Harper was on her instantly.
She grabbed Savannah’s sleeve and pulled her behind a row of cubicles like she was detaining a suspect.
“What,” Harper whispered sharply, “the hell was that?”
Savannah blinked. “What was what?”
Harper stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Savannah. You two were acting like strangers trying to avoid eye contact at a funeral.”
Savannah swallowed. “I’m just tired.”
“No,” Harper said. “You are not tired. You and Tilly were both doing weird formal voices. You sounded like interns pretending to be adults.”
Savannah straightened her shoulders. “It’s really nothing.”
“Oh my god,” Harper hissed. “Something happened between you two!”
Savannah tightened her grip on her rundown sheet. “Harper, please drop it.”
“No,” Harper said. “Because you’re calling me Harper instead of Harp. Which means your anxiety is at DEFCON 2.”
Savannah stared at her. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” Harper said gently. “I won’t push. But I’m not buying it.”
Savannah’s breath hitched.
Harper tapped her arm in passing. “Just… be honest with yourself, okay? Whatever this is, it’s not nothing.”
She walked toward the studio, curls bouncing with each step.
Savannah turned toward her desk, pulse thrumming, feeling more exposed than she had in days.
Across the newsroom, Tilly lifted a camera bag and slung it over their shoulder.
Their eyes met hers for a fraction of a second.
Then both looked away.
Savannah forced her attention back to her computer, hands shaking slightly.
Today was going to be brutal.
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.
