Twenty One
Tilly woke up before sunrise with the feeling of falling.
It wasn’t a nightmare. Not exactly. It was that half-dream where you reach for something you shouldn’t want and wake up the second you touch it. They lay still in the quiet of their apartment, breathing too shallow, waiting for the panic to settle.
It didn’t.
Snowlight leaked faintly through the blinds, pale and cold. Their brain kept replaying fragments out of order. The heater was humming. The truck sliding. Savannah’s breath catching just before she kissed them. The way her hand had grabbed their coat like she didn’t want to lose her balance alone.
The shock of her lips.
Tilly groaned and pressed their palms to their eyes. Their body had decided to remember all the parts they were supposed to forget.
They pushed themselves out of bed and went straight to the shower. Hot water didn’t fix anything, but it gave them something to stand under, something loud enough to drown out their thoughts for a minute.
They braced both hands on the tile and exhaled hard.
They’d been careful for a long time. Professional. Calm. Neutral. They’d learned how to pack feelings away neatly and label the boxes so they wouldn’t spill open at the wrong time.
And they’d still slipped.
Worse, they’d liked it.
When the water finally ran cool, they shut it off and reached for a towel, blotting steam from the mirror with the heel of their hand. Their reflection looked wrong this morning. Tired around the eyes. Jaw tight. Shoulders drawn in like they were bracing for impact.
They opened the drawer beneath the sink and pulled out their Transtape.
They didn’t need to reapply today. The old strips could have lasted another twenty-four hours easily. But the edges had curled from the heat, and more than that, Tilly needed the ritual. Something familiar. Something they could do without thinking too hard.
They peeled the old tape away slowly, breathing through the small sting. Not painful. Just present. A reminder of where their body ended and where they were still learning how to live inside it.
Fresh skin. Clean lines.
They cut new strips and smoothed them along their chest with practiced motions. Gentle pressure. Even tension. Their hand stayed flat against the tape until the adhesive warmed.
It grounded them.
A small, solid thing in a morning that felt unsteady in every other way.
When they finished, they stepped back and let out a breath. Their chest looked the way it was supposed to. Their clothes would sit right. Their breathing felt more theirs again.
They tugged on a flannel and jacket. It wasn’t confidence. Just a little less static under their skin. Enough to move.
The city outside was still half-buried in snow, quiet in that early-morning way that made everything feel paused. Tilly locked their door behind them and stood for a moment in the cold, breath fogging the air.
Savannah Wells had kissed them.
They had kissed her back.
Tilly rested their forehead briefly against the doorframe, eyes closed.
“She doesn’t want this,” they whispered to no one. “So don’t want it either.”
It was a lie.
A necessary one.
They straightened, shoved their hands into their pockets, and headed for the car. Work would give them something to focus on. Routine always did. Cameras. Cables. Checklists. Things with clear edges and rules.
They were halfway to the station when their phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Tilly ignored it.
It buzzed again.
They glanced down, already annoyed, then sighed when they saw the name.
Mom.
“Shit,” they muttered, and signaled before pulling over. Snow crunched under the tires as they stopped along the curb. They stared at the screen for a beat, thumb hovering.
Then they answered.
“Hey,” they said.
“Tilly.” Their mom sounded relieved. “You’re up early.”
“Storm coverage,” they said. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to check in.” A pause. “You sound tired.”
“I am.”
No point lying. She never bought it anyway.
“You sleeping okay?”
“Not really.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Did something happen?” she asked, not gently, not sharply. Just direct.
Tilly leaned their head back against the seat and blew out a breath.
“I kissed someone,” they said.
Silence.
Then, “Okay.”
“And now I’m pretending I didn’t,” Tilly added. “Which is worse?”
“That tracks,” their mom said.
Tilly snorted despite themself.
“She asked me not to talk about it,” they went on. “So I’m not. I’m doing exactly what she asked. I just… hate how it feels.”
“You usually hate it when you do what someone asks instead of what you want.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
Tilly stared out the windshield at the snow-lined street. “I don’t chase,” they said. “You know that.”
“I do.”
“And I don’t want to be the person who makes things messy or uncomfortable or complicated. Especially at work.”
“Mm.”
“But I also don’t like feeling like I imagined something that very clearly happened.”
“That’s the part you’re stuck on,” their mom said.
“Yeah.”
“Because if you imagined it, you can file it away and move on.”
“And if I didn’t?”
“Then you have to decide whether you’re okay wanting something you might not get.”
Tilly’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t want to want it,” they said flatly. “I was fine before.”
“You were contained,” their mom corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
Tilly didn’t answer.
“I’m not asking you to blow anything up,” she continued. “I’m just saying you don’t usually lie to yourself this hard unless it matters.”
Tilly swallowed.
“I’m not going to push,” they said. “I’m not going to force a conversation she doesn’t want.”
“I know,” she said. “You never do.”
That wasn’t praise. It wasn’t criticism either. Just a fact.
“I should go,” Tilly said. “I’m already running behind.”
“Okay.” A beat. “Call me later?”
“Yeah,” Tilly said. “I will.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
They ended the call and sat there for another moment, phone resting heavy in their hand.
Nothing felt resolved. The wanting hadn’t gone anywhere.
But at least they weren’t pretending they didn’t know what it was anymore.
Tilly signaled and pulled back into traffic.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, the radio still off. By the time they pulled into the station lot, the sky had brightened to a dull gray, clouds heavy and low. Snow clung to the edges of the building, piled unevenly where plows had given up.
Tilly sat in the car for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the wheel.
Get in. Get your gear. Do your job.
They could do that.
Inside, the building was already awake in the restless way it always was after a storm. Phones ringing. Producers calling out blocks. Someone was laughing too loudly near the assignment desk. The smell of coffee and damp coats hung in the air.
Tilly nodded to a few people as they passed. Familiar faces. Familiar rhythms. This part of the day usually settled them. It still did, a little.
They ducked into the gear room and started checking batteries.
Not because they needed to. Because it was there.
Their hands moved automatically. Open the case. Check the charge. Swap out anything below full. Line the used ones up neatly to deal with later. The order of it all made sense in a way nothing else did.
“You’re early.”
Andrew’s voice came from behind them.
Tilly glanced up. “Storm.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “You good?”
“Fine.”
Andrew watched them for a second longer than politeness required. “You look like shit.”
Tilly snorted. “Morning to you, too.”
“Just saying,” he said, not unkindly. “You want coffee?”
They almost said no. Almost defaulted to the automatic refusal. But their hands paused over the battery case.
“Yeah,” they said instead. “Thanks.”
Andrew left, and Tilly finished packing the kit. The pause lingered, though. The tiny deviation from routine. Accepting something offered without a reason.
When Andrew came back, Tilly took the cup and nodded their thanks, fingers warming around it.
They didn’t drink it right away.
Across the room, Savannah passed the doorway, laughing at something someone said. The sound hit Tilly harder than it should have. Not because it was flirtatious. Because it was easy. Because it reminded them of how she sounded when she wasn’t guarding herself.
Tilly looked back down at the gear.
Not today.
They took a slow sip of coffee and forced their attention back to the checklist. One task at a time. One decision that didn’t involve wanting anything more than what was in front of them.
That was how they’d always done it.
Henry’s voice echoed down the hall, calling out assignments. Names, locations, timelines. The day snapped into place around them.
Tilly straightened, slung the camera bag over their shoulder, and stepped out of the gear room.
They could move through this day cleanly. Professionally. Without reaching.
They’d done harder things than that.
They could be professional. They could be careful. They just weren’t sure their rules were going to survive her.