There it was. Out loud. Too loud.
She winced, bracing for the worst.
But Tilly didn’t flinch. They didn’t stiffen or pull back. They didn’t say anything that made her want to crawl out of her skin.
They just said, very gently, “Okay.”
The simplicity of it nearly undid her.
“No, I mean—” Savannah’s breath caught. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Not with you. Not with this. And I don’t want to say or assume anything that… could hurt you. Or come out wrong. Or sound like—”
She cut herself off, mortified.
This was spiraling. Fully spiraling. Free-falling into a space she’d kept tightly shut for years.
She felt the mattress dip again as Tilly shifted. Not closer. Not crowding her. Just a presence.
“Savannah,” they said softly. “You don’t have to know what you’re doing.”
“But I should.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she snapped, then lowered her voice. “Because I don’t want to mess this up.”
Silence stretched. Not tense. Just open.
Then Tilly said, quietly, “You’re not messing anything up.”
She finally looked at them. They were on their side, head propped on their hand, eyes soft in a way she wasn’t prepared for.
“I’ve never been with anyone like you either,” Tilly said. “So we’re both figuring it out. That’s all.”
Savannah’s eyes stung. “What if I say something stupid?”
“You probably will.” Tilly shrugged, gentle teasing in their voice. “And then I’ll tell you. And you’ll learn. That’s how it works.”
Savannah let out a shaky exhale.
Her spiral didn’t disappear. But it loosened its grip on her ribs just enough to breathe.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling again.
“You make it sound simple,” she whispered.
“It is simple,” Tilly said. “You want me. I want you. Everything else is just talking.”
Savannah’s chest tightened in a way that wasn’t panic anymore. Something warmer. Something terrifying in a different way.
She covered her eyes with her arm again. “I’m still freaking out.”
Tilly brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. Light. Careful. “That’s okay.”
And somehow it was.
The spiral didn’t stop completely, but it slowed. Enough for her to feel the hotel bed underneath her. Enough to let her heart beat without hurting. Enough to know she wasn’t alone in the moment.
Enough to breathe.
