Tilly looked back at the windshield, shoulders drawn up. “Like you knew what I was thinking.”
Her pulse hammered.
“And I hated it,” Tilly added, voice cracking, “because you were right.”
That landed in her chest like a blunt fist.
They sat in silence for a long stretch — just the howl of wind around them, the faint rattle of the truck frame, the uneven breathing between them.
Savannah swallowed hard. “That wasn’t just me. You got in my face, too.”
“I shouldn’t have,” Tilly muttered, shaking their head. “It was unprofessional.”
“It wasn’t about professionalism.”
“Then what was it?” Their voice rose — not angry, but raw. “Because I don’t know how to read you. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know why you keep getting close and then acting like you don’t remember how it happened.”
Savannah opened her mouth — then closed it.
Because she didn’t have an answer.
Not one that made sense.
Not one that didn’t terrify her.
Tilly let out a sharp breath. “I don’t know what happened in that hallway.”
Savannah did.
She knew exactly what had happened.
She’d been five seconds from doing something irrevocable.
And it was happening again.
The air in the truck felt too small. Too warm. Too loud.
Savannah turned toward Tilly — fully, completely — without meaning to. “I wasn’t pretending. About earlier.”
Tilly froze.
Savannah felt the words building before she could stop them. “You said I acted like I wanted something. And then you told me you didn’t know how to handle it.”
Tilly swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“I know.” Her voice softened, trembling. “That’s why it mattered.”
Tilly met her eyes again — and every scrap of defensiveness dropped out of their face.
They looked scared.
Hopeful.
Wrecked.
The heater thumped weakly.
Snow slammed against the windshield.
