Savannah stepped out first, not looking back. Not slowing. Her posture straightened with every step, sliding back into something recognizable. Something safer.
By the time Tilly followed, closing the door behind them, Savannah was already creating space.
And Tilly felt it.
Last night had happened.
It had meant something.
But Savannah was already pretending she knew how to handle it.
Tilly walked beside her, quiet and aching, knowing exactly what waited in the hours ahead:
Savannah was going to act as if nothing had happened.
And Tilly didn’t know how to bear it.
* * *
The drive back was worse than the silence.
Savannah sat in the passenger seat with her notebook open,pretending to review something. Her pen moved across the page without purpose, just motion for the sake of looking occupied. Tilly kept their eyes on the road and their hands at ten and two like they were taking a driving test.
The heater hummed. The wipers scraped intermittently against a mist that wasn’t quite rain. Neither of them turned on the radio.
Tilly wanted to say something. Anything. But every opening line they thought of felt too heavy or too light, too demanding or too casual.Are you okay?felt presumptuous.Last night was good,felt like begging for validation.What are we doing?felt like exactly the kind of pressure Savannah was already running from.
So they said nothing.
Savannah’s phone buzzed. She answered a text quickly, her thumb moving with practiced efficiency. Tilly caught a glimpse of the screen—just the station group chat, something about rundowns. Normal. Professional. Safe.
“Looks like they need the footage uploaded by three,” Savannah said, her voice carefully neutral. “Should be fine.”
“Yeah,” Tilly said. “No problem.”
That was it. That was the only real conversation they had for two hours.
When they finally pulled into the station lot, Tilly cut the engine, and the silence became unbearable.
Savannah unbuckled immediately. “I’ll handle the logging if you want to offload the gear.”
“Sure,” Tilly said.
She was already opening her door. Already halfway out.
“Sav—” Tilly started.
She paused, one foot on the pavement, not quite looking back.
Tilly’s throat closed around whatever they’d been about to say. “Never mind. I’ll see you inside.”
Savannah nodded once and walked toward the building, shoulders squared, moving like someone who had a plan and intended to execute it without deviation.
Tilly sat in the truck for another minute, watching her disappear through the side entrance.
Then they grabbed their bag and followed.
Inside, the station buzzed with its usual chaos. Phones ringing. Producers shouting across desks. Someone laughed too loudly near the coffee machine. Normal. Like nothing had shifted.
