Savannah dropped her hands, but didn’t step toward them.
Tilly broke down the camera in silence. The wind fought them, tugging at cables, rattling the tripod legs. They welcomed the distraction.
Savannah’s voice came low. “Ready?”
It wasn’t directed at them so much as the storm.
“Yeah,” Tilly said.
They loaded the gear. Closed the doors. Climbed back inside.
The cab felt even smaller now. The air was thick with the heater, snow-damp wool, and something warm that hadn’t left since the kiss.
Savannah wiped her gloves on her coat and buckled in. Her hands shook.
Just a little.
Just enough for Tilly to notice.
Tilly didn’t comment.
Didn’t let their gaze linger.
Didn’t do anything except shift into drive and ease the truck onto the road.
The highway back was nearly deserted. Snow swallowed the lanes. The wind shoved at the truck in unpredictable bursts. The wipers squeaked a protest with every pass.
Savannah angled toward the window, hood still up despite the heater. Her breath fogged the glass, then cleared, then fogged again.
After five minutes, she pulled her hood down and scrubbed her hands over her face.
After ten, she tugged her seatbelt tighter like it could hold her together.
After fifteen, she still hadn’t said a single word.
Tilly didn’t push.
They drove carefully and slowly. Two hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Jaw clenched so tight it hurt. They didn’t trust their voice. Didn’t trust their thoughts. Didn’t trust anything except the fact that Savannah needed the silence she’d asked for.
The problem was:
The silence wasn’t silent.
Not really.
It buzzed.
It throbbed.
It replayed the kiss in Tilly’s head over and over — the way she’d grabbed their coat like she meant to burn the moment into memory, the way she’d kissed like she was scared to want it and more scared not to.
Tilly exhaled through their nose, slow, steady, controlled.
Savannah didn’t look at them.
Not once.
But when the truck hit a slick patch and fishtailed slightly — just a hitch, just enough to jolt —
