Work Text:
By the time Y/N came downstairs, Miranda was still working.
Of course she was.
The living room sat in near-darkness, illuminated only by the pale glow of the laptop balanced neatly against Miranda’s knees. Emails reflected sharply in the lenses of her reading glasses, cold white light catching against silver hair and the elegant angle of her cheekbone. The quiet click of keys filled the room in steady bursts, accompanied by the distant hum of Manhattan traffic somewhere far below the penthouse windows.
Beyond the glass, the city glittered like spilled diamonds — restless and sleepless and cold in all the same ways Miranda was.
Y/N paused on the last step of the staircase.
Warm steam still clung faintly to her skin from the shower, carrying traces of jasmine shampoo and expensive soap into the room. Her pastel blue nightdress brushed softly against her knees as she descended the final step, damp curls resting against her shoulders. The marble floor felt cool beneath her bare feet.
“Darling,” she said slowly, voice warm with amusement, “it is nine-thirty at night. Who exactly are you terrorising via email this time?”
Miranda did not look up.
Her jaw remained tense, fingers moving crisply across the keyboard.
“Y/N,” she said smoothly, “I am doing something important.”
“Go inflict your chatter upon the kitchen staff if you require an audience.”
Y/N placed a dramatic hand over her chest.
“Oh, cruel,” she sighed. “And here I was looking forward to bothering you a bit more.”
A soft giggle slipped from her as she wandered toward the couch.
The room smelled faintly of black coffee and Miranda’s perfume — crisp florals layered over something darker and expensive. Beneath it all lingered the sterile warmth of overworked electronics and papers that had sat untouched for hours.
Miranda’s shoulders had drawn stiff with tension at some point during the evening, the muscles visibly tight beneath the silk of her blouse. Her fingers struck the keyboard with slightly more force than necessary now, sharp little taps breaking the quiet. Judging by the faint crease between her brows and the dull exhaustion beneath her eyes, Miranda either did not realise how tired she looked—
—or refused to acknowledge it.
“Miranda?”
“Hm?”
“Are you alright?” Y/N asked softly, leaning against the back of the couch. “You seem tired.”
Miranda exhaled through her nose — almost a laugh.
“Do not be ridiculous, Y/N. I am not tired,” she replied smoothly, continuing to type with the determination of someone personally at war with sleep itself. “I am never tired.”
Y/N laughed quietly.
Fondly.
That, more than the teasing itself, was what finally made Miranda glance up from the screen.
“I fail to see the humour.”
“Oh no, I am sorry,” Y/N said, though the smile tugging at her lips made the apology entirely unconvincing. “It is just that you are catastrophically bad at pretending to be fine.”
Miranda narrowed her eyes slightly before returning her attention to the screen.
Outside, rain had begun to mist faintly against the windows, blurring the city lights into soft streaks of gold and white.
“Well…” Y/N tilted her head. “Y’know, we could cuddle.”
“I consider cuddling an exceptionally pedestrian activity,” Miranda replied at once. “I find the modern obsession with constant affection deeply exhausting.”
Y/N smiled immediately.
Slow.
Knowing.
“You are silly,” she said with a grin. “So you do not want me to hold you?”
“Mm-mm.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You know I do not believe that.”
That earned her another look over the edge of Miranda’s glasses.
“Why?”
“Because,” Y/N replied, leaning further against the couch, “your shoulders look like they are preparing for battle.”
“Y/N, that is nonsense.”
Miranda adjusted the laptop atop her knees with crisp irritation.
“Now stop interrupting me. I am doing something important.”
“Fine,” Y/N murmured obediently.
Miranda returned her attention to the screen.
For all of five seconds.
The laptop glow sharpened every trace of exhaustion now that Y/N sat close enough to properly notice it — the faint shadows beneath Miranda’s eyes, the tension in her mouth, the way she held herself upright with almost unnatural control. Even resting looked disciplined on her.
Y/N’s expression softened.
Then, quietly, she reached down and slid her fingers into Miranda’s silver hair.
The strands were impossibly soft.
Her nails lightly brushed against Miranda’s scalp in slow, gentle movements.
Miranda froze.
Some of the tension left her shoulders so quickly it almost looked involuntary.
“You are being very distracting,” Miranda murmured, though her voice had gone quieter now, softer around the edges.
And despite the complaint, her head tilted ever so slightly into Y/N’s hand.
Y/N hid a smile.
She continued stroking her hair slowly, fingertips moving through cool silver strands while rain whispered softly against the windows behind them.
Miranda exhaled.
Not a sigh of annoyance.
Relief.
The sound was quiet, tired, almost fragile.
Y/N felt the exact moment Miranda stopped pretending she disliked this.
Miranda’s eyes slipped shut briefly behind her glasses.
One moment too long for someone who claimed not to enjoy affection.
“Y/N,” Miranda murmured again, lower this time, “what exactly are you doing?”
Y/N’s thumb brushed lightly near her temple.
“Taking care of my wife.”
Miranda made a quiet sound beneath her breath — something suspiciously close to contentment.
Then, after another long moment, she slowly closed the laptop.
The soft click echoed through the room.
She removed her glasses at last, setting them carefully atop the coffee table before leaning back into the couch cushions with visible reluctance, like someone surrendering after fighting exhaustion for hours.
“Fine,” she muttered.
Y/N brightened immediately. “Oh?”
“I take it back.”
“Do not sound so triumphant,” Miranda warned without heat.
“But I am triumphant.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet you married me anyway.”
“A lapse in judgement.”
Y/N laughed softly as she slid onto the couch beside her, the cushions dipping warmly beneath their combined weight.
The second she settled properly against them, Miranda leaned into her almost unconsciously.
Slowly at first.
Carefully.
As though some stubborn part of her still intended to preserve a shred of dignity.
It lasted perhaps three seconds.
Then Miranda finally gave up entirely and rested her head against Y/N’s chest with a long, exhausted sigh.
There she is.
Y/N’s heart softened painfully.
The terrifying Miranda Priestly — feared by entire industries — reduced to melting under gentle hair stroking and forehead kisses.
Honestly, adorable.
Y/N wrapped an arm around her shoulders, fingertips tracing lightly along the fabric of Miranda’s sleeve while pressing a soft kiss against her forehead.
Miranda’s eyes fluttered shut almost immediately.
“You realise,” Miranda murmured quietly, voice muffled against Y/N’s chest, “that you are enabling deeply unproductive behaviour.”
“Mhm.”
“You should encourage discipline.”
“Mhm.”
“You are being extraordinarily unprofessional about this.”
Y/N buried a smile into her silver hair and gently scratched at her scalp again.
Miranda melted further against her with another soft sigh, warm now beneath the blankets of affection and exhaustion alike.
“…do not stop doing that,” she admitted at last.
And truly, that was probably the closest Miranda Priestly had ever come to begging.
Y/N’s grin softened into something quieter.
Something unbearably fond.
“Poor thing,” she murmured, continuing to scratch lightly against Miranda’s scalp. “You were so stressed.”
“I was not stressed.”
Miranda said it automatically, eyes still closed.
Y/N laughed under her breath.
“You are literally clinging to me right now.”
“I am resting,” Miranda corrected with dignity that would have sounded far more convincing had she not curled closer against Y/N’s chest immediately afterward. “There is a difference.”
“Mhm.”
“There is.”
“Of course, darling.” Y/N murmured.
The rain continued softly against the windows, a delicate hiss against glass high above the city streets. Somewhere in the apartment, the grandfather clock ticked quietly through the stillness.
Miranda’s breathing had begun to slow.
Not asleep.
Not yet.
But close enough that the sharpness around her edges had started softening into something warm and heavy and human.
Y/N brushed her fingers carefully through silver strands again, nails grazing lightly against her scalp.
Miranda visibly melted.
Actually melted.
A barely audible sound slipped from her throat before she could stop it.
Y/N immediately looked down with the biggest grin imaginable.
“Oh my God.”
Miranda’s eyes opened halfway.
“Do not.”
“That was the most pathetic little relieved sigh I have ever heard in my life.” Y/N said amusedly.
“It was not.”
“You sounded like an exhausted Victorian woman collapsing onto a fainting couch.”
Miranda stared at her in silence for exactly three seconds.
Then:
“You are tremendously annoying.”
“And yet your head is still on my chest.”
Miranda looked deeply offended by this factual information.
Y/N giggled again, fingertips continuing their slow path through silver hair. The strands slid like cool silk between her fingers, soft from expensive conditioner and long evenings spent untouched beneath perfect styling.
“You work too hard,” Y/N murmured after a while.
Miranda hummed quietly.
Not disagreement.
Just acknowledgement.
It startled Y/N enough that she blinked.
Usually Miranda would argue first on principle alone.
“You know,” Y/N continued softly, “normal people rest occasionally.”
“I am not normal people.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
Miranda’s lips twitched faintly against the fabric of Y/N’s nightdress.
There it is.
Tiny. Brief. But there.
Y/N felt absurdly victorious over it anyway.
Outside, lightning flickered somewhere deep within the clouds, illuminating the penthouse windows in pale silver for only a second before darkness settled again. The city below remained awake and glittering, but the apartment itself had grown warm and cocoon-like — dim lights, rain against glass, the faint scent of jasmine lingering against Y/N’s skin.
Miranda shifted slightly closer.
Not consciously, Y/N thought.
Her body was simply seeking warmth now.
Seeking comfort.
The realisation made something painfully affectionate bloom inside Y/N’s chest.
Because Miranda Priestly loved so carefully.
So cautiously.
Even after marriage, even after years together, there were moments where affection still seemed to catch her off guard — as though some part of her remained quietly astonished that softness could exist without conditions attached to it.
Y/N leaned down slightly.
“You know,” she whispered theatrically, “if you wanted attention, you could have simply asked.”
Miranda opened one eye immediately.
“I did not want attention.”
“You practically folded the second I touched your hair.”
“That is entirely unrelated.”
“Mm. Sure.”
“It is.”
A beat.
“Miranda.” Y/N began.
“What?”
“You are touch starved,” she continued with a knowing smile.
Miranda looked horrified.
“I am not touch starved.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I have a very fulfilling life.”
“That is not what touch starved means.”
Miranda narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“You sound insufferably modern.”
Y/N burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you really do talk like a disapproving Victorian duchess.”
“I speak properly.”
“You speak like you were born judging peasants from atop a staircase.”
“I was.”
Y/N nearly choked laughing.
Miranda, apparently satisfied with herself, closed her eyes again and settled more comfortably against her chest.
Then, quieter:
“…continue the hair thing.”
Y/N’s entire expression melted.
The vulnerability of the request sat between them softly, almost hidden beneath Miranda’s usual composure. But it was there.
Tiny.
Honest.
Trusting.
Y/N resumed immediately, gentler this time, fingertips moving in slow circles against her scalp.
Miranda let out another quiet breath.
“There she is,” Y/N whispered fondly. “My terrifying wife.”
“I am still terrifying.”
“You are currently one forehead kiss away from purring.”
Miranda made a deeply offended sound.
Y/N kissed her forehead anyway.
Warm skin met soft lips.
Miranda went suspiciously still afterward.
Then:
“…that was unnecessary.”
“You loved it.”
Silence.
Y/N gasped dramatically.
“Oh my God.”
“What now?”
“You did not deny it.”
Miranda finally opened her eyes again, looking exhausted beyond belief.
“Y/N,” she murmured, voice low and tired and fond despite herself, “if you continue speaking this much, I may be forced to divorce you.”
Y/N beamed immediately.
“Aww. You’d miss me too much.”
Miranda did not answer.
Which, honestly, was answer enough.
The rain continued long into the night.
At some point, the city lights beyond the windows blurred into soft gold through half-lidded eyes, emails forgotten entirely on the abandoned laptop across the room.
Y/N’s fingers still moved slowly through silver hair.
Steady.
Gentle.
Miranda lay curled quietly against her chest beneath the dim apartment lights, one arm loosely wrapped around Y/N’s waist as though she had settled there without even realising it.
For once, she was not thinking about deadlines or meetings or tomorrow morning’s schedule.
She was simply warm.
Safe.
Held.
Y/N pressed one final kiss against her forehead.
Miranda sighed softly against her shoulder — sleepy, content, completely unguarded.
“…do not tell anyone about this,” she murmured drowsily.
Y/N smiled into her hair.
“Your secret is safe with me, darling.”
Another quiet pause.
Then, barely audible:
“Good.”
A few minutes later, Miranda fell asleep against her chest, still pretending she had not needed this at all.