She exhaled slowly, watching her breath cloud the windshield.
This was ridiculous.
It had been one weird assignment. One strange conversation. One moment that had lingered longer than it should have.
She didn’t need to analyze it.
She definitely didn’t need to analyze them.
Savannah started the car and pulled out of the lot, tires crunching over dirty snow. The streets still carried the memoryof the storm. Gray piles at the curbs. Slush in the gutters. A cold that hadn’t fully lifted.
Something unsettled followed her all the way home.
She told herself it was just work.
Twenty One
Tilly woke up before sunrise with the feeling of falling.
It wasn’t a nightmare. Not exactly. It was that half-dream where you reach for something you shouldn’t want and wake up the second you touch it. They lay still in the quiet of their apartment, breathing too shallow, waiting for the panic to settle.
It didn’t.
Snowlight leaked faintly through the blinds, pale and cold. Their brain kept replaying fragments out of order. The heater was humming. The truck sliding. Savannah’s breath catching just before she kissed them. The way her hand had grabbed their coat like she didn’t want to lose her balance alone.
The shock of her lips.
Tilly groaned and pressed their palms to their eyes. Their body had decided to remember all the parts they were supposed to forget.
They pushed themselves out of bed and went straight to the shower. Hot water didn’t fix anything, but it gave them something to stand under, something loud enough to drown out their thoughts for a minute.
They braced both hands on the tile and exhaled hard.
They’d been careful for a long time. Professional. Calm. Neutral. They’d learned how to pack feelings away neatly and label the boxes so they wouldn’t spill open at the wrong time.
And they’d still slipped.
Worse, they’d liked it.
When the water finally ran cool, they shut it off and reached for a towel, blotting steam from the mirror with the heel of their hand. Their reflection looked wrong this morning. Tired around the eyes. Jaw tight. Shoulders drawn in like they were bracing for impact.
They opened the drawer beneath the sink and pulled out their Transtape.
They didn’t need to reapply today. The old strips could have lasted another twenty-four hours easily. But the edges had curled from the heat, and more than that, Tilly needed the ritual. Something familiar. Something they could do without thinking too hard.
They peeled the old tape away slowly, breathing through the small sting. Not painful. Just present. A reminder of where their body ended and where they were still learning how to live inside it.
Fresh skin. Clean lines.
They cut new strips and smoothed them along their chest with practiced motions. Gentle pressure. Even tension. Their hand stayed flat against the tape until the adhesive warmed.
It grounded them.
A small, solid thing in a morning that felt unsteady in every other way.
When they finished, they stepped back and let out a breath. Their chest looked the way it was supposed to. Their clothes would sit right. Their breathing felt more theirs again.
They tugged on a flannel and jacket. It wasn’t confidence. Just a little less static under their skin. Enough to move.
