Afternoon light pushed through the curtains in a soft, washed-out smear — the kind that said they’d slept later than planned, but not well. Their brain had been awake for hours anyway, circling the same memories until they were worn thin.
The truck.
Savannah’s breath caught when their hands brushed.
Her quiet “thank you” over that hand warmer.
The way she’d moved through the station yesterday, like her skin didn’t quite fit right.
It all kept looping, refusing to settle.
Tilly stared at the ceiling and dragged a hand over their face.
What did they expect, anyway? That one hotel room and one night could rewrite an entire life? That Savannah would wake up and suddenly be someone who knew what she wanted and could say it out loud?
Stupid.
They turned their face into their pillow and let out a slow breath.
This wasn’t working.
Lying here.
Replaying everything.
Waiting for something that clearly wasn’t coming.
Fine.
They’d make a decision.
They weren’t doing the weird silence anymore — the avoiding, the flinching, the holding their breath every time Savannah walked into a room. They’d be normal. Polite. Professional. They’d fake it until it felt real. It had worked before. It could work again.
They got up, showered, dressed in dark jeans and a hoodie, slung their camera bag over one shoulder, and checked their batteries twice, even though they didn’t need to. Habit was easier than thinking.
Outside, the cold air snapped at their cheeks. Good. That helped.
The drive to the station felt short. The radio played a low-energy midday talk show that they barely heard. By the time they walked through the WDTV doors, the familiar nightside energy hit them in the chest — slower, more muted, a mix of coffee and stale carpet, the hum of computers warming up for the shift.
Producers gathered at the assignment desk with crumpled rundowns. A graphics intern yawned hard enough to crack their jaw. Someone laughed too loudly near the edit bays.
And Savannah was already in the gear room.
Her hair was tucked behind her ears in that way she did only when she was trying to look composed. A pen was hooked behind one ear. Her rundown sheet was in her hand. Her shoulders were pulled back like she was trying to hold herself upright with a string.
She looked… steadier, but not fine.
Tilly adjusted their camera strap and stepped toward the doorway.
“Hey,” they said, keeping it simple.
Savannah’s head snapped up.
Just for a second, her eyes were too wide — like she hadn’t expected them to talk to her. Then she smoothed it over. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
“Hi,” she said. “Hey.”
It landed more softly than yesterday. It still tugged at something in their ribs.
