“We’re still getting viewer calls about downed trees and unplowed side streets. I want a day-turn on storm clean-up. You and Franklin can grab a car. Make it quick.”
Her stomach dipped.
Of course.
Only so many people were good at driving in this mess.
She kept her voice neutral. “Sure.”
“Good.” He scribbled something down. “Talk to the city. Grab a couple of residents digging out. Don’t take the truck — streets’ll eat it alive. Use one of the smaller cars.”
Savannah nodded and headed toward the gear room because that’s what a professional would do.
She didn’t breathe the whole walk.
The door was propped open with a sandbag. Inside, Tilly stood with their back to her, counting batteries, clipboard in hand.
“Franklin?” she said.
Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
They froze for a split second, then set the clipboard down. When they turned, their expression was neutral.
“Yeah?”
They didn’t look past her. Their eyes stayed fixed on her face, polite and distant, like she was just another reporter.
“Henry wants us on a storm follow for the six,” Savannah said. “He wants us to take a car.”
Tilly nodded once. “Okay.”
No reaction. No flicker. No recognition of anything that’d happened between them.
“Do you want to drive,” she asked, “or should I?”
Something that might’ve been a smile tugged faintly at their mouth. “I don’t trust you on snow yet.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate,” they said.
Her chest twisted so hard it almost hurt.
“I’ll meet you at the back door in ten,” Tilly said. “Need to grab a smaller kit.”
“Fine,” Savannah said. “I’ve got to pull a couple of numbers from the city first.”
She stepped out, heartbeat thrumming.
The drive was… awful.
Tilly drove like they always did — careful, steady, controlled. But the inside of the car felt smaller than the truck’s. Claustrophobic. Too warm. Too full of things unsaid.
Savannah stared out the window, notebook open but useless.
She cracked first.
“You’re okay to drive, right?”
