, she didn’t bother pretending it was just tolerable.
And Andrea, sensing the shift, didn’t push. She just smiled to herself and kept eating, the easy rhythm of their quiet evening settling into the well-worn existence of their friendship.
When the check came, Miranda reached for it automatically.
Andrea stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “My restaurant, my tab.”
Miranda hesitated. Then let go.
Once the check was settled, they silently left in tandem. Outside, the night had gone sharp and cold. Andrea zipped her coat halfway and pulled her hair loose from where it had gotten caught. Miranda didn’t say anything. Just slipped her gloves back on and led them across the street to where her car was waiting.
Roy, professional as always, stepped out and opened the door.
Miranda slid into the backseat.
Andrea paused, just for a moment. She looked at Miranda, just looked like she was checking for something. And Miranda, without a word, tilted her head slightly toward the open seat beside her.
That was all it took.
Andrea got in.
The door shut behind her. The car pulled into the street.
No one said anything.
There were no grand confessions. No declarations. Just warmth radiating between them, quiet and steady and unmistakable.
As the city lights passed behind them, Andrea reached across the seat and gently, deliberately, placed her hand over Miranda’s.
Miranda didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She simply turned her hand over and laced their fingers together.
And when they reached the townhouse, they stepped inside without breaking stride.
The house was still, the kind of stillness that comes when arriving home too late to face any of the other occupants. Miranda hung up her coat in practiced silence; Andrea did the same. There was no need for discussion. They moved through the entryway like they’d done it before. Not often, but enough. Enough for it to feel like it was becoming a habit instead of an exception.
Miranda didn’t offer tea. She didn’t pour wine or retreat to her office to check the headlines. She simply turned, eyes catching Andrea’s in the low hallway light, and said, softly, “Come upstairs.”
Andrea followed.
Up the stairs, down the hall, past rooms designed for guests and daughters and curated appearances until Miranda opened the door to the room she had never once offered lightly.
The primary bedroom was understated and elegant. No soft lighting tricks. No curated intimacy. Just a bed with crisp linens and a nightstand that held a clock and a worn book.
Miranda walked in and began unfastening the buttons of her blouse, one by one. Not for performance. Not for seduction. Just with the quiet assurance of someone done with her day.
Andrea stood in the doorway. Miranda turned, not fully, just enough, and extended a hand behind her.
Andrea stepped forward. Took it.
They undressed without ceremony. Folded their clothes or let them fall. Miranda slipped between the sheets first, but didn’t lie back until Andrea joined her. The mattress gave slightly as they settled, the gravity of two people easing toward each other after too much noise.
Andrea tucked herself in close, an arm across Miranda’s waist, cheek against her shoulder. Miranda turned her head and pressed a kiss to Andrea’s lips. Not hurried, not hesitant.
Just comfortable.
There would still be chaos tomorrow, because tomorrow always brought chaos.
But tonight, Miranda didn’t have to sleep alone.