A quiet click went off in Tilly’s chest.
Not surprise.
Not dread.
Just a shift — like settling into a track they’d been circling for hours.
They turned toward the back hallway. “Truck’s ready.”
Savannah followed.
Tilly didn’t check if she struggled to keep up.
They didn’t need to.
They felt it.
The moment the exit door opened, the storm slammed into them hard enough to bend Tilly’s knees. Snow blasted into their face, searing cold hitting every inch of exposed skin.
Savannah stumbled with the force of it. Tilly reached out automatically and caught her elbow.
She steadied fast. “I’m good,” she yelled over the wind.
Tilly let go. “Watch your footing.”
They crossed the lot in heavy steps, the wind pushing and pulling at them like it was trying to rearrange their path.Savannah stayed close behind, not touching them, but close enough that Tilly could hear her breath when the gusts dipped.
She was breathing fast.
But steady.
Focused.
Tilly didn’t look back.
They set up at the edge of the lot — the place the assignment desk wanted for the first hit. Tilly jammed the tripod legs into a mound of snow, but their fingers weren’t bending right, and the latch slipped twice.
Savannah stepped in. “Let me clip the mic pack.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Your hands look like they’re about to fall off.”
“They’re fine,” Tilly muttered.
A gust hit Tilly square in the side, sending snow down their collar. The curse that slipped out wasn’t entirely quiet.
Savannah didn’t say anything smug. She just took the pack from their hand. “Let me help.”
Tilly let her.
She clipped the pack on cleanly and stepped back — only for her scarf to whip up and smack her across the face.
“Seriously?” she muttered, fighting it.
The scarf tangled itself in her hair, snapping against her cheek with every gust. She pulled at it, frustrated, but the wind had other plans.
“Hold still,” Tilly said.
