Savannah stepped into the light. The camera caught her in profile first, breath fogging, eyes locked on her notes, and then head-on, the perfect grid. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her hair just barely catching the streetlight.
Tilly zoomed in to adjust focus, pretending it was for exposure. They tried not to notice how her breath hung in the air between takes, how it drifted and disappeared.
Jamie’s voice from lunch came back uninvited, clear as if she were standing beside them.
You don’t hate her. You hate that she’s right sometimes.
Tilly swallowed. They’d learned a long time ago that admiration was a slippery thing when work brushed up too close to personal. It started with trusting someone’s instincts. Letting schedules overlap. Letting conversations stretch past the job because it felt harmless.
It hadn’t been.
They thought of Erin Calhoun — of how easy it had been to blur lines when their worlds touched just enough to feel safe. Different buildings. Different roles. The same hours, the same late nights, the same understanding of what the job took.
And how careful everything had become after she stepped back. The rewritten emails. The rerouted calls. The quiet math of making sure paths didn’t cross unless they had to.
Tilly’s jaw tightened. “Not true,” they muttered under their breath.
“What?” Savannah asked, glancing up.
“Nothing. You’re good. Whenever you’re ready.”
Savannah nodded, lifted her mic, and gave a quick countdown. “Rolling in three, two.”
They hit record.
Her voice came through the mic low and steady, words sharp enough to slice the night air.
“Residents here on Milton Street say they’ve gone more than two weeks without reliable heat, despite multiple complaints filed with the city’s housing department. The property management company promised repairs last month, but tonight, as temperatures drop below freezing again, tenants tell us they’re still waiting.”
Behind her, the camera caught the faint glow of apartment windows and the rising fog from vents along the curb. Savannahheld eye contact with the lens just long enough to make the silence that followed hit harder.
She didn’t stumble once.
Through the viewfinder, her breath kept rhythm with her lines. Speak. Exhale. Vanish.
When she finished, Savannah turned toward them, a small smile ghosting across her face. “That one felt better.”
Tilly nodded. “It was clean.”
“Thanks.”
The word lingered. Not warm, not cold, just enough to make Tilly’s pulse catch.
They busied themself with coiling cords, keeping their gloves on even though it made the knots sloppy. Anything to avoid looking up. Savannah gathered her things, calm and deliberate, the sound of her boots crunching over a thin layer of salt dusting the sidewalk.
The van heater sputtered weakly on the way back to the station. Savannah’s phone glowed in her hands, lighting her face in soft flashes of blue. Outside, Christmas lights blurred together in passing storefronts, the whole city pretending warmth.
Tilly caught their reflection in the window, tired eyes, tense jaw, and looked away.
Jamie’s voice surfaced again, teasing, amused.You don’t hate her.
They told themself the staring meant nothing. Just looking for a fault.
Six
Savannah had never liked how the newsroom sounded when it was proud of her.
Compliments overlapped with ringing phones and the clack of keyboards, all of it too bright, too loud. It wasn’t ‘you did well,’it was ‘let’s see how long you can keep this up.’
