Twenty
Savannah woke up to the sound of the plow scraping past her building.
For a second, she didn’t remember why her chest hurt. She lay still, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the low grind of metal against packed snow, the rumble of the truck, the faint rattle of her bedroom window. The world outside was white and loud and far away.
Then the truck, the heater, the storm, Tilly’s coat in her hands — all of it — slammed back into her.
She covered her face with both palms and groaned.
“God.”
The word was small in the dark room.
Her mouth still felt wrong, like it remembered a shape she wasn’t ready to think about. Every time her brain tried to replay the kiss, she flinched away from it. No. Not that. Not yet.
She rolled onto her side and pulled her phone from the nightstand. Too early, but not by much. Her alarm would go off in ten minutes. The notification bar was blissfully empty. No texts from Harper. No overnight updates from the station.
Nothing from Tilly.
She told herself that was good. She didn’t know what she’d do if their name had popped up.
She also didn’t know what to do with the hollow feeling that followed the thought.
Savannah dropped the phone back onto the table and stared at the wall. The storm outside sounded like static. She tried to piece last night together, but everything after her hand on Tilly’s coat blurred into sensation.
Their mouth.
Their hand in her hair, firm and sure.
The way they hadn’t hesitated, not for a second.
She’d been so sure — all the time she’d spent complaining about them — that if anything ever happened, Tilly would be the one who lost their balance. The flustered one, apologizing, stumbling through it.
They’d looked steadier than she had.
The memory of their face in the truck — close, calm, focused, certain — made her stomach twist.
“Stop,” she muttered to herself. “Just stop.”
There was work. Scripts. Packages to cut. Meetings to sit through. Things that didn’t involve replaying the way Tilly’s thumb had brushed her jaw.
She pushed herself out of bed and shuffled to the shower.
Hot water helped a little. It gave her something else to focus on besides the buzzing in her skin. She scrubbed shampoo through her hair with more force than necessary, as if she could wash the night off her.
In the fogged mirror, her cheeks were still a little pink from the heat. Her eyes looked tired.
“You didn’t plan this,” she told the mirror quietly. “You didn’t mean it.”
The mirror didn’t argue.
She dressed more carefully than usual — a simple dark sweater and blazer, jeans that weren’t too tight, boots that could handle the leftover slush. She styled her hair more smoothly than she needed to for a day inside a newsroom.
Professional. Neutral. Forgettable.
Nothing about this said ‘I kissed my coworker in a live truck.’
She checked the weather again before she left. The sky was flat gray. The heavy part of the storm had passed, leaving plowed piles and slick patches and tired-looking snow.
She could work with that.
The drive to the station was slow. She didn’t trust the side streets yet, so she took the main roads even though they were crawling. Every time she stopped at a light, her thoughts tried to slide back toward Tilly.
The heater in her car sounded like the truck’s heater.
The salt smeared on the windshield looked like the snow streaking past.
The steering wheel under her hands reminded her of grabbing Tilly’s coat.
She clenched her fingers tighter.
“It was the storm,” she whispered. “It was adrenaline. It doesn’t mean anything.”
But it had. She knew it had.
Not when she’d been pressed against them.
Not when they kissed her back.
Not when they looked at her afterward and didn’t apologize.
She pulled into the station lot with her jaw set.
The building looked the same as always, squat and gray, stubborn against the snowbanks. The satellite trucks were lined up, dishes capped with frost. The shoveled path had already grown messy with new footprints.
Savannah killed the engine and sat there for a second, hands tight on the wheel.
It would be fine. She’d walk in, nod at people, sit at her desk, and work. She wouldn’t look for Tilly.
She pulled in a breath, let it go, and made herself move.
Inside, the newsroom was in its half-awake state. Not empty, not loud. Keyboards, early calls, chairs scraping, producers settling in. The overhead lights were on, but the studio behind the glass was still dim.
Harper sat near the assignment desk, coffee in hand. She spotted Savannah immediately.
“Morning,” Harper called.
Savannah stopped because walking past without answering would only make things worse. “Morning.”
Harper squinted at her. “Why do you sound like you swallowed a cactus?”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I’m tired.”
“You look… weirdly put together for the day after a storm. Did you sleep in that blazer?”
“I got up on time,” Savannah said. “You should try it.”
Harper’s lips twitched. “Ouch. Someone’s spicy.”
Savannah adjusted her bag. “I’ve got work to do.”
“You always have work to do,” Harper said lightly. Then softer, “You okay?”
Savannah hated that question today.
“I’m fine.”
Harper didn’t believe her. It was obvious in the way her eyes narrowed, in the way she glanced toward the back hallway — toward where the photogs usually came in.
Savannah’s heart jumped before she could stop it.
Tilly wasn’t here yet.
Her shoulders dropped half an inch.
Harper saw it. Of course she did.
“Uh-huh,” Harper said. “Fine.”
“Goodbye, Harper,” Savannah muttered as she headed to her desk.
She logged in and forced herself to read the morning emails. Press releases. Updates. Notes from Henry. Reminders from Aimee. Routine stuff.
None of it stuck.
She kept catching herself half turned toward the hallway, listening for footsteps or the rattle of camera gear.
By the time the door finally opened, and Tilly walked in, she’d almost convinced herself she wasn’t waiting.
They were still in their heavy coat, hair damp at the ends, camera bag slung over one shoulder. They moved the same way they always did — straight for the gear room, nodding at a sports photog on the way.
They didn’t look at her.
Not once.
Not even a flicker.
Savannah’s throat tightened.
Her mind unhelpfully supplied the image of Tilly’s face inches from hers, eyes dark and steady in the truck.
She snapped her gaze back to her monitor.
Harper’s chair creaked behind her. Savannah didn’t turn, but she could feel Harper staring holes into the back of her head.
“Don’t,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t say anything,” Harper replied.
“You’re thinking very loud.”
“That’s not a thing,” Harper said. “But if it was, you’re the one screaming.”
“Please go away.”
Harper didn’t.
It was almost a relief when Henry’s voice floated over the newsroom a little later.
“Savannah — you free this afternoon?”
She walked over. “Yeah.”
“We’re still getting viewer calls about downed trees and unplowed side streets. I want a day-turn on storm clean-up. You and Franklin can grab a car. Make it quick.”
Her stomach dipped.
Of course.
Only so many people were good at driving in this mess.
She kept her voice neutral. “Sure.”
“Good.” He scribbled something down. “Talk to the city. Grab a couple of residents digging out. Don’t take the truck — streets’ll eat it alive. Use one of the smaller cars.”
Savannah nodded and headed toward the gear room because that’s what a professional would do.
She didn’t breathe the whole walk.
The door was propped open with a sandbag. Inside, Tilly stood with their back to her, counting batteries, clipboard in hand.
“Franklin?” she said.
Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
They froze for a split second, then set the clipboard down. When they turned, their expression was neutral.
“Yeah?”
They didn’t look past her. Their eyes stayed fixed on her face, polite and distant, like she was just another reporter.
“Henry wants us on a storm follow for the six,” Savannah said. “He wants us to take a car.”
Tilly nodded once. “Okay.”
No reaction. No flicker. No recognition of anything that’d happened between them.
“Do you want to drive,” she asked, “or should I?”
Something that might’ve been a smile tugged faintly at their mouth. “I don’t trust you on snow yet.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate,” they said.
Her chest twisted so hard it almost hurt.
“I’ll meet you at the back door in ten,” Tilly said. “Need to grab a smaller kit.”
“Fine,” Savannah said. “I’ve got to pull a couple of numbers from the city first.”
She stepped out, heartbeat thrumming.
The drive was… awful.
Tilly drove like they always did — careful, steady, controlled. But the inside of the car felt smaller than the truck’s. Claustrophobic. Too warm. Too full of things unsaid.
Savannah stared out the window, notebook open but useless.
She cracked first.
“You’re okay to drive, right?”
Tilly didn’t look over. “Yes.”
Savannah hesitated. “About last night—”
“You said not to talk about it,” Tilly said softly.
Not sharp.
Not cold.
Just true.
Savannah shut her mouth.
They finished the work. She grabbed statements. Interviewed a couple of neighbors shoveling out their driveways. Tilly stayed near the car, eyes somewhere far away but always aware of her.
Back at the station, Tilly cut her package fast, while Savannah pretended to go through emails, her mind replaying the way Tilly had watched her through the camera.
When the package was fed, she packed up, grabbed her bag, and headed out before anyone could pull her back.
Harper caught her at the doors.
“You leaving already?”
“I’ve been here since nine.”
“You working mornings tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Good. You look like you need sleep or a shot of whiskey or a spiritual cleanse.”
“Thanks.”
“That was a concern,” Harper said. “Sorry, it sounds like an insult.”
Savannah sighed. “What do you want?”
“Nothing.” Harper paused. “Except maybe for you to stop pretending you don’t notice Tilly’s acting like you lit them on fire.”
Heat shot up Savannah’s neck. “Harper.”
“What? Am I wrong?”
“Drop it.”
Harper held up both hands. “Fine. I’ll let it go. Today.”
Savannah didn’t believe that for a second.
She walked out into the cold, crossed the lot, and climbed into her car. Once the door shut, the silence pressed in.
She set her hands on the wheel.
They were shaking.
She tightened her grip until the tremor stopped. Or until she could pretend it had.
The silence in the car felt too loud after the day she’d just had. Too much space for thoughts she didn’t want to sort through yet.
She exhaled slowly, watching her breath cloud the windshield.
This was ridiculous.
It had been one weird assignment. One strange conversation. One moment that had lingered longer than it should have.
She didn’t need to analyze it.
She definitely didn’t need to analyze them.
Savannah started the car and pulled out of the lot, tires crunching over dirty snow. The streets still carried the memory of the storm. Gray piles at the curbs. Slush in the gutters. A cold that hadn’t fully lifted.
Something unsettled followed her all the way home.
She told herself it was just work.