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Andy burst through the revolving doors of the Elias-Clarke building, her breath coming in short gasps. Her tan, from time spent in the Maldives, had already begun to fade in the three days since her return, but the flush in her cheeks now had nothing to do with tropical sun.
"Still can't sprint in heels," she muttered, limping slightly as she crossed the marble lobby. The Prada pumps, a gift from her wife, had seemed like such a promising idea this morning, but two weeks of barefoot beach walks had clearly made her soft.
She could see the elevator doors beginning to close.
That elevator.
Through the narrowing gap, she caught a flash of white hair.
Her hand shot forward to catch the doors.
They slid open again, and there stood Miranda Priestly, alone in the elevator, her head tilted slightly, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised in that expression Andy knew intimately. The one that meant she was in trouble but also that Miranda was secretly pleased.
Andy stepped inside, her lips twitching. "Miranda".
"Took you long enough," Miranda said.
The words hung between them, laden with meaning as the doors whispered shut behind her, cocooning them in sudden, charged silence.
It could have been about the seven minutes Andy was late.
It could have been about the years it had taken them to get here.
It could have been about this morning, when Andy had slipped out early for her breakfast meeting, leaving Miranda alone in their bed for the first time since the honeymoon.
"Traffic was—" Andy started.
"Terrible, yes, I'm sure." Miranda's gaze moved down to Andy's feet, and one perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose. "Though I see the problem. You tried to run in three-inch heels. We've discussed this, Andrea."
"You make it look easy," Andy chuckled.
"That's because I don't run." Miranda stepped closer, and her voice dropped to something warmer, more intimate. "I simply move with purpose and everyone else adjusts accordingly."
"Must be nice," Andy teased lightly before averting her eyes. "I didn't want to be late," she admitted
"You are late." Miranda turned fully to face her, and Andy saw it; the slight softness around her eyes, the almost-smile playing at her lips. "And you know it, or you wouldn't have attempted to sprint across Sixth Avenue in three-inch heels like some sort of gazelle being chased by a particularly determined predator."
"How did you—"
"Roy saw you from the car. He was quite entertained." Miranda stepped closer, and her hand came up, cool fingers adjusting the collar of Andy's blouse with the same critical eye she'd once used to tear apart clothing submissions. But now the touch lingered, possessive, yet gentle. "You're flushed. Your hair is—" she paused, tucking a strand behind Andy's ear, "—actually, your hair is perfect."
Andy felt her heart hammering.
Even now, after everything, after Paris, after the secret calls that turned into coffee meetings that turned into something neither of them could deny, after her quiet divorce, after the media scandal when they finally stopped hiding their relationship, after the small perfect wedding that broke the internet and caused a media frenzy, Miranda could still do this to her with just a few words.
"You have newsprint on your cuff," Miranda noted. "Were you actually reading a physical newspaper like some sort of Luddite?"
"I was reading the Runway spread on sustainable fashion. Your editorial was brilliant, by the way."
"Obviously." But Miranda's eyes gleamed with pleasure. "Though you could have told me that this morning before you vanished to your breakfast meeting."
"I missed you at breakfast," Andy said softly. "Nate asked about the honeymoon and all I could think about was that you weren't there."
Miranda's expression shifted, vulnerability flashing across her features before the mask slid back into place. "And did you tell Nathan that his ex-girlfriend spent two weeks being thoroughly spoiled on a private island?"
Andy laughed. "I may have mentioned the overwater bungalow, the private chef, and the fact that you actually turned off your phone for three entire days."
"Four," Miranda corrected. "And never speak of it again. My reputation would be ruined."
"I told him the island was beautiful."
"And?"
"And that my wife is the most incredible woman I've ever met, even when she's pretending to be annoyed that I was seven minutes late."
"Six minutes now." But Miranda was smiling, that rare, genuine smile reserved only for Andy and the twins, for private moments, for elevators suspended between floors where no one else could see. "And I'm not pretending."
She pressed the button for the Runway floor, and the elevator began its smooth ascent.
"The board meeting—" Andy started.
"Can wait." Miranda's hand found hers, fingers intertwining, platinum bands catching the elevator's soft lighting.
Matching.
Simple.
Perfect
"I have seventeen minutes before I'm expected. That gives us time." Miranda sighed.
"Time for what?"
Miranda pulled her closer, her voice dropping to that low register that still made Andy's knees weak. "Time to properly welcome you back from your breakfast with the ex-boyfriend. Time to remind you why you married me instead of some chef who can't appreciate Chanel."
"As if I could forget," Andy murmured.
"Good." Miranda kissed her. It was brief, controlled, but thorough enough to make Andy forget entirely what she'd been about to say. When she pulled back, her lipstick remained immaculate while Andy knew hers was thoroughly ruined. "You look exceptionally beautiful when you're flustered and out of breath."
Andy felt heat rise to her cheeks.
"Welcome back to reality, Mrs. Priestly-Sachs," Miranda said, producing a tissue and wiping Andy's lips with practiced efficiency. "Now, about the Dolce and Gabbana merger. Your thoughts?"
Andy laughed breathlessly, the sound echoing in the small space. "My thoughts are that you're impossible."
"That's not an answer, Andrea."
"My thoughts," she grinned, "are that I really need to learn to sprint in heels."
"Ah, and there's that eternal optimism in the face of impossible odds." Miranda rolled her eyes.
Andy took a deep steadying breath, slipping back into the familiar rhythm of work and wife and the beautiful, terrifying life they'd built together, "I think we should counter-offer. They need us more than we need them."
Miranda's smile was sharp with pride. "There's my girl. I knew there was a reason I married you."
"Just one reason?"
"Several. Your analytical mind. Your surprising ruthlessness in contract negotiations. Your ability to make me laugh." Miranda's thumb traced circles on Andy's palm.
The elevator chimed, arriving at their floor. The doors began to open onto the Runway offices, where assistants would be waiting, where chaos and deadlines and impossible demands waited for them.
Miranda straightened, her public mask sliding effortlessly into place. But before stepping out, she squeezed Andy's hand once; quick, private, theirs.
"Try not to sprint anymore today, darling," she said, her voice carrying just enough edge to sound professional to anyone listening. "It's terribly unbecoming."
"Yes, Miranda," Andy replied, fighting back a smile.
They stepped out together into the familiar controlled chaos of Runway, and Andy thought, not for the first time, that some things were worth running for.
Even in heels she still couldn't quite master.