Her hand shot out.
Not to catch herself.
To grab Tilly’s arm.
Tilly froze.
Her fingers were tight around their forearm, glove rough against their sleeve, grip desperate and unthinking — instinctive, as her body reached for them before her brain could throw up its walls.
Heat shot straight through Tilly’s skin, right to their ribs, a pulse of electricity they felteverywhere.
Savannah’s glove pressed against the spot where their sleeve had ridden up, bare skin brushing wool. Tilly felt that tiny contact like a fault line splitting open.
They kept the truck steady.
Kept breathing.
Kept their voice level. “It’s alright.”
Her hand stayed there a beat too long.
Then she snatched it back as the contact burned her.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
Tilly shook their head. “You’re fine.”
Silence again. But different now.
Nervous.
Shaken.
Tender around the edges.
Halfway to the station, Savannah finally spoke — barely above a whisper.
“Don’t… don’t tell anyone.”
Tilly’s throat tightened. “I wasn’t going to.”
She nodded once, sharp, as she’d braced for the wrong answer.
The rest of the drive passed in that fragile, trembling quiet — like the air might shatter if either of them breathed too deeply.
When they pulled into the lot, Savannah had her door open before the truck had fully settled.
“Sav—” Tilly started, unable to stop themself this time.
She shook her head without looking back. “Please. Not tonight.”
Tilly shut their eyes.
“Okay.”
Savannah walked fast across the lot, shoulders hunched, snow clinging to her hair and coat.
She didn’t look back.
