Eighteen
The second storm of the day rolled in meaner than the first.
Snow hit sideways, slapping the live truck hard enough to make the metal creak. Wind howled like it was trying to peel the doors off. Visibility was nothing — not even the faint red glow of the taillights ahead.
Savannah sat stiff in the passenger seat, arms crossed tight.
She hadn’t meant to end up in the truck with Tilly again.
Nobody had.
The newsroom was short-staffed. The evening crew was already late. Aimee sent them out on one last check of the South End-side streets “just in case,” and the sky had immediately collapsed on top of them.
Now the two of them were stuck. Again.
In the same goddamn truck.
With the same ridiculous heater wheezing warm-ish air at their ankles.
Tilly sat behind the wheel, shoulders rigid, eyes following the swirling white like it had personally wronged them. Their breath fogged faintly in the cold cab. They hadn’t looked at her since they climbed in.
Savannah could still feel every leftover spark from the hallway fight — her back hitting the wall, their hand braced beside her head, their breath mingling, their eyes bright with anger and something else she couldn’t name.
She couldn’t shake it.
The storm rattled harder. The truck didn’t move.
Savannah cleared her throat — quiet, tentative. “We should’ve waited for the others.”
Tilly didn’t look at her. “Didn’t know the storm was going to jump us.”
“You’re mad.”
“No.”
“You are.”
Tilly’s jaw flexed. “I’m not.”
“You’re lying.”
They finally turned their head — stiff, slow — and met her eyes.
“I’m not mad,” Tilly said, voice low. “I’m confused.”
Savannah’s heartbeat jumped hard. “About what?”
Tilly stared at her like the answer was obvious. “About you.”
The words slipped under her skin, painfully soft.
She forced her voice steady. “We don’t have to talk about the hallway.”
“We do,” Tilly said immediately. “Because you looked at me like—”
They cut themself off, breath catching, cheeks flushing from either cold or restraint.
Savannah’s throat went tight. “Like what?”
Tilly looked back at the windshield, shoulders drawn up. “Like you knew what I was thinking.”
Her pulse hammered.
“And I hated it,” Tilly added, voice cracking, “because you were right.”
That landed in her chest like a blunt fist.
They sat in silence for a long stretch — just the howl of wind around them, the faint rattle of the truck frame, the uneven breathing between them.
Savannah swallowed hard. “That wasn’t just me. You got in my face, too.”
“I shouldn’t have,” Tilly muttered, shaking their head. “It was unprofessional.”
“It wasn’t about professionalism.”
“Then what was it?” Their voice rose — not angry, but raw. “Because I don’t know how to read you. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know why you keep getting close and then acting like you don’t remember how it happened.”
Savannah opened her mouth — then closed it.
Because she didn’t have an answer.
Not one that made sense.
Not one that didn’t terrify her.
Tilly let out a sharp breath. “I don’t know what happened in that hallway.”
Savannah did.
She knew exactly what had happened.
She’d been five seconds from doing something irrevocable.
And it was happening again.
The air in the truck felt too small. Too warm. Too loud.
Savannah turned toward Tilly — fully, completely — without meaning to. “I wasn’t pretending. About earlier.”
Tilly froze.
Savannah felt the words building before she could stop them. “You said I acted like I wanted something. And then you told me you didn’t know how to handle it.”
Tilly swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“I know.” Her voice softened, trembling. “That’s why it mattered.”
Tilly met her eyes again — and every scrap of defensiveness dropped out of their face.
They looked scared.
Hopeful.
Wrecked.
The heater thumped weakly.
Snow slammed against the windshield.
The cab felt too warm suddenly.
Tilly whispered, “Savannah… if we talk about this, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.”
Savannah’s breath came shallow. “Then say it.”
“No.” They shook their head, eyes flashing with something sharp. “Because I’m already halfway gone and I don’t know if you even—”
Savannah didn’t let them finish.
She moved.
Not gently.
Not cautiously.
Just — instinct.
Heat.
Impulse firing like a match to oil.
She grabbed the front of Tilly’s coat and pulled them in hard, kissing them before she could think.
Tilly inhaled sharply — not in fear, not in confusion, but in shock that she finally did it.
And then they kissed her back.
Not trembling.
Not hesitant.
Not careful.
Sure.
Certain.
Like they’d been holding this exact moment between their teeth for weeks.
Tilly’s hand came up fast, threading into the back of her hair with firm, deliberate pressure, angling her closer like they’d imagined doing it a dozen times already. Their mouth met hers again, deeper, no pause, no stutter — just raw, hungry relief.
The kiss was messy and heated and absolutely inevitable.
Savannah felt it in her ribs, her spine, her knees — the way Tilly kissed like they’d been waiting for permission they never actually needed.
Her fingers curled in their coat.
Tilly’s thumb brushed her jaw, steady, sure, coaxing her deeper like they knew exactly what they were doing and exactly how much they wanted her.
Savannah didn’t know who pulled who closer — didn’t care.
All she knew was the heat of Tilly’s mouth, the surety of their hand, and the dizzying truth hitting her all at once:
Tilly has wanted this.
Tilly has wanted me.
The kiss broke like a snapped wire.
Not gently.
Not with space or grace.
Just—
air.
Cold, staggering air.
Savannah jerked back half an inch, chest rising too fast. Her lips still tingled — not wrong.
Just unfamiliar.
Different in a way she didn’t have a name for yet.
Her hands were still twisted in Tilly’s coat. She dropped them like she’d been burned, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.
The truck cab felt too small.
The heater was too loud.
Her heartbeat too messy to hide.
Tilly didn’t move.
Didn’t retreat.
Didn’t apologize.
They just watched her — breathing steady, eyes dark, sure, still warm from the kiss like they were memorizing her face.
They weren’t rattled.
They weren’t panicking.
They weren’t second-guessing.
They looked… centered.
Settled.
Certain.
Savannah hated how much it made something in her chest twist.
The storm screamed around them, snow battering the windshield, but inside the truck it was dead silent for a long, long time.
Seconds.
Then a minute.
Then more.
Savannah stared at her knees like they held the answers to the universe. Her pulse was everywhere — in her throat, in her elbows, in the tips of her fingers.
She couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe right.
Couldn’t believe she had actually done that.
Not because she didn’t want it —
because she did.
And that was new in a way she didn’t know how to handle.
Tilly shifted just slightly in their seat — not toward her, not away, just enough to breathe in.
It wasn’t the kiss.
It was how much it had meant.
“Sav—” They started.
“No.”
Her voice cracked, too sharp, too quick.
Tilly went still.
Savannah kept her eyes forward, hands balled so tight her knuckles hurt. “Don’t. Please don’t say anything.”
Tilly watched her for a long moment, expression unreadable — not offended, not hurt, just careful.
“Okay,” they said quietly. Almost neutral. But not quite.
Savannah pressed her palms to her thighs, grounding herself. The air felt thick enough to swallow. “I just— I can’t… I can’t do whatever you’re about to do. Not right now.”
Tilly nodded once, slowly.
Understanding without retreating.
“I’m not going to push you,” they said.
Voice low.
Level.
Honest.
More honest than she could handle.
Savannah shut her eyes, breath shaking. “Then don’t talk.”
Another beat of silence.
Tilly exhaled, steady and contained. “Okay.”
And that was it.
They sat in the parked truck with a blizzard pounding outside, the kiss vibrating between them like a living thing neither of them dared touch.
The silence wasn’t comfortable.
It wasn’t peaceful.
It was charged.
Full.
Too hot and too cold at the same time.
Savannah kept her gaze glued ahead because if she so much as glanced at Tilly’s mouth again, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to breathe.
And Tilly — god, Tilly — sat there like a solid wall, like they’d been wanting this for weeks and had finally tasted it and were now holding themselves absolutely still so they wouldn’t spook her again.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
The storm howled.
And the kiss sat between them like a lit fuse.