Eighteen
The second storm of the day rolled in meaner than the first.
Snow hit sideways, slapping the live truck hard enough to make the metal creak. Wind howled like it was trying to peel the doors off. Visibility was nothing — not even the faint red glow of the taillights ahead.
Savannah sat stiff in the passenger seat, arms crossed tight.
She hadn’t meant to end up in the truck with Tilly again.
Nobody had.
The newsroom was short-staffed. The evening crew was already late. Aimee sent them out on one last check of the South End-side streets “just in case,” and the sky had immediately collapsed on top of them.
Now the two of them were stuck. Again.
In the same goddamn truck.
With the same ridiculous heater wheezing warm-ish air at their ankles.
Tilly sat behind the wheel, shoulders rigid, eyes following the swirling white like it had personally wronged them. Their breath fogged faintly in the cold cab. They hadn’t looked at her since they climbed in.
Savannah could still feel every leftover spark from the hallway fight — her back hitting the wall, their hand braced beside her head, their breath mingling, their eyes bright with anger and something else she couldn’t name.
She couldn’t shake it.
The storm rattled harder. The truck didn’t move.
Savannah cleared her throat — quiet, tentative. “We should’ve waited for the others.”
Tilly didn’t look at her. “Didn’t know the storm was going to jump us.”
“You’re mad.”
“No.”
“You are.”
Tilly’s jaw flexed. “I’m not.”
“You’re lying.”
They finally turned their head — stiff, slow — and met her eyes.
“I’m not mad,” Tilly said, voice low. “I’m confused.”
Savannah’s heartbeat jumped hard. “About what?”
Tilly stared at her like the answer was obvious. “About you.”
The words slipped under her skin, painfully soft.
She forced her voice steady. “We don’t have to talk about the hallway.”
“We do,” Tilly said immediately. “Because you looked at me like—”
They cut themself off, breath catching, cheeks flushing from either cold or restraint.
Savannah’s throat went tight. “Like what?”
