She pushed the images away.
“Just… pressure,” she said. “Everything feels like it matters. And if I mess up, it’s not just me who looks bad.”
Alana rested her elbows on the table. “Did something happen at work?”
Savannah’s head snapped up. “No.”
The word came too fast, sharp around the edges. Alana’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
Savannah cleared her throat. “Nothing specific. It’s just been a week.”
Alana didn’t look convinced, but she let the subject slide a little. She traded it for safer questions: how the city was treating her, whether she’d found a favorite coffee shop yet, and if she still hated mornings. Savannah answered as best she could, offering quick, surface-level details that skimmed over the actual weight in her chest.
Their food arrived. Plates slid between them, steam curling up. Savannah’s fork felt heavier than it should have in her hand. She cut a piece, lifted it halfway, and set it back down again without meaning to.
“Sav,” Alana said quietly.
Savannah’s throat tightened at the sound of her name in that tone. Too knowing. Too gentle.
“What?” she asked.
“You’ve barely blinked since you sat down,” Alana said. “And you’re not eating.”
Savannah glanced down at her plate, surprised to see the mess she’d made. She set the fork down. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”
Alana watched her for a long moment. The candle flame flickered between them.
“Did you have a fight with someone?” Alana asked.
Savannah’s chest jolted.
Her fingers curled under the table, nails pressing into her palm. She could still feel the split second of warmth when her hand had brushed Tilly’s. The way they had both jerked back like they’d been burned.
“No,” she said, but the word came out thinner than she meant it to.
Alana’s gaze sharpened. “You’re sure?”
Savannah forced herself to meet her eyes. “I didn’t have a fight.”
Not out loud.
Alana studied her face like she was reading a story there. She didn’t push, not yet. Instead, she took a small bite of her food and chewed quietly, giving Savannah a moment to breathe.
“How’s the newsroom?” Alana asked after a beat. “Do you like the people you work with?”
Savannah let out a slow breath, shoulders inching down. “They’re good. It’s… intense. Everyone’s always moving. There’s this constant buzz, like if you stop for a second, you’ll miss something huge.”
“That sounds like your kind of chaos,” Alana said lightly.
“Sometimes,” Savannah admitted.
“Anyone there you’ve gotten really close to?”
The question landed with more force than Alana seemed to intend.
Savannah’s fingers tightened around her glass. The condensation was slick against her skin. A flash of the truck cab, heater humming, Tilly’s profile outlined against the gray windshield, faint clouds of breath on the glass, rose so clearly it made her stomach twist.
She swallowed. “I mean, I have people I work with a lot.”
