Forty Seven
Tilly woke up with a kink in their neck and the faint smell of champagne still clinging to the apartment.
The couch was shorter than they remembered. Or maybe they’d just curled in too tight, trying to take up less space than necessary. They lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling fan, listening.
No voices. No movement. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the muffled quiet of a place that had been full not long ago.
They hadn’t gone to Savannah’s bed.
They could have. She’d been warm and pliant in their arms the night before, kissing them as if she were afraid they’d disappear again. But Tilly had felt the line there, thin and dangerous. Stay close. Don’t crowd.
The couch had been the compromise.
They sat up slowly, wincing as their neck protested, and scrubbed a hand over their face. Their jacket was folded over the back of the chair. The door lined up their shoes like they were a guest who hadn’t quite earned the right to unpack.
They heard movement in the bedroom.
Tilly stayed still.
The door opened a minute later. Savannah stepped out, hair a mess, one of Tilly’s old sweatshirts pulled on over bare legs. She stopped short when she saw them on the couch.
“Oh,” she said, the word sharp with surprise.
“Hey,” Tilly said quickly, keeping their voice low. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Savannah pressed a hand to her chest, then dropped it, embarrassed. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“I didn’t want to leave,” Tilly said. Then, softer, “But I didn’t want to assume.”
Savannah nodded like that landed. She glanced around the living room, at the empty cups and discarded streamers, the evidence of a night she’d hosted while holding herself together by sheer will.
“I was going to clean up,” she said.
“I can help,” Tilly offered immediately.
Savannah shook her head. “It’s fine. I just… needed to move.”
She crossed to the kitchen and started stacking cups without really looking at them. Tilly watched her for a second too long, then stood.
“Sav?” they said.
She paused, not turning around. “Yeah?”
Tilly took a breath. This wasn’t the apology yet. This was the doorway to it.
“Would you maybe want to get breakfast with me?” they asked. “And talk. If you’re up for it?”
Savannah’s shoulders lifted with a slow inhale, then fell again. She turned back to them, expression cautious but open.
“Breakfast?” she repeated.
“Yeah,” Tilly said. “Somewhere neutral. Eggs. Coffee. No pressure to clean or perform or host.”
That pulled a small, reluctant smile from Savannah. Just a flicker. But it was there.
“Okay,” she said. “Yeah. I think I could do that.”
Relief spread through Tilly’s chest, quiet and steady. “Okay.”
They stepped back to give her space, heart beating slowly and hopefully for the first time in days.
Savannah disappeared back into the bedroom, the door closing softly behind her.
Tilly stayed where they were.
They sat on the edge of the couch, elbows braced on their knees, hands loose and empty, and let the quiet settle. The apartment felt different in the daylight. Less charged. More honest. The kind of quiet that invited thinking instead of filling space.
They stared at the blank TV screen and tried to sort through the knot in their chest.
They knew what they needed to say.
Not all of it. Not at once. But the shape of it was there.
I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.
I shouldn’t have walked out.
I should have stayed.
Those parts were easy. Necessary.
The harder part was the note.
They still saw it when they closed their eyes. The list. The careful observations. And then the last word, sitting there like a verdict.
Problem.
It had landed somewhere tender. Not because Savannah had written it, but because part of them had believed it already. Because it echoed old fears they’d spent years tamping down. That they were difficult. Too much. The kind of person people tolerated until they didn’t.
They hadn’t said that part out loud.
They should.
But not like an accusation. Not like a weapon.
They didn’t want to win this conversation. They wanted to understand it.
Savannah was thoughtful. Methodical. She observed things before she trusted them. That was part of why Tilly admired her. It made sense that she’d catalog someone new, especially someone who unsettled her.
Tilly needed to hear the why.
Not to argue with it. Not to defend themself out of it.
Just to know.
They leaned back and let their head fall against the couch cushion, eyes closing.
I want to do this, they thought. Clearly. Calmly. With her.
Slow. Careful. Real.
That meant trusting her when she spoke, even when it was uncomfortable. It meant not assuming the worst just because something hurt.
They opened their eyes again and stared at the hallway leading to the bedroom.
Savannah hadn’t come out yet.
Tilly waited anyway.
They could hear drawers opening. The soft thump of something being set down. The normal sounds of someone getting ready, grounding, and ordinary, and somehow precious.
When they stood a few minutes later, it wasn’t out of restlessness. It was a decision.
They grabbed their jacket from the chair and slipped it on, then paused, fingers curling into the fabric.
* * *
The diner was half full, the kind of place that smelled like coffee and butter no matter what time of day it was.
They slid into a booth by the window, vinyl cracked from years of use. Savannah took the seat facing the door out of habit. Tilly noticed and didn’t comment.
A waitress appeared almost immediately, pad already in hand.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Savannah said.
“Definitely,” Tilly added.
The waitress poured without ceremony, the mug warm in Tilly’s hands the second it touched the table. She set creamers between them, topped Savannah’s cup off again for good measure, then disappeared back toward the counter.
There was a beat of quiet.
Savannah lifted her mug, took a sip, then set it down carefully.
“So,” she said at the same time Tilly did, “we should talk.”
They both froze.
Savannah blinked, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Sorry.”
Tilly smiled despite themself. “No. That tracks.”
They took a breath, fingers curling around the mug.
“I’ll start,” Tilly said. “If that’s okay?”
Savannah nodded. “Yeah.”
Tilly looked down at the table for a second, gathering the right words, then back up at her.
“I’m sorry,” they said. Plain. Unqualified. “For not trusting you. For walking out instead of listening.”
Savannah’s shoulders loosened slightly. She didn’t interrupt.
“I should have stayed,” Tilly continued. “Even if I was upset. Especially then.”
Savannah nodded once. “That hurt.”
“I know,” Tilly said quietly. “And I don’t want to do that again.”
They took another breath, steadied themself.
“I want to do this,” they said. “With you. Slowly. Honestly. And part of that means trusting you when you tell me what you mean, even if something else in my head is being loud.”
Savannah watched them closely, eyes searching, but not closed off.
“The note…” Tilly said, and felt their chest tighten anyway. “It did hurt. I won’t pretend it didn’t.”
Savannah’s fingers curled around her mug. She nodded. “Okay.”
“But I don’t want to argue about it,” Tilly added quickly. “I want to understand it. I want to know what you were thinking when you wrote it. What you were trying to protect yourself from.”
Savannah exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to the table.
“I wasn’t writing it for you,” Savannah said. “I was writing it so I could get my footing.”
Tilly stayed quiet.
“It was our first day working together,” Savannah went on. “I do that with new partners. I notice everything. How they move. How they talk. What they don’t say. It helps me adjust.”
She traced the rim of her mug with her thumb.
“You’re… very precise,” she said. “Very contained. And that threw me more than I expected.”
Tilly nodded slowly.
“The last word,” Savannah said, exhaling. “That was me being sloppy.”
“Sloppy how?” Tilly asked gently.
“I wasn’t calling you a problem,” Savannah said. “I was flagging a potential friction point. Two people who both like control. Two people who don’t always say what they’re thinking.”
She looked up at them, steady now.
“I should’ve written ‘pay attention’ instead. Or ‘be careful.’ But I didn’t. And I get why that hurt.”
“Thank you for telling me,” they said. “I needed that.”
The waitress returned then, sliding plates onto the table with practiced ease. Eggs. Toast. A side of potatoes that smelled aggressively good.
“Y’all need anything else?” she asked.
Savannah shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“Enjoy,” the waitress said, already moving away.
They sat there for a second, the conversation paused but not broken.
Tilly reached for their fork, then stopped. “I’m not perfect at this,” they said. “But I’m here. And I want to keep being here. Even when it’s uncomfortable.”
Savannah’s mouth curved into something soft and real. “Me too.”
They picked up their utensils, and the tension eased just enough to let the moment settle.
They would keep talking.
But for now, the coffee was hot, the food was waiting, and neither of them was going anywhere.