Andy throws herself into work, feverishly researching and writing articles. She goes to the gym and exercises until she can no longer distinguish her sweat from her tears. She cleans her apartment obsessively.

When she is too exhausted to do anything else, she crawls into bed to sleep.

And dreams of Miranda.

Andy suspects that she is still dreaming when Miranda appears at her door two weeks later.

Andy stares at her wordlessly. She never anticipated this. No, she had figured that she and Miranda would never again cross paths by design. By accident, perhaps, because Andy is a journalist covering the city beat and Miranda is a very public figure whose philanthropic efforts sometimes bring her within Andy's professional sphere. In fact, that was how they met again for the first time following Paris.

The editor, who has no doubt just come from her office after putting in a 14-hour day terrorizing her staff into excellence, looks effortlessly, flawlessly beautiful.

Andy, on the other hand, certainly does not look fashionable or beautiful after yet another 20-hour day doing everything she can to avoid thinking about Miranda. Heck, she's barely presentable in her flannel pajama pants and Northwestern University sweatshirt.

"May I come in, Andréa?"

Any headway Andy might have made toward getting over Miranda – and it was very little – is lost upon hearing Miranda say her name like that, in the way particular to the editor alone.

Andy's brain and basic motor functions finally engage. She nods and steps aside, allowing Miranda to sweep into her miniscule (but spotlessly clean) studio apartment.

Miranda removes her stylish coat and drapes it neatly over the arm of the threadbare sofa before setting her Birkin bag down and seating herself with her legs crossed elegantly and her hands folded primly in her lap.

Andy closes the door and gingerly perches on a chair facing her unexpected visitor.

She doesn't understand what Miranda is doing here, but she braces herself for the worst.

"Why, Andréa?" Miranda asks, her tone sounding genuinely curious.

Andy's brain stalls again. Why? What does Miranda mean? She can't possibly be asking why Andy ended the arrangement; that couldn't be any clearer.

Andy searches Miranda's face for some clue as to her thoughts, to her emotional state, to her agenda. She sees no hint of mockery or disdain, no indication that Miranda is about to spring a trap. It takes her a moment to identify what she does see: vulnerability. Just the barest hint, so slight that it would be invisible to anyone who hasn't dedicated hours to studying that countenance, learning to read it.

Oh, God. It hits her, exactly what Miranda is asking. And with understanding comes both sheer terror and cautious hope. Because there must be a reason why Miranda feels compelled to ask.

Andy takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm her pounding heart. Sensing how much could ride on her answer, she chooses her words carefully. "I'm not interested in your money or in what your influence can do to further my career or the power and perks that being associated with you would confer to me." Her eyes plead with Miranda to believe her. "I love you, Miranda, because you're you. Complex. Brilliant. Beautiful. Sophisticated. Worldly. Accomplished. Confident. Driven. Intense. Observant. Strong. Magnetic. Fiercely protective of those you love. Fascinating." She pauses before adding, "Demanding. Impatient. Arrogant. Obstinate. Critical. Flawed. Real." She drops her gaze to the floor and whispers, "Perfectly imperfect."

Finally, finally, it's been said. Spoken aloud. Verbalizing it feels good, cathartic, even as it reminds Andy that there is no way that Miranda could ever see her former assistant as worthy of a place in her life, of her love. Andy counts herself lucky to have been deemed worthy of a place in her bed.

She hears Miranda inhale sharply, but cannot bring herself to look up. And then the other woman is standing in front of her.

She is stunned to feel a single finger gently trace her jaw line to her chin. That finger brings Andy's head up, forcing her eyes to meet Miranda's.

Andy's breath catches.

"Andréa Sachs," Miranda says with a small smile, "you are the most courageous person I have ever met."

Andy stops breathing altogether.

Because now she can see in Miranda's electric blue gaze love and longing, tenderness and warmth, affection and respect.

"Smart. Kind. Compassionate. Curious. Resilient. Tenacious. Resourceful. Talented. Hard-working. Intuitive. Ambitious. Generous-spirited. Loyal. Empathetic. Charming. So very lovely." Miranda reaches with her other hand to cup Andy's cheek. "Idealistic. Self-righteous. Impetuous. Too easily hurt. Inclined to undervalue yourself and your importance to others. To me. Silly girl," Miranda chastises softly. "I love you, too."

Eyes welling with tears, Andy exhales shakily as she tries to wrap her head around Miranda's impossible, wonderful words.

Disbelief gives way to a joy so profound that it renders her lightheaded. With a choked sob, she launches herself into Miranda's arms and cries into the crook of her neck.

Miranda holds her tightly and presses her lips to Andy's temple. "Darling," she murmurs, and the wonder and happiness in her voice cause Andy to lift her head to look at her.

Miranda kisses her then, and, dear God, it is so sweet, so intimate, that Andy whimpers in protest when it ends.

The expression on Miranda's face indicates she is equally affected. "Come to bed, Andréa," she says quietly. "Make love with me. In the morning, we can talk about other things."

Smiling for the first time in weeks, Andy nods.

Because for now, nothing more needs to be said. For now, the rest can remain unspoken.