Having taken the momentous step of asking Andrea on a date, Miranda tosses and turns all night imagining the many ways said date might go horribly wrong and thus ruin any hope of future happiness. (This is not hyperbole.) At 4 a.m., she declares herself awake rather than risk suffering through another nightmare about Andrea deciding she's actually still in love with the chef and running off to a farm in Ohio to bear him seven children.

She goes through the motions of preparing for her day a bit more swiftly than usual, grateful for once that Caroline and Cassidy are with their father, before heading to the office. Nigel's office, to be precise. By the time he ambles in at the crack of 8:02, Miranda has already spent several hours plotting and brooding at his photo-strewn desk.

When Nigel catches sight of her reclining in his chair, he trips. A consummate professional, albeit one with a longstanding grudge, he schools his expression from shocked to bland in an instant. "Miranda. To what do I owe this very unexpected—" he checks his watch "—and very early—pleasure?"

She has been contemplating for the past hour what, exactly, to say to him.

"It's time for you to forgive me," she decrees.

His eyebrows go up. He says, voice frosty, "You don't get to make that decision."

Miranda exhales sharply and stands, offering him his own chair with a careless wave of her hand. He doesn't react, but his face—a face she knows so well—is stiff and closed off.

"We were friends, of a sort," she says. "Weren't we?"

He leans against his desk and crosses his arms over his chest. "You don't have friends, Miranda. I'm sure I've heard you say that. I was your right-hand man, at best. Your foolish patsy at worst. You made that very clear in Paris."

"Paris was—" Not a mistake. Placed in the same situation again, she would do exactly the same thing all over again. "—regrettable."

"That's one word for it."

She grits her teeth. He refuses to make this easy for her, doesn't he? She would have thought their long history had earned her some leeway.

"What would you have done in my shoes?" she demands. "Should I have allowed Irv to take everything when I had the tools to protect myself?"

Nigel rolls his eyes. "Miranda, you cannot be this obtuse."

For a moment, she is speechless. No one insults her to her face like this. No one. Only a firm reminder of why she is here prevents her from scorching him with her words in response.

"It's not what you did," he goes on. "It's how you did it. I understand why you gave the Holt partnership to Jacqueline. Yes, I probably would have done the same in your shoes. But you could have told me in advance. You could have sat me down and had a respectful conversation."

He looks her dead in the eye. "You could have treated me as if I mattered to you even the slightest bit."

Miranda feels as if she has been struck. More than that, she feels ashamed. Nigel is right. Of course he is.

When she remains silent, he looks away, rubbing his chin, his expression turning rueful. "I don't know why I was surprised. It's not as if you've ever been a person someone would describe as considerate."

She flinches.

He continues, merciless. "But I'd witnessed just a little of your friendship with Andy. I'd seen how you made an effort with her. I foolishly thought you'd do the same for someone who'd worked for you for almost two decades."

Finally, this bombardment ceases.

She clears her throat. Her voice, when she speaks, is rough. "Andrea is the exception. Not the rule. As poor a light as that may cast on me to admit."

Oddly, this admission seems to drain the anger from his eyes. "I know that now." He sighs and finally sinks into the chair. "So. You want my forgiveness."

"Yes."

He gives her a hard look. "And I should grant it to you—why? Out of the goodness of my heart? Because you'll fire me if I won't?"

"Because you are my friend," she says, disappointed by how clumsily the words fit in her mouth. "But I won't force you to forgive me. If you wish to hate me forever, I assure you that you may continue to do so from the safety of this office."

"Funny thing—I don't want to stay in this office," Nigel says, steepling his fingers. "I think I've been here long enough. That's my condition. I'll forgive you if you promise to find me a position as good as the Holt one, or better."

After Andrea's stubborn refusal to let Miranda help, ever, with anything, Nigel's mercenary approach is a breath of fresh air. This, Miranda knows how to deal with. She almost smiles.

"Agreed," she says crisply.

He points a finger at her. "And it's got to happen soon," he warns. "Don't make me wait forever."

Back on familiar ground, she permits herself a sigh of exasperation. "Yes, yes, I understand the terms."

He blinks. "Well—good."

"Then I'm forgiven?" she presses.

He smiles at her. It's the first time he's done so since Paris, almost four months ago. "Yes. Forgiven."

It feels as if she's had ages of freesias and finally, at last, finds herself in possession of a rose. "Marvelous." Her eyes narrow. "Now, tell me how, exactly, you have become so well acquainted with my Andrea."

Mercifully, this newly-emboldened Nigel is immune to neither that expression nor that tone. "Can this conversation wait? I still owe you that layout—"

"No. It cannot wait."

He shrugs, lips quirking ruefully. "Andy and Doug are good friends. I know you know that."

Miranda thinks back to Andrea's birthday party, the casual camaraderie among Andrea's small group of peers. "I do."

"Well, when Doug and I started seeing each other regularly, by default that meant spending time with Andy. I wouldn't say she and I are close, but I've had a limited view seat for a lot of what she's gone through recently."

"You are friends?"

"For a given value of 'friends'. We don't exactly braid each other's hair."

Miranda hums. "But you've spent time with her. Gone to restaurants with her, for example. Socialized in other ways, perhaps."

He shakes his head. "Miranda, what on Earth are you getting at?"

She purses her lips. "I am—that is, we are…" This should not be so difficult. Miranda despises the thought that she may actually be as emotionally constipated as her tenth grade English teacher once claimed. A deep breath. "Andrea and I have decided to begin seeing each other."

She waits for his shock. His widening eyes, his unintentional gasp. She braces for him to laugh in her face.

"Okay," he says. "What does that have to do with me?"

She blinks at him and waits a little longer, in case he's having some kind of delayed reaction. Perhaps a stroke.

"Okay? What do you mean, 'Okay'?" Surely her coming out merits more than this blithe reply.

Nigel rolls his eyes. "We just got done talking about my relationship with Doug, Miranda. If you think he didn't tell me about finding you lip-locked with the luscious Simone Daquin, we may need to have you tested for early onset Alzheimer's." Despite his tone, there is a hint of that expected surprise in his eyes. "Incidentally, you could have mentioned sometime in the past twenty years that you and I had this particular thing in common."

She ignores the last bit, unwilling to explain to Nigel what she confessed to Andrea just yesterday. "Very well—so you knew that I was pursuing possibilities with women. That does not explain your lack of surprise about Andrea."

Now, he looks away, his lips pressed together.

"Nigel…"

"Miranda, that girl has been in love with you for as long as I've known her. Since the first time I saw you two on the street together. She looks at you as if you're the reason the sun rises in the morning."

Heat floods her cheeks. She would think it preposterous, what he is saying, if Andrea hadn't suggested as much herself. "Well..."

He chuckles. "And don't get me started on the way you look when you think about her. Miranda Priestly, moon-eyed—who'd have thought that was possible?"

That's quite enough of that. "Anyway, I now find myself in a difficult position. Andrea has made it very clear that she does not wish me to plan anything extravagant. No expensive restaurants. Nothing that requires haute couture. I find myself somewhat at a loss."

He hums thoughtfully and cocks his head. "Miranda Priestly, are you here to ask me for dating advice?"

She purses her lips. "You must know that, historically, I have been the one being wooed, not the one doing the wooing."

"I suppose that's true. Although from what I've heard—and do remember that what's said in the Art Department stays in the Art Department, yes?—you were doing a fine job of wooing Miss Sachs up until whatever falling out you two had a couple of months ago."

Her cheeks go warm. Warmer. "Andrea said that?"

"She did, under a bit of duress." At Miranda's arched eyebrow: "She had quite a few drinks in her and her friends were wheedling her for an explanation for why she'd dumped the perfect man."

Miranda imagines a tipsy Andrea valiantly defending the decision to abandon a relationship that seemed to make absolute sense in favor of…what? The ephemeral possibility that something might grow from the seed the two of them had nurtured for so long, ever since that ridiculous Fourth of July party?

But she and Andrea had been at odds when Nate and Andrea parted ways. Surely Miranda wasn't the cause of their breakup. It was not as if she and Andrea had been dating previously.

She licks her lips. "Well. Regardless of what may have worked in the past, Andrea has made it very clear that expensive restaurants and my usual activities—'wining and dining'—are no longer permitted. I confess to finding myself somewhat at a loss."

Nigel shakes his head, smiling. "You're making this so much more complicated than it needs to be, Miranda. The girl already likes you. She just wants to spend time with you."

"Doing what?"

"What does she like?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be here, asking you." When he just looks at her, evidently unwilling to spoon feed her the answer, she huffs and considers. "She likes Thai food."

And homemade grilled cheese sandwiches, she thinks, remembering Andrea's visit to the townhouse. She likes sitting at the kitchen counter and eating and laughing with people she cares about. She likes arguing about interesting topics. She likes being challenged. She likes small, local restaurants. She likes sharing a dish family style. She likes Caroline and Cassidy. She likes sports and theater and dim sum and boxed wine. She likes presents, as long as they are given without pretense. And she likes me.

Perhaps she knows Andrea better than she realized.

Distantly, she hears Nigel say, "Well, there you go. Take her to a Thai restaurant."

"Hmm," she says, and heads for the door. "Get me that layout in time for the run through at 11. That's all."

She hears a sigh behind her. For some reason, she hesitates on the threshold, looking over her shoulder. "And Nigel?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

His eyes shine with surprise and something like awe. "You're welcome, Miranda. Good luck."

Miranda is in the midst of reviewing the final edits to a Donna Karan spread that afternoon when her assistant interrupts.

"Miranda, I have Andrea Sachs," Emily says tentatively. It's the first call from Andrea in months, after all.

"Put her through," Miranda says at once, ignoring the way Emily's shoulders sag in relief. "Andrea," she purrs, twining the phone cord around her finger.

"Hi, Miranda. How are you?"

It's been a long time since they've been able to have such a banal exchange. "Wading through a sea of ineptitude. And you?"

"Trying to convince a guy in HR at Conde Nast to turn whistleblower, but he's recalcitrant."

Miranda raises her eyebrows. "Tell me more."

"You first."

"You can't be serious."

"Quid pro quo, Clarice," Andrea intones.

Miranda pinches the bridge of her nose to keep from laughing. "We've less than a week until next month's edition goes to the printer, and there are still a multitude of flaws that haven't been addressed in several of the layouts and a number of our feature articles."

"Are you worried they won't get fixed in time?"

"Oh, they'll be fixed in time," Miranda says darkly. "Your turn."

"This guy—let's call him John—caught wind of some of what I'm doing by way of a former employee I interviewed and actually reached out to me, saying he's got something I should know. Whenever I try to arrange a meet, though, he clams up. I can't tell if he's nervous or if he's stringing me along."

Miranda worries about Andrea; how can she not? This investigation, which she has so fearlessly taken on, threatens more than one man's livelihood. Men become dangerous when they are threatened. There are very real risks involved.

"Andrea, if you feel you are in any danger, you must come to me."

Andrea chuckles. "It's sweet, you know."

Miranda frowns, confused. "Excuse me? What is sweet?"

"The way your first instinct is always to protect me. I love that about you."

Miranda feels her face turn bright red. She swings her office chair around to face the window, determined not to be seen blushing this way, and in the process, with the cord wrapped around her hand, somehow pulls the entire office phone off the desk to clatter to the floor with a crash.

Emily rushes in and crouches by the phone, where a tinny voice is saying, "Miranda? Are you there?"

"Here, I've got it—" Emily babbles, reaching for the base even as Miranda crouches beside her.

"Emily, go—" Flustered, Miranda wracks her brain for a plausible errand and fails to find one. "—get yourself a snack."

Emily freezes. Miranda does, too. The voice from the phone stops.

Very slowly, Emily says, "Go get...myself...a…"

"Have you hit your head?" Miranda snaps. "Do I honestly need to repeat such a simple request?"

That gets Emily out the door fast enough. A short while later, Miranda has gathered the bulky phone from the floor. She puts the handset to her ear. "Andrea, are you still there?"

"Miranda? What on Earth just happened?"

Miranda hardly knows herself. She clears her throat. "Nothing. We were discussing your concerns about this potential whistleblower. Jonathon."

"I was actually using 'John' as a nickname for 'Johannes'." There's a note to Andrea's voice Miranda hasn't heard from her before. Or perhaps she has heard it, but not often.

"Are you teasing me, Andrea?"

"I'm trying to flirt with you. Is it working?"

Miranda does not drop the phone again, but it's a near thing.

"Miranda?"

Miranda traces her lips with the tips of her fingers, feels the way they curve at the rich sound of Andrea's voice. "Yes. It's working."

She can hear Andrea's smile. "Good. Because I was calling about our—about our date."

"I'm glad you did." Miranda has thought about little else since her talk with Nigel this morning. The things this woman has done to her. "I'll pick you up at seven on Friday—"

"Wait, what?" Andrea says.

"Is that not a good time?"

"No, it's fine, but I'm picking you up at seven on Friday."

Miranda's eyes narrow. This will not do at all. "I beg to differ."

Andrea groans. "Miranda, come on. I want to take you out."

"Quid pro quo, Clarice," Miranda reminds her.

Andrea snorts. Miranda, who has become increasingly tense over the past few seconds, abruptly relaxes. She reminds herself that this is Andrea, not a business competitor, with whom she is negotiating.

With Andrea, she can compromise. With Andrea, they can both win.

"You chose our most recent lunch location, if I recall," Miranda says. "That would mean our next encounter is mine to plan."

"But—" Andrea cuts herself off. "Fine," she says, sulky.

It should be unappealing. Miranda wonders whether she will have the opportunity—the invitation—to kiss the younger woman on Friday night. She wonders if she would survive the experience.

"However," Miranda adds, "as you have no doubt put some effort into planning whatever it is you had in mind for Friday night, perhaps you would not be averse to postponing your plans to Saturday at seven."

There's a long pause.

"Andrea?"

"That works," Andrea says, grinning through the phone again. Miranda knows no one else who can smile with their voice the way she does. "That works great. So…what should I wear?"

At 7 p.m. on Friday night, Miranda pulls up in front of Andrea's apartment in Hell's Kitchen. She smoothly parallel parks her Porsche between two vehicles that have both seen better days and wonders, briefly, whether the car will still be here when she comes back down.

Her car, though registered in her name, is not well-known to the paparazzi; Miranda rarely uses it within the city. She spent some time this week consulting with both her PR specialist and her attorney about what precautions they advise, and what precautions she is willing to take.

For example, dating Andrea in secret, as if she is something to be ashamed of, while attending events with appropriate men, is not something she is willing to do, even if it would make Leslie's life much easier.

Not dating Andrea at all, as Lucas suggested in well-intentioned but utterly clueless fashion, is similarly not an option.

Discretion, then, is the better part of valor. Leslie and Lucas reluctantly agree: if Miranda and Andrea have been spending hours at a time together for the better part of a year and have caused no hubbub, then continuing to do so, in a somewhat elevated manner, should not bring on the apocalypse.

"Will this give Stephen grounds for resuming his claim of infidelity?" she asked Lucas on one call.

A hesitation. "That depends."

Her voice turned cold. "On?"

"On whether his claim had merit." He was asking, without asking, whether she and Andrea had been canoodling their way across New York under Stephen's nose.

"None whatsoever. He can dig as deeply as he'd like; he'll find nothing that would condemn Andrea or myself." If emotional infidelity were a crime, far more marriages than hers would have crumbled.

"Then you're fine on that front. The divorce won't be final until December, but you have the right to pursue other relationships in the meantime. The courts don't expect you to live like a nun until then."

"Stephen certainly isn't," she muttered, thinking back to a recent Page Six article.

"Professionally, of course, your contract is ironclad," Lucas went on. "No one at Elias-Clarke can claim a relationship with another woman violates your morality clause—or if they do, we'll release what we have about those board members and their dirty little secrets."

Her lip curled. "I almost wish they'd try." Then again, Andrea will no doubt be releasing some of those dirty secrets in her upcoming exposé. Speaking of—

"You said she's working on a story that may implicate Elias-Clarke," Lucas said.

"Yes."

"Does the story involve you in any way?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

Miranda tries to imagine a story about her sexually harassing her underlings and smirks. Emotional harassment, perhaps. Sexual, no. "Quite certain."

"And have you contributed in any way to the story?"

"I have not."

"You should keep it that way. Establish a Chinese wall."

Miranda had a feeling he was going to say that. "Is there no other option?"

"There's a clear conflict of interest here, Miranda. You're a highly-ranked employee of Elias-Clarke, with a duty to the company. And it's for her protection, too. You don't want the credibility of her article called into question, do you? It's better if you can establish firm boundaries now."

For the first time, Miranda was actually glad for those months of separation from Andrea, months in which Andrea had already conducted most of the research for this story.

"Just don't make out with her in public," was Leslie's final advice. "Not until you're sure this thing is going to last, at least. When that happens, we'll make a plan for how to introduce your lady friend to the world."

Miranda pressed her lips together. There was no need, yet, to tell Leslie that she had every intention of making "this thing" (what a terrible euphemism) last, or that Andrea would be making her own introduction to the world with no help from Miranda.

"Hot damn," Leslie said, shaking her head. "Miranda Priestly, gay icon. Who'd'a thunk?"

So now, Miranda discreetly parks her inconspicuous Porsche 911, shoulders her most discreet Chanel lambskin purse, adjusts her oversized sunglasses, and, for the second time, rings Andrea Sachs' buzzer.

"Hi! Miranda?"

"Hello, Andrea."

BUZZZZ.

Miranda ascends the three flights of stairs to Andrea's apartment with far lighter feet than last time, though her heart flutters nearly as anxiously. Her mouth feels dry, despite the bottle of Perrier she downed on the drive over.

She should have checked her makeup in the mirror before she got out. It's too late to go back, though; Andrea will wonder what's taking so long if she doesn't knock soon.

Now, for example.

Buck up, Priestly. Miranda reminds herself of the confession she'd made the last time she'd stood in this hallway: that throughout her life she has consistently sabotaged her own happiness. This, Andrea, is too precious. She cannot, will not, do that here.

She removes her sunglasses, lifts a trembling hand and knocks.

The door swings open and Andrea is there, a vision in a faded Northwestern sweatshirt and Levi jeans—the very comfortable, warm clothes Miranda told her to wear. Miranda wishes, suddenly, to know Shakespeare by heart; surely there are sonnets that can capture the loveliness of that smile, the sparkle of those eyes, the utter charm exuded by every pore of the woman before her.

"Andrea," she breathes. And then, because this is the first time she feels she has a right to say so: "You are so beautiful."

Andrea's eyes go impossibly wider. She laughs nervously, tugging at the hem of her sweatshirt. "You, uh, you're really doubling down on this whole attraction-to-women thing, huh?"

Miranda pulls Andrea's hand away from the sweatshirt and holds it gently. "I'm doubling down on this whole attraction-to-you thing." The words are ridiculous. The sentiment, however, is heartfelt.

Andrea regards her for a long moment, chewing her lip. "You've never complimented my appearance before."

Miranda blurts the instinctive thought: "That can't be true."

Andrea raises an eyebrow. Miranda casts her mind back, tries to remember.

She called her fat once, to her face. She knows that. Is deeply ashamed of that. The Miranda Priestly of a year ago, the one who didn't know Andrea, is not a person this Miranda recalls with much fondness.

Andrea turns her hand over in Miranda's and absently runs her thumb over the back of Miranda's hand. The sensation is extremely distracting, but not enough to reduce the pain of her words. "I kind of figured…listen, I know I'm not unattractive, but you work with models every day, and I'm not exactly Runway material, as we can both agree. I figured you liked me for my personality and you're okay with how I look. You don't have to try to flatter me."

Miranda closes her eyes. She takes several deep breaths. She calls herself a number of unflattering names, all of them far more vicious than anything Page Six would ever dare publish.

"Andrea, while you are correct that I was initially drawn in by your intelligence and your incredible perseverance, I've thought for quite some time now that you are the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

Andrea gapes at her. The befuddled expression reduces her beauty not a whit.

"I've complimented your appearance in my head for a very long time now," Miranda says. "I should have done so out loud. Forgive me?"

Andrea blinks rapidly, her long eyelashes fluttering in a way that makes Miranda think of old movies, of Hepburn actresses and romances she watched and cherished as a child.

"Of…of course," Andrea says. Finally, she smiles again. This is a slow, pleased smile. More conservative than her usual, but somehow just as wonderful. Her grip on Miranda's hand tightens; it becomes firm, almost possessive. "You are stunning, of course."

Miranda scoffs. "I employ a team of stylists to create that illusion."

"That's not it. You could be makeup-free, wearing a burlap sack, and you'd still be the most gorgeous person in any room."

Miranda can't recall a time when she has blushed as much as she has in the past week. "Well. It seems we find each other appealing, doesn't it."

"It sure does. Thank God." Andrea links her arm with Miranda's. "Come on, Romeo. Show me what you've got planned."

"Watch it!" Miranda snarls, blaring her horn.

The man on the bicycle who just swerved in front of her makes a rude gesture. Miranda revs her engine and nudges her car perilously close to his rear tire.

"Um, maybe you should slow down a little."

Miranda doesn't take her eyes off the road—she can't, or she would miss that tiny window in the next lane—yes!—in which she can gain another few feet in this wretched traffic. She does glance at Andrea out of the corner of her eye, enough to see that the other woman is clinging to her seat with a white-knuckled grip.

"We will not allow ourselves to be inconvenienced by other people's poor driving skills, Andrea," Miranda informs her, yanking the wheel to rapidly change lanes once more.

Andrea squeaks. The car behind them honks. Miranda gives him the finger, which is New York parlance for "thank you for letting me merge."

There's a reason, of course, that Miranda rarely drives in the city. The traffic, the incessant honking, the—"Get out of my way, you imbecile!"—general incompetence, is quite overwhelming. As if Miranda isn't under enough stress as it is.

They screech to a halt at an ill-timed traffic light and watch an octogenarian push a baby carriage across the crosswalk at a snail's pace.

"Miranda," Andrea says, very calmly.

"Yes?"

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Of course."

"Let me drive next time."

Miranda casts her a dubious look, preparing to shift gears as she watches the cross-traffic light change to yellow. The octogenarian is two-thirds of the way through. "Do you know how to drive a manual transmission?"

"No, but—"

Their light turns green. The car leaps into motion. They just miss the octogenarian's back heel.

"—I'll figure it out," Andrea growls.

The internet had suggested that at 7 p.m. on a Friday night it would take upwards of thirty minutes to drive from Andrea's apartment to Miranda's townhouse. Miranda is quite pleased to make it in just under twenty.

Andrea staggers out of the vehicle the moment the doors unlock, muttering something that sounds an awful lot like, "Never again."

"Are you all right?" Miranda asks, putting a solicitous hand on Andrea's arm. Her daughters also sometimes have this reaction after riding in the Porsche; she suspects they all suffer from some form of motion sickness.

Fortunately, Andrea rallies quickly. She stands tall and looks around, surprised to see where they are. "Really? We're having our date at the townhouse?" She doesn't sound disappointed. Pleased, perhaps.

"Oh," Miranda says. So that's what Andrea would like? Perhaps if she gets Caroline and Cassidy to distract Andrea, she can place a few calls and rearrange things so that—

"Miranda," Andrea says, clearly catching some of her racing thoughts. "I don't care where we go. We can have our date right here on the sidewalk. I'm just happy to be here, with you. On an actual date." She smiles shyly and takes Miranda by the hand again, interlacing their fingers.

Miranda shivers, which has nothing to do with the unseasonably warm March air. She brings those hands to her lips and presses a kiss to Andrea's knuckles.

"I thought, a walk," she murmurs.

"Sure. Just gotta keep an eye out for those crazy New York drivers."

Miranda casts a suspicious glance at Andrea, who gives her a wide-eyed, innocent look in return.

Miranda's townhouse is two avenues and three streets from a side entrance to Central Park. Miranda's section of the Upper East Side is a fairly exclusive neighborhood, of course. There are a few other couples strolling the streets, but for the most part the residents are at home or out at restaurants, giving the two of them a sense of quiet intimacy.

It feels precious, this time. Being able to amble slowly, her hand linked with Andrea's. Forging a physical connection in imitation of the emotional one that has tethered them for quite some time.

"Do you walk around here often?" Andrea asks.

"Rarely," Miranda admits. "When I bought the townhouse with my first husband, I thought we would. Its proximity to the park was one of its best features. But our schedules kept getting in the way, and…" She frowns at herself, thinking of the terrible argument that had kept her apart from Andrea for months.

"What's wrong?"

"I was about to lie to us both. Not intentionally," Miranda adds hastily. "But—one of those lies I've been telling myself for so long now that it has become rote."

Andrea rubs her thumb over the back of Miranda's hand, a soothing gesture she's used before and which Miranda hopes will become a part of their daily lexicon. "What lie is that?"

"It's not that our schedules got in the way. Greg and I chose not to make the time to make it happen. Just as I chose not to make it work with Stephen." Miranda realizes how callous this makes her sound. She also knows that Andrea already knows this about her—has known it for some time.

Andrea hums, a note of encouragement for her to continue.

"These weren't…conscious decisions. Not for the most part. Often, my focus has been on the target before me, and I have made the decisions necessary to reach that target, sometimes without thinking about the damage I leave in my wake."

She shivers. Andrea moves a little closer and runs her free hand up and down Miranda's arm as if to offer warmth. Miranda leans against her.

"We've never talked about Paris," Miranda says abruptly, coming to a stop. Quite without meaning to, she pulls her hand out of Andrea's, takes several steps back, and wraps her arms around herself.

Andrea turns to face her, head tilted. "What do you mean?"

"The things I did in Paris. Surely Douglas told you how I betrayed Nigel to keep my position."

Andrea studies her face. "Miranda, I don't know what you want me to say here."

Miranda is silent.

"Do you want me to judge you?" Andrea asks, stepping towards her, palms wide. "It sucks for Nigel. Trust me, I've heard him curse about it enough. But do you think anyone—anyone who really cares about you—would have been happy to see the rug pulled out from under you?"

Miranda's eyes dart from a nearby tree to the wall of the closest building. She cannot meet Andrea's warm, sincere gaze. "Careless when it comes to the well-being of anyone but myself," she says softly.

"What's that?" Andrea asks, taking a small step closer.

"Something someone—Simone—said to me. It's true, Andrea."

"It isn't true."

Miranda scoffs, and there's a wetness to the sound that would embarrass her if she weren't already on the cusp of falling apart completely. This is not how tonight was supposed to go.

"Give me one example—"

"Me."

Miranda has no rebuttal. Andrea takes another step, reaches out, and takes both of Miranda's hands in hers. Those perfect, red lips crease into a faint smile.

"Look at me." She waits until Miranda reluctantly does so. "I already told you how much it means to me that you always try to protect me."

"You don't count." She winces at the way that came out, but Andrea doesn't take offense.

"Why not?"

"I can't help it, when it comes to you. Because of how I feel about you." Andrea glows. "But when it comes to everyone else…"

"Why is it your job to protect everyone else?"

That question, coming from the purest soul Miranda has ever known, makes her scoff.

"No, seriously," Andrea insists. "Why is it your job to make sure Nigel gets his dream job? Why is it your job to make sure Stephen gets…whatever it is Stephen wants? Or Simone, or any of them? What's wrong with focusing on making sure you get what you want?"

Miranda recalls a conversation, some time ago, in which she first heard this kind of fiery passion in Andrea's voice. She'd thought, then, how much she wished to preserve Andrea's optimistic view of the world. Hearing that viewpoint now directed at herself, she finds herself clinging to it with both hands, like a shipwreck survivor almost at the end of hope.

Still. "Andrea," she says, her voice just this side of condescending, "have you ever once stepped on someone to get what you wanted?" She arches an eyebrow, certain of the answer. "And lecherous publishing executives who are about to be filleted in your article do not count."

"Of course I have," Andrea says, looking surprised. "You know I have."

Miranda frowns. "I know—?"

"Nate, Miranda. I broke up with Nate."

She doesn't complete her statement, but they both hear what she leaves unsaid: Because I wanted you.

Miranda breathes sharply through her nose and wonders what Andrea would say if she dragged her back to the townhouse, this instant, threw her down on her bed, and devoured her.

Probably something revoltingly thoughtful and mature about moving too quickly.

Exhibiting tremendous self-restraint, Miranda turns on her heel and tugs Andrea to continue their walk to the park.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again," Andrea tells her, tightening that grip on her hand, rubbing her thumb on her skin. "I think you're incredible. I'm not going to judge you for something I wasn't even there for."

Miranda releases a long-held breath. "All right."

They eventually reach the park, entering through a small gate and meandering along a trail lined by bare-branched trees soon to regain their leaves. Andrea trails the fingers of her free hand along the limbs.

"I was sure you had something ridiculous and over-the-top planned for tonight," she says, looking at Miranda from beneath those long eyelashes. "This has been perfect."

Once again, Miranda is uncertain. Perhaps this is enough for a first date and they should return to the townhouse now.

(It doesn't feel like a first date. It feels like an evening out with a woman she's loved for a lifetime.)

They are so close to their destination, though. "Actually," she says, and leads Andrea around a corner.

Andrea gasps.

Miranda looks around the small clearing and nods, pleased. A series of luxurious, hand-knit wool blankets have been laid out across the grass, forming a charming mosaic. On top, elegant pillows in different shapes and sizes sprawl in enticing piles. A bottle of champagne (nothing too expensive, but not from the local drugstore, either) chills in an ice bucket, and a picnic basket perches at the edge of the little nest. All around, candles illuminate the space.

Emily has outdone herself. Miranda would be tempted to promote her, if there were a competent Emily II waiting in the wings to fill her shoes. Alas for Emily.

"Miranda, this is perfect." Andrea beams and drags Miranda forwards, eagerly kicking off her shoes.

Miranda removes her low heels more sedately, settling beside Andrea on a special ergonomic pillow that hugs her lower back. (Unlike Andrea, she does not have the sprightliness of youth on her side.) "Are you hungry?"

Andrea shoots her a grin. "Of course." She pulls the picnic basket towards them and opens it, digging around inside. "What have we here? Catering from Per Se, perhaps?"

"Actually," Miranda says, watching Andrea draw out several still-warm Tupperware containers, "the twins helped me attempt lasagna again. They were quite pleased to hear that you and I would be doing something special tonight, and then quite disappointed to hear that they were not invited."

Andrea sets down the Tupperware and stares at Miranda. Just stares, and stares, with those bottomless eyes Miranda could lose herself in forever. The burning emotion in those eyes could be disbelief, or awe, or something else entirely.

"I make no assurances as to the quality of the lasagna," Miranda says in a voice suddenly gone hoarse. "Caroline is still learning the difference between tablespoons and teaspoons."

Andrea crawls towards her, knees sinking into the deep blankets, until they are face-to-face. She reaches out to cup Miranda's cheek, running her thumb along the corner of Miranda's lips.

"I can't believe you thought of all this for me," Andrea says in a low, husky voice.

Miranda feels herself tremble. She presses into the touch. "There are very few things I would not do for you, Andrea. At the moment, in fact, I can't think of any."

"Miranda," Andrea groans, and grabs Miranda by the lapels of her casual $5,000 Bergdorf Goodman sweater, and kisses her.

"Discretion," Miranda vaguely remembers Leslie insisting. "No making out in public!"

One advantage of this nook is its private nature. There's nowhere for paparazzi to hide. They are well and truly alone.

And even if they weren't, it wouldn't matter.

Miranda surges forward. Energy crackles through her as she places one hand around Andrea's back and cradles the back of her head with the other and deepens the kiss.

Fiercely. Passionately. Wordlessly saying "I love you" with every press of her tongue into Andrea's warm, wet, welcoming mouth.