Thirty One
Tilly tightened their grip on the camera bag like they could outrun the way Savannah’s voice had sounded.
Too formal. Too careful. They knew that tone.
They hated that tone. It meant she was building a wall between them, brick by brick, pretending the hotel had never happened.
The newsroom chatter behind them felt sharp and off-kilter, the usual hum of printers and phone calls suddenly too loud without Savannah’s laugh or commentary mixed into it.
They kept their eyes on the gear cart. Focus on tasks.
Always better than feeling anything. Batteries.
Cables. Extra cards. The routine calmed their hands, even if it didn’t do a thing for the heaviness in their chest. Tilly’s fingertips moved over the equipment automatically, muscle memory flicking switches and checking zippers, but their chest still thudded with an ache they wished they could ignore.
The newsroom buzzed behind them, but all Tilly heard was the soft rhythm of Savannah following a few steps back.
Not beside them, not close enough to brush shoulders like usual.
Just behind. Like she was afraid of closing the distance.
Normally, Savannah’s steps were quick and sure, the sound of someone impatient to start the day.
Now they dragged slightly, careful and uncertain, matching the hesitant rise of Tilly’s pulse.
They didn’t turn around.
The double doors opened with a whoosh of cold air that slapped the heat off Tilly’s skin.
Fine. They welcomed it. At least the cold made sense.
Outside, wet pavement and stale exhaust hung over the lot, a typical Boston morning layered over the leftover bite of last week’s storm.
The wind pushed at their jacket and lifted the ends of their hair, hissing against the row of parked cars like it had something to say.
They headed across the lot toward the truck.
Their boots crunched against leftover salt from last week’s storm.
The wind picked up and whipped at their jacket.
Tilly popped open the back door of the truck and started loading equipment.
The metal frame of the tripod was colder than expected and bit into their fingers.
The cold made their knuckles stiff, but it grounded them in a way their thoughts couldn’t.
Savannah stepped up beside them. She kept her body angled away, as if the air had gotten too thin. Her breath fogged in front of her for a moment before the wind shredded it apart. She didn’t meet Tilly’s eyes, but her presence was an ache all the same.
She reached into the truck bed for the tripod at the same time Tilly did. Their fingers slid across the back of her hand.
It wasn’t even a full heartbeat. Just a shock of warmth that hit both of them at the same time. Under Tilly’s skin, something lit up fast and unwelcome. Savannah’s hand was soft and warmer than expected against the freezing metal.
Savannah’s breath stuttered. Tilly felt it more than heard it. Savannah’s fingers curled on instinct before she caught herself.
They jerked their hand back like they had touched a live wire.
“Sorry,” Savannah said quietly. Her voice cracked on the first syllable. Her cheeks colored faintly, not from the cold.
Tilly swallowed. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. Nothing about this was fine. The space between them felt like held breath.
They loaded the rest of the gear without another word.
Savannah hovered nearby, hands half-lifted like she wanted to help but didn’t trust herself to get too close.
Her shoulders were tight, pulled up near her ears.
She kept rubbing her arms like she was cold, but she wasn’t shivering.
It was nerves. Tilly recognized the difference immediately, the same way they recognized the shake in her exhale when she tried not to cry.
They finished loading and closed the back door. The slam echoed off the concrete and made Savannah flinch. Her eyes flickered downward like she wished she could hide from the sound.
Savannah climbed in, slow and stiff. Tilly got in on the other side, started the engine, and adjusted the mirrors that didn’t need to be adjusted.
They just needed something to do with their hands.
Anything that didn’t involve touching her again.
In the mirror, Savannah’s reflection flickered for a moment, eyes downcast, lips pressed together to keep them steady.
The radio crackled on with a soft acoustic song. Savannah stared out through the windshield like she was trying to memorize the horizon. Her breath fogged the glass in faint clouds before fading.
Tilly pulled out of the lot.
The silence felt thick enough to choke on. The heater hummed a low note through the cab, mixing with the muted sound of the tires on wet pavement.
Two blocks passed before Tilly noticed Savannah rubbing her hands together. She tried to do it quietly, like she didn’t want anyone to see she was freezing. Her fingers trembled anyway, pale from gripping the rundown sheet earlier.
Tilly sighed under their breath and opened the glove box. The spare hand warmers were tucked next to an old paper map, edges curled from years of being shoved aside. They set one on the console between them, halfway between the seats, neutral territory.
Savannah stared at it like it was a fragile offering she didn’t know if she deserved. Her throat worked in a swallow before she reached for it. Her fingers brushed the warmer with hesitation, like she was afraid it might disappear.
“You should take it,” Tilly said, eyes still on the road. “It’s cold.”
Savannah hesitated. A long moment. Too long. Then she picked it up and pressed it between her palms.
“Thank you,” she said. Soft. Sincere. The kind of voice she hadn’t used with them since the hotel. It made something twist in Tilly’s ribs.
Tilly nodded once. “Yeah.”
The truck hummed along the bridge. Gray water rushed beneath them, choppy from the wind.
Savannah shifted slightly, angling her body toward the window again.
Her reflection in the glass looked tired in a way Tilly had never seen before.
The kind of tired that happens after you cry.
Or after you stop yourself from crying. Her breath fogged the glass again, faint and uneven.
Tilly gripped the wheel harder.
They thought about that night for one stupid second.
Her breath against their neck. The way she had looked at them when they were both half-asleep, soft and warm and open.
The way she had shut down the moment morning light hit the room.
How her eyes had gone wide and careful, like she didn’t trust herself to stay.
They forced the memories away.
They didn’t get to think about that. Not right now.
“Do you want the heat higher?” Tilly asked.
Savannah blinked. “What?”
“You’re cold.”
“Oh. I’m fine.”
Liar.
But Tilly didn’t call her on it. They reached over and turned the dial up anyway. Savannah didn’t argue. She just held the warmer a little tighter.
The closer they got to the river, the more the wind picked up.
Tilly could see debris caught along the embankment, water pushing high against the barrier.
A gull swooped low over the river, shrieking into the wind.
Another station’s photog struggled with a light stand near the walkway, their hair whipping in every direction.
Savannah straightened in her seat like someone had flipped a switch. Her reporter face clicked back into place. Calm. Polished. Untouchable. Except her fingers kept flexing against the hand warmer like she needed something to hold on to.
Tilly pulled the truck into park.
“We should check ground conditions first,” they said.
Savannah nodded. “Yeah.”
Her voice was steady, but the tension in her jaw was not. A tiny muscle near her temple jumped.
They opened their doors at the same time. The wind cut through the gap as soon as they stepped out. It lifted Savannah’s hair and sent a spray of river mist across Tilly’s face. The air smelled sharp and metallic, like stormwater and cold stone.
Tilly grabbed the tripod and a camera battery. Savannah grabbed the mic kit, holding onto it a little too tightly. Her knuckles had gone white around the strap.
For a second, as they rounded the truck and met at the front bumper, her eyes lifted to theirs.
Just a fraction of a second.
But it was enough to feel everything they weren’t talking about. In her eyes was something raw. Not anger. Not distance. Something closer to fear and something closer to apology, and something that looked like she hadn’t slept since the hotel.
Tilly looked away first.
“Let’s get set up,” they said.
“Okay.”
The word floated between them like smoke. Not warm. Not cold. Just fragile. It hung there in the air for a breath before the wind shredded it apart.
And the day was only starting.