Nineteen
The radio crackled before Tilly’s pulse had even settled.
“Truck One, Filmore here,” Henry’s voice cut through static, brisk and harried. “What’s your status? We’re tossing in two.”
Tilly cleared their throat and reached for the mic with a hand that did not shake. “Two minutes out.”
Savannah didn’t look at them.
She didn’t look anywhere.
Tilly didn’t let themselves look at her either.
If they did, they wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t breathe. Wouldn’t trust themselves not to touch her again.
They shoved their door open and stepped into the storm.
Snow hit hard, stinging their cheeks, soaking through the ends of their sleeves. The wind shoved at them like it had a grudge.
Good. Let it.
It gave them something to fight besides the pounding in their chest.
Tilly rounded the truck, set up the tripod, and locked the camera into place with fast, practiced movements. Fingers steady. Breath controlled. Every limb was doing exactly what it was supposed to do. They’d worked in hurricane remnants, near-fires, protests — they knew how to hold a line.
But they’d never done it five minutes after being kissed like that.
Savannah stepped out a moment later. Her hood was up. Snow clung to her eyelashes. Her face was calm in the way a person could only get when they forced every thought into a tiny locked box.
She didn’t meet their eyes.
Tilly didn’t blame her.
They focused the lens, framing her in the falling snow — harsh wind at her back, headlights carving an amber streak through the white. She looked unreal.
She’d looked unreal in the truck, too.
Tilly swallowed hard and signaled her. “You’re hot in five.”
She nodded once. No wasted movement.
The IFB in Tilly’s ear clicked, and Jamie’s voice came through — steady, poised, in full anchor mode.
“Let’s go now to our team out along the South End-side highways. Savannah, what’re you seeing out there?”
Savannah inhaled. Then exhaled. Then stepped directly into her reporter voice.
“Pretty rough conditions, Jamie—”
Tilly kept the camera rock-solid, but their eyes betrayed them.
Through the viewfinder, she was… different.
Too composed.
Too clean.
Too steady.
Like she’d stitched herself back together just for the audience.
But Tilly caught the things the viewers never would:
the half-second delay before she found her footing
the slight tremor in her exhale
the way her eyes avoided the lens a fraction too long
the faintest flush still lingering on her cheeks, one that the cold couldn’t fully explain
the way she blinked hard exactly once, as if erasing something she didn’t want slipping through
She didn’t tremble.
She didn’t drift.
She didn’t let a single crack show.
And somehow that made something inside Tilly twist harder — because she was still shaking apart on the inside, and Savannah was already bricking up the walls.
When the hit wrapped, Jamie tossed back to the weather, and the red tally light blinked off.
Savannah dropped her hands, but didn’t step toward them.
Tilly broke down the camera in silence. The wind fought them, tugging at cables, rattling the tripod legs. They welcomed the distraction.
Savannah’s voice came low. “Ready?”
It wasn’t directed at them so much as the storm.
“Yeah,” Tilly said.
They loaded the gear. Closed the doors. Climbed back inside.
The cab felt even smaller now. The air was thick with the heater, snow-damp wool, and something warm that hadn’t left since the kiss.
Savannah wiped her gloves on her coat and buckled in. Her hands shook.
Just a little.
Just enough for Tilly to notice.
Tilly didn’t comment.
Didn’t let their gaze linger.
Didn’t do anything except shift into drive and ease the truck onto the road.
The highway back was nearly deserted. Snow swallowed the lanes. The wind shoved at the truck in unpredictable bursts. The wipers squeaked a protest with every pass.
Savannah angled toward the window, hood still up despite the heater. Her breath fogged the glass, then cleared, then fogged again.
After five minutes, she pulled her hood down and scrubbed her hands over her face.
After ten, she tugged her seatbelt tighter like it could hold her together.
After fifteen, she still hadn’t said a single word.
Tilly didn’t push.
They drove carefully and slowly. Two hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Jaw clenched so tight it hurt. They didn’t trust their voice. Didn’t trust their thoughts. Didn’t trust anything except the fact that Savannah needed the silence she’d asked for.
The problem was:
The silence wasn’t silent.
Not really.
It buzzed.
It throbbed.
It replayed the kiss in Tilly’s head over and over — the way she’d grabbed their coat like she meant to burn the moment into memory, the way she’d kissed like she was scared to want it and more scared not to.
Tilly exhaled through their nose, slow, steady, controlled.
Savannah didn’t look at them.
Not once.
But when the truck hit a slick patch and fishtailed slightly — just a hitch, just enough to jolt —
Her hand shot out.
Not to catch herself.
To grab Tilly’s arm.
Tilly froze.
Her fingers were tight around their forearm, glove rough against their sleeve, grip desperate and unthinking — instinctive, as her body reached for them before her brain could throw up its walls.
Heat shot straight through Tilly’s skin, right to their ribs, a pulse of electricity they felt everywhere.
Savannah’s glove pressed against the spot where their sleeve had ridden up, bare skin brushing wool. Tilly felt that tiny contact like a fault line splitting open.
They kept the truck steady.
Kept breathing.
Kept their voice level. “It’s alright.”
Her hand stayed there a beat too long.
Then she snatched it back as the contact burned her.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
Tilly shook their head. “You’re fine.”
Silence again. But different now.
Nervous.
Shaken.
Tender around the edges.
Halfway to the station, Savannah finally spoke — barely above a whisper.
“Don’t… don’t tell anyone.”
Tilly’s throat tightened. “I wasn’t going to.”
She nodded once, sharp, as she’d braced for the wrong answer.
The rest of the drive passed in that fragile, trembling quiet — like the air might shatter if either of them breathed too deeply.
When they pulled into the lot, Savannah had her door open before the truck had fully settled.
“Sav—” Tilly started, unable to stop themself this time.
She shook her head without looking back. “Please. Not tonight.”
Tilly shut their eyes.
“Okay.”
Savannah walked fast across the lot, shoulders hunched, snow clinging to her hair and coat.
She didn’t look back.
Tilly watched her go, breath stuck somewhere in their lungs.
The heater clicked off.
The storm howled.
The cab felt cavernous without her — cold air pressing in where her warmth had been. Tilly leaned back, the seat creaking, their breath fogging in the dim light.
For the first time since she’d kissed them, they let the moment hit.
All of it.
Her hands were in their coat.
Her mouth on theirs.
Her voice cracking on “Please. Not tonight.”
Her fingers were grabbing their arm like she didn’t know what she was doing.
Her fear.
Her want.
Her silence.
Tilly pressed the heels of their hands to their eyes and sucked in a breath that trembled on the way out.
Want.
Fear.
Certainty.
And the goddamned ache of it.
The kind that didn’t leave.
Didn’t fade.
Didn’t pretend it wasn’t real.
They let their forehead fall to the steering wheel and exhaled once, rough.
“Fuck.”
The word fogged in the cold cabin, soft and final.
Outside, the wind screamed.
Inside, nothing moved.
And Tilly sat alone with the truth that wouldn’t let go of them now —
They were in real trouble.
The kind you didn’t walk back from.
The kind you didn’t forget.
The kind that changed everything.