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i.
The first time Emily didn't kiss Andrea was in the coat closet at Runway, which was absurd because Emily had never kissed anyone in a coat closet in her life and wasn't about to start with Andrea Sachs, of all people.
It was Fashion Week, which meant that Miranda was even more impossible than usual, which Emily hadn't thought was mathematically possible. Emily had been running on four hours of sleep and approximately six espressos when Miranda sent her to retrieve a specific Valentino coat from last season that she wanted photographed for an editorial. The coat was burgundy, Miranda had said, with three-quarter sleeves and gold buttons, and it was in the closet somewhere near the Chanels from spring.
Emily had been elbow-deep in garment bags, trying to remember if burgundy was more red or more brown, when Andrea stumbled into the closet carrying an armful of accessories that were clearly meant for a completely different shoot.
"What are you doing?" Emily snapped, because really, the closet was barely large enough for one person, let alone two, and certainly not large enough for Andrea and her complete inability to navigate physical space without knocking things over.
"Miranda said to bring these—" Andrea began, but Emily cut her off.
"Those are the Blumarine pieces for the spring spread. Miranda wants them in her office, not in the closet, you complete and utter nightmare of a human being."
Andrea's face did that thing it always did when Emily yelled at her, a sort of crumpling that made Emily feel simultaneously victorious and vaguely ill. "She said closet," Andrea said. "I wrote it down. I'm sure she said—"
"Well, you wrote it down wrong, didn't you? As usual. Now get out, I'm trying to find a coat and you're taking up all the oxygen in here with your constant breathing and your tragic existence."
But Andrea didn't move. She just stood there, clutching the accessories, her lower lip caught between her teeth in that infuriating way she had. The closet was warm and close, and Emily could smell Andrea's shampoo, something cheap and floral that should have been revolting but somehow wasn't. Andrea's hair was coming loose from the bun she'd attempted that morning, tendrils falling around her face, and in the dim light of the closet she looked almost—
Emily shook her head sharply. She looked almost like she needed to get out of Emily's way, that's what she looked almost.
"I'm sorry," Andrea said quietly. "I thought I heard her correctly. I'll just—" She turned to leave, and in doing so somehow managed to catch her elbow on a rack of evening gowns. The entire rack swayed dangerously. Emily lunged forward to steady it, grabbing the metal bar with one hand and Andrea's arm with the other, pulling her back before the whole thing came crashing down.
They ended up pressed together in the small space between the racks, Emily's hand still on Andrea's arm, Andrea's face very close to her own. Andrea's eyes were wide, startled, and in the golden light filtering through the garment bags they looked almost honey-colored instead of their usual boring brown. Her mouth was slightly open, and Emily found herself looking at it, at the curve of Andrea's lower lip.
"Emily," Andrea said, her voice barely a whisper, and Emily realized with a sort of detached horror that she was leaning in, that her hand had slid from Andrea's arm to her waist, that another few centimeters and—
Emily dropped her hand like Andrea's bargain-basement cardigan had suddenly caught fire. "Get out," she said, her voice coming out rougher than she intended. "Get out before you destroy everything in here. Some of these pieces are irreplaceable, unlike you."
Andrea's face went red, and she clutched the accessories closer to her chest. "Right," she said. "Of course. Sorry." She backed out of the closet, stumbling slightly over her own feet in her haste.
Emily stood very still after she left, her heart beating unpleasantly fast, her hand still tingling where it had touched Andrea's waist. She looked down at the burgundy coat she'd been searching for, which was right there, visible, where it had been the entire time.
"Bollocks," she muttered, and went back to work.
ii.
The second time Emily didn't kiss Andrea was at three in the morning in the back of a town car, returning from a catastrophic dinner at Per Se where Miranda's third husband had made the mistake of questioning her judgment about a cover story.
Emily had been summoned to retrieve Miranda at the restaurant, even though technically it wasn't her job anymore since Andrea had started and was supposed to handle these sorts of emergencies. But Andrea was new enough that Miranda didn't trust her with the really important disasters, the ones that required discretion and speed and the ability to remain completely calm while Miranda unleashed the full force of her displeasure on the world.
Emily had arrived to find Miranda outside the restaurant, her face perfectly composed in that terrifying way that meant someone was going to lose their job by morning. "Emily," she'd said. "Where is Andrea?"
"At the apartment with the Book, I assume," Emily said, because that's where Andrea always was at this time of night, poring over the Book like it contained the secrets of the universe instead of just photos of women in expensive clothes.
"Get her," Miranda said. "I need both of you to come to the townhouse. There's work to be done."
Which was how Emily ended up collecting Andrea from Miranda's apartment at half past midnight, then sitting in the back of a town car with her as they drove uptown. Andrea was disheveled in the way she always was when she'd been working late, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her makeup smudged, wearing what appeared to be the same hopeless outfit she'd worn to work that morning.
"What happened?" Andrea asked, stifling a yawn.
"None of your concern," Emily said crisply, even though she was exhausted enough that her usual sharp edges felt somewhat dulled. "Just—when we get there, do exactly as I say. Don't speak unless Miranda asks you a direct question. Don't touch anything. Don't breathe too loudly."
Andrea turned to look at her, and in the passing streetlights her face flickered between shadow and illumination. "Emily," she said. "I know you think I'm completely useless, but I'm not actually brain-dead. I can handle this."
"Can you?" Emily said. "Because from where I'm sitting, you can barely handle answering the phone without cocking it up."
"That was one time," Andrea said. "One time I transferred a call to the wrong department—"
"It was Donatella Versace," Emily hissed. "You transferred Donatella Versace to bloody accounting. I'm amazed Miranda didn't have you sacked on the spot."
Andrea was quiet for a moment, and Emily felt a familiar surge of satisfaction. But then Andrea said, "You know, I'm trying. I'm really trying. And I know I'm not you, I know I'm not perfect at this, but I'm—" Her voice cracked slightly. "I'm doing my best."
Emily turned to look at her properly, and was alarmed to see that Andrea's eyes were bright with unshed tears. Oh, brilliant. Crying in the town car. That was exactly what Emily needed at half past midnight on a Tuesday.
"Don't," Emily said sharply. "Don't you dare cry. If you show up at Miranda's townhouse with your face all blotchy and your nose running, she'll fire you and then fire me for bringing you in that state, and I absolutely refuse to be fired because you can't keep your emotions in check."
Andrea took a shaky breath and pressed her fingers under her eyes. "I'm not crying," she said.
"You're about to."
"I'm not." Andrea turned to face the window, her jaw set. she looked older somehow, less like the fumbling disaster who'd first stumbled through Runway's doors and more like someone who was learning, painfully and slowly, how to survive in a world that didn't particularly want her.
Emily felt something twist in her chest, something uncomfortable that she immediately pushed down. "Look," her voice slightly softer despite herself. "You're not completely hopeless. You're just—you're learning. It takes time."
Andrea turned back to her, surprised. "Did you just—did you just say something almost nice to me?"
"Don't get used to it," Emily said. But she reached into her bag and pulled out a small compact, flipping it open and holding it out to Andrea. "Here. Fix your face before we arrive. You look like a raccoon."
Andrea took the compact, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Andrea's hand was warm, slightly trembling from tiredness or emotion or both. Emily pulled her hand back quickly.
"Thanks," Andrea said quietly, and began to repair her makeup in the small mirror.
Emily watched her for a moment—the concentration on her face as she wiped away the smudged mascara, the way she bit her lip as she tried to make herself presentable, the vulnerable curve of her neck as she tilted her head to see better in the dim light. Then Emily forced herself to look away, out her own window, at the passing buildings and the late-night pedestrians and anything, really, that wasn't Andrea Sachs sitting too close to her in the back of a town car, looking soft and tired and almost pretty in the half-light.
"Right," Emily said briskly when Andrea handed the compact back. "Just remember what I said. Don't speak, don't touch anything, don't—"
"Don't breathe too loudly," Andrea finished. "I know."
Their eyes met, and Andrea smiled, just a little, and Emily felt that uncomfortable twist in her chest again. She turned away sharply and spent the rest of the drive mentally cataloging everything they'd need to do at the townhouse, and absolutely, definitely not thinking about how Andrea's hand had felt against hers.
iii.
The third time Emily didn't kiss Andrea was in Paris.
Paris, as it turned out, was not the glittering triumph Emily had spent years dreaming about. It should have been—she was in Paris, for God's sake, for Fashion Week, wearing couture and attending shows and standing at Miranda Priestley's elbow as she made decisions that would shape the entire industry. But somehow, instead of being filled with the victorious joy Emily had always imagined, she found herself standing in a hotel bathroom at two in the morning, staring at herself in the mirror and wondering why she felt so utterly hollow.
She'd been meant to go to Paris. She'd earned it. She'd worked herself to the bone for that trip, had sacrificed everything—her health, her relationships, any semblance of a personal life. And then Andrea, bloody Andrea who couldn't even walk in heels six months ago, had gone instead.
Except now Emily was here anyway, because Miranda had called three days into the trip and said she needed Emily after all, and Emily had dropped everything and taken the next flight out. She'd felt such overwhelming relief when she'd gotten that call that she'd nearly wept, but now, standing in this bathroom, she felt nothing at all. Just tired.
There was a knock on her hotel room door. Emily considered ignoring it—it was two in the morning, and she was meant to be at the Chanel show at eight, which meant she needed to be awake and functional in approximately four hours. But the knocking continued, insistent, and with a sigh Emily pulled on her dressing gown and went to answer it.
Andrea was standing in the hallway, still dressed from whatever event she'd been at, wearing one of the impossibly beautiful outfits from Miranda's collection. Her hair was loose, tumbling past her shoulders in waves, and her makeup was slightly smudged, giving her a sort of debauched glamour that made Emily's stomach do something complicated.
"What," Emily said flatly.
"I saw your light was on," Andrea said. "I thought—I wanted to see if you were all right."
"Why on earth wouldn't I be all right?"
Andrea hesitated. "You just seemed—at dinner tonight, you seemed—"
"Seemed what?" Emily said sharply. "Seemed thrilled to finally be in Paris? Because I am. Thrilled. This is everything I've ever wanted."
Andrea looked at her for a long moment, and Emily had the uncomfortable feeling that Andrea was seeing far more than Emily wanted her to see. "Can I come in?" Andrea asked quietly.
"It's two in the morning."
"I know. Please?"
Emily stepped back and let Andrea enter. Andrea crossed to the window, looking out at the Parisian skyline, the lights of the city glittering in the darkness. "It's beautiful," she said.
"Yes," Emily said. "It is."
Andrea turned back to face her. "I wanted to say—I know you think I stole this from you. Paris. And I know that in some ways, I did. You should have been the one to come originally. You'd earned it."
"How very magnanimous of you to acknowledge that."
"Emily," Andrea said, and there was something in her voice that made Emily actually look at her, really look at her. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't fix anything, but I am."
Emily felt something rise up in her throat, something dangerous that felt like it might be tears or rage or some horrible combination of both. "You're sorry," she repeated. "How lovely. I'm sure that makes everything all right then."
"No," Andrea said. "It doesn't. But I—I wanted you to know that I know. That you deserved this. That you're brilliant at this job and I'm just—I'm just someone who happened to be in the right place at the right time."
"Don't," Emily said, her voice coming out sharper than she intended. "Don't you dare stand there in one of Miranda's frocks and tell me that you're just lucky. You're not. You worked for this too, in your way. You learned. You changed. You became someone who belongs here, and I—" She stopped abruptly.
"You what?" Andrea said softly.
Emily shook her head. The problem, she realized, was that Andrea did belong here. Andrea in her beautiful dress, with her hair loose and her face soft in the low light, looked like she'd been made for Paris, for fashion, for this glittering world that Emily had fought so hard to be part of. And Emily, standing in her dressing gown at two in the morning, felt suddenly like an imposter.
"Nothing," Emily said. "It's late. You should go."
But Andrea didn't move. Instead, she crossed the room until she was standing very close to Emily, close enough that Emily could smell her perfume—something expensive that Miranda had probably given her. "Emily," Andrea said. "You do belong here. More than I do. You belong here because you love it. I can see it in the way you look at the clothes, at the shows. This is your world."
"Then why did she choose you?" Emily said, and hated herself for asking, hated the way her voice sounded small and lost.
Andrea reached out and took Emily's hand. Her fingers were warm, her grip gentle but firm. "I don't know," she said honestly. "But I'm glad you're here now. I—I've missed you. Even though you're mean to me constantly, I've missed you."
Emily laughed, a short, sharp sound. "You've missed me being mean to you? You're more disturbed than I thought."
"Maybe," Andrea said, and smiled. She was still holding Emily's hand, and Emily knew she should pull away, should say something cutting and dismissive, should end this strange, soft moment that felt nothing like their usual sharp-edged interactions.
Instead, Emily squeezed Andrea's hand back. Just once, just for a moment. Then she pulled away and stepped back, wrapping her dressing gown tighter around herself.
"Go to bed, Andrea," she said, her voice steady again. "We have Chanel in the morning."
Andrea looked at her for another long moment, something unreadable in her dark eyes. Then she nodded. "Good night, Emily," she said, and left.
iv.
The fourth time Emily didn't kiss Andrea was the day Andrea quit.
Emily had known something was wrong that morning. Andrea had been quiet, withdrawn, and she'd made three mistakes before noon—small ones, but mistakes nonetheless. Emily had snapped at her, of course, because that was what Emily did, but her heart hadn't really been in it. There was something in Andrea's face, something resigned and sad.
When Andrea didn't come back from delivering the Book, Emily felt it like a physical blow.
She'd sat at her desk, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring, waiting for Andrea to call with some disaster or emergency or catastrophe that needed to be solved. But the phone didn't ring. An hour passed, then two, and finally Emily had to accept the truth: Andrea wasn't coming back.
Miranda was in meetings all afternoon, which was the only reason Emily survived the day. She fielded calls, managed crises, did the work of two assistants without really thinking about it, moving on autopilot, her mind strangely blank. It wasn't until that evening, when the office had finally emptied and Emily was alone at her desk, that she let herself feel anything at all.
And what she felt, quite unexpectedly, was rage.
She'd gone to Andrea's apartment without really deciding to, taking a taxi downtown to the address she'd memorized long ago from personnel files. She'd stood outside the building for several minutes, trying to decide if she was really going to do this, if she was really going to humiliate herself by coming here. Then she'd pressed the buzzer.
"Yes?" Andrea's voice came through, tiny and surprised.
"It's Emily. Let me in."
There was a long pause. Then the door buzzed open.
Andrea was waiting in her doorway when Emily climbed the stairs, wearing jeans and an old jumper, her hair pulled back, her face bare of makeup. She looked young and tired and nothing like the polished assistant she'd become over the past year.
"Emily," she said. "I—"
"How dare you," Emily said, and her voice was shaking. "How bloody dare you."
Andrea blinked. "I'm sorry," she began, but Emily cut her off.
"Sorry? You're sorry? You walked away. You just—you left. After everything, after all the work, after everything I taught you—"
"Emily—"
"Do you have any idea what you've done? Miranda is furious. I'm going to have to train another useless assistant, another disaster who can't tell Dolce from Dior, and it's going to be a nightmare, all because you decided you couldn't handle it anymore."
"That's not—"
"Shut up," Emily snapped. "Just shut up. I don't want to hear your excuses about how it was too hard, about how Miranda was too demanding, about how you missed your pathetic little journalist dreams. You made a commitment. You were supposed to see it through."
Andrea's jaw set. "I made a commitment to a job," she said, her voice harder now. "Not to a prison sentence. And yes, Miranda was too demanding. She's a nightmare, Emily, and you know it. She's brilliant and talented and I learned more working for her than I ever thought possible, but she's also cruel and impossible and—"
"And you couldn't cut it," Emily finished. "That's what you mean, isn't it? You couldn't handle it, so you ran."
"No," Andrea said. "I left because I didn't want to become—" She stopped abruptly.
"Become what?" Emily said, very quietly. "Become like me?"
Andrea's face flushed. "That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it?" Emily took a step closer. "Isn't that what you're all thinking? That I've sold my soul, that I've sacrificed everything for a job, that I've turned myself into some sort of heartless automaton who cares more about handbags than about being a decent human being?"
"Emily, I never said—"
"You didn't have to say it," Emily said, and she was horrified to realize her eyes were stinging. "You showed it. You looked at me, at my life, and you decided you'd rather throw everything away than end up like me."
"That's not true," Andrea said, and she stepped forward, reaching out to touch Emily's arm. "Emily, that's not true at all. You're brilliant. You're one of the most capable people I've ever met. I couldn't have survived that job without you."
"Then why did you leave?" Emily said, and hated how small her voice sounded.
Andrea's hand slid down to Emily's wrist, her fingers circling the delicate bones there. "Because I was losing myself," she said quietly. "Not because of you. Because of the job. Because of what it demanded. And I know you think that means I'm weak—"
"I don't think you're weak," Emily said, and was surprised to find it was true. "I think you're stupid, and short-sighted, and you've thrown away the opportunity of a lifetime, but I don't think you're weak."
Andrea smiled a little at that. "Well, that's something, I suppose."
They stood there, close together in Andrea's doorway, Andrea's hand still on Emily's wrist. Emily could feel Andrea's pulse under her fingers, quick and strong. She looked at Andrea's face—her eyes, dark and serious; her mouth, soft and slightly uncertain. She thought about kissing her. It would be so easy, just to lean forward, to close the small distance between them, to press her mouth against Andrea's and—
And what? What would that solve? What would it change?
Emily pulled her hand away. "I should go," she said.
"Emily—"
"No," Emily said. "I've said what I came to say. I hope—" She stopped, swallowed. "I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for. In your new job. With your journalist friends. Whatever."
"Emily, wait—"
But Emily was already walking down the stairs, and she didn't look back.
v.
The fifth time Emily didn't kiss Andrea was at the Met Gala, three years later.
Emily hadn't expected to see Andrea there. Andrea had moved on—she was writing for the New Yorker now, of all places, doing profiles and cultural commentary, and from what Emily had heard she was quite good at it. Not that Emily paid attention to Andrea's career. She was far too busy with her own. She was Features Editor now, properly, and she attended events like the Met Gala as a representative of Runway, wearing couture and rubbing shoulders with celebrities and designers, everything she'd ever wanted.
She'd been standing near the bar, accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter, when she'd seen Andrea across the room.
Andrea looked—well, she looked extraordinary. She was wearing a midnight blue gown that Emily recognized as vintage Halston, cut to perfection, her hair swept up in an elegant chignon. She was talking to someone—some literary type, judging by his rumpled dinner jacket—and laughing, her face bright and animated. She looked happy, Emily thought. She looked like she belonged.
Emily had intended to avoid her. There was no reason to dredge up ancient history, to revisit old resentments and complicated feelings that Emily had long since buried. But then Andrea had looked up, and their eyes had met across the room, and Andrea had smiled.
And Emily, despite her better judgment, had found herself smiling back.
"Emily Charlton," Andrea said when Emily approached. "I was hoping I'd see you here."
"Were you?" Emily said coolly, even though her heart was beating faster than it should have been.
"Of course. It's been too long." Andrea turned to her companion. "This is Emily—we used to work together at Runway. Emily, this is Jonathan, he writes for the Atlantic."
They exchanged pleasantries, and then Jonathan excused himself to refresh his drink, and Emily and Andrea were left alone together at the edge of the ballroom.
"You look well," Andrea said.
"So do you," Emily said. "That dress is perfection. Vintage?"
"1972," Andrea confirmed. "I found it in a little shop in the Village. The owner remembered me from—well, from when I was researching fashion history for my novel. She gave me a good price."
"Your novel," Emily said. "Yes, I read that. It was quite good, actually."
Andrea's face lit up. "You read it?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I do occasionally read things other than Runway."
"I didn't mean—" Andrea laughed. "Thank you. That means a lot, actually. Coming from you."
They fell into conversation then, easily, more easily than Emily would have expected. They talked about work, about the Gala, about mutual acquaintances from their Runway days. Andrea was funny and smart and self-deprecating in a way that was charming rather than pathetic. She'd grown up, Emily realized. She'd become the person she'd been trying to be when she'd quit Runway—confident, capable, sure of herself.
"I should probably circulate," Andrea said eventually. "I'm meant to be writing about this for the magazine. But Emily—I'm glad I ran into you. We should get coffee sometime. Catch up properly."
"I'd like that," Emily said, and meant it.
Andrea smiled and squeezed Emily's hand, and then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd.
Emily stood very still, holding her champagne, looking at the place where Andrea had been standing. She felt strange, off-balance, like she'd just stepped off a spinning carnival ride. She'd thought, after Andrea left Runway, that she'd never see her again. Or if she did, that it would be awkward, painful, full of old resentments and recriminations. She hadn't expected this—this easy warmth, this genuine pleasure at seeing each other again.
She hadn't expected to spend the rest of the evening thinking about Andrea, about the way she'd looked in that dress, about the way she'd smiled, about the way her hand had felt in Emily's.
vi.
The one time Emily did kiss Andrea was on a completely ordinary Thursday.
They'd been getting coffee regularly for six months now—ever since the Met Gala, they'd fallen into an easy rhythm, meeting every few weeks at a cafe near Emily's office. They talked about work, about fashion, about books and politics and everything else. Sometimes Miranda came up, but mostly she didn't. Mostly they just talked, like friends, which was what they'd become, Emily supposed. Friends.
Except friends didn't make Emily's pulse quicken when they walked into a room. Friends didn't make Emily spend extra time getting ready in the morning, carefully selecting her outfit, touching up her makeup. Friends didn't make Emily lie awake at night, thinking about dark eyes and soft smiles and the way Andrea's hand had felt in hers.
They'd just finished lunch—Andrea had been telling Emily about a piece she was working on about fashion and feminism, and Emily had been giving her feedback, pleased to find that Andrea valued her opinion—when Andrea's phone had rung.
"Sorry," Andrea said, glancing at the screen. "It's my editor, I should—"
"Take it," Emily said.
Andrea had stepped away to take the call, and Emily had sat at their table, playing with her coffee cup, watching Andrea through the cafe window as she paced on the sidewalk outside, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand gesturing as she talked. She looked lovely, Emily thought. She always looked lovely these days.
When Andrea came back in, she was grinning. "They're giving me the cover story," she said. "The piece I was telling you about—they want it for the cover."
"Andrea, that's wonderful," Emily said, and found she genuinely meant it. "Congratulations."
"I couldn't have done it without you," Andrea said, sliding back into her seat. "You gave me so many good ideas. You should get a co-author credit."
"Don't be ridiculous," Emily said. "It's your work. Your research, your writing. You earned this."
Andrea reached across the table and took Emily's hand. "Thank you," she said. "For everything. For being—for being my friend. I know we didn't start out that way, but—"
"But we got there eventually," Emily finished.
"We did," Andrea said, and squeezed her hand.
And Emily, looking at Andrea across the table, at the joy in her face and the warmth in her eyes, made a decision.
"Andrea," she said. "Would you like to come to dinner with me this weekend? Properly, I mean. Not just coffee. Dinner."
Andrea blinked. "Like—like a date?"
"Yes," Emily said, her voice steady despite the way her heart was hammering. "Like a date."
Andrea's face went through several emotions in quick succession—surprise, confusion, and then, finally, a slow, warm smile. "I'd love to," she said.
Which was how Emily found herself, three days later, standing outside a restaurant in the West Village, wearing her favorite dress and feeling more nervous than she'd been since her first day at Runway. Andrea arrived exactly on time, wearing jeans and a silk blouse and looking unfairly beautiful in the evening light.
"Hi," Andrea said.
"Hi," Emily said.
They had dinner. It was—it was perfect, actually. They talked and laughed and shared a bottle of wine, and Emily felt lighter than she had in years, giddy almost, drunk on wine and Andrea's proximity.
When they left the restaurant, Andrea slipped her hand into Emily's as they walked through the Village streets. "I'm glad we're doing this," Andrea said.
"So am I," Emily said.
They ended up at Andrea's apartment—the same apartment Emily had stormed to years ago, though it looked different now, more settled, full of books and art and evidence of a life well-lived. Andrea poured them wine and they sat on the couch, and Emily thought about all the times she hadn't done this, all the moments she'd pulled away, all the years they'd wasted.
"Emily," Andrea said. "What are you thinking about?"
"How much time we've wasted," Emily said honestly.
Andrea smiled and set down her wine glass. She shifted closer, until their knees were touching, until Emily could feel the warmth of her body. "Well," Andrea said, "we have time now."
And then Andrea was leaning in, and Emily was leaning in, and their mouths met in the middle.
It was nothing like Emily had imagined, all those times she'd thought about this and then pushed the thoughts away. It was better. Andrea's mouth was soft and warm and tasted like wine, and when Andrea's hand came up to cup Emily's face, her touch was gentle, reverent almost. Emily made a small sound in the back of her throat and pressed closer, her hand sliding into Andrea's hair, pulling her nearer.
They kissed for a long time, slow and deep and increasingly breathless, until Emily was half-lying on the couch with Andrea above her, Andrea's hair falling down around them like a curtain. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Andrea smiled down at her.
"Worth the wait?" Andrea asked.
Emily reached up and pulled Andrea down for another kiss. "Shut up, Andrea," she said against her mouth, and Andrea laughed.
"Some things never change," Andrea said.
"No," Emily agreed, and kissed her again. "Some things don't."
But some things, Emily thought as Andrea's hands slid to her waist, as they shifted together on the couch, as Andrea's mouth moved to her neck—some things did change. Some things changed entirely. And this, Emily thought, this was one of them.
This was worth waiting for. This was worth everything.