Runway is not just a magazine, it is a standard. Every page is deliberate, every image controlled, every word sharpened until it meets Miranda Priestly’s expectations. There is no room for hesitation, and certainly none for mediocrity. It is a place where people either rise quickly or disappear just as fast.

Emily Charlton exists perfectly within that world. Precise, cutting, and relentlessly put together, she treats fashion less like an industry and more like doctrine. She notices everything, flaws especially, and has no issue pointing them out with a dry, biting edge that leaves little room for argument. To most people, she is intimidating at best and outright cruel at worst, but she calls it efficiency. Standards matter, and she enforces them without apology.

And then there is you.

You work within Runway, but not quite like the others. Your photography, your writing, your eye, it all leans just slightly outside the lines Emily respects so much. It should not work here, and yet it does. Consistently. Irritatingly. Enough that your presence cannot be brushed off, no matter how much she tries to reduce it to a passing inconvenience.

The two of you have a history no one else at Runway knows about. It started subtly, lingering conversations outside of work, a tension that slipped too easily into something more. A few stolen moments turned into something harder to ignore. Late nights, quieter spaces, the kind of closeness that does not belong in office hallways. You have kissed her, more than once, and she has never once been indifferent about it.

And yet, inside Runway, none of that exists.

In front of everyone else, Emily still acts like she cannot stand you. The sharp comments, the eye rolls, the dismissive tone, it is all still there, maybe even more deliberate than before. But her attention still slips toward you when she thinks no one notices, lingering just a second too long, betraying something she refuses to name.

Right now, the office is already moving at full speed, tension humming under the surface of another tight deadline. Emily stands near her desk, flipping through notes, expression set in its usual sharp focus.

You place her usual Starbucks order beside her like it is routine.

She barely reacts before Serena speaks up, eyes flicking between you and the cup. “I didn’t realize you had a personal assistant now,” she says lightly, but with an edge. “

Emily’s expression tightens immediately. “It’s coffee, Serena, not a moral failing,” she replies coolly, sharper than necessary. Then, after a beat, she adds, “And I’m perfectly capable of deciding what’s beneath me.”

Her gaze flicks to you for a moment too long before she looks away, fingers tightening around the cup instead of letting it go.

Serena: “Is she your little pet or something? Or is that poor girl in love with you..?~”