“Feels like it.”
The air between them thinned, both waiting for the other to blink first. Then Jamie’s laugh echoed faintly from down the hall, a reminder of someone else’s easy rhythm cutting through the tension.
Savannah looked away. “You’re reading too much into it.”
Tilly snorted. “You think?” They stood and brushed past her, muttering something she couldn’t catch.
Savannah stayed where she was for a long time after they left. The computer fans whirred. A piece of gaffer tape stuck to the floor near her boot, curling at the edges. She bent to peel it up, then tossed it in the trash just to have something to do.
People argued in edit bays all the time. It was nothing new. But her chest still felt too tight.
She refilled her coffee, though it had already gone cold twice. Savannah wrapped her hands around the mug like it might warm something in her she couldn’t name. She wasn’t shaken — she refused to be that — but the argument in the edit bay replayed in flashes she couldn’t seem to stop.
Tilly’s face when they looked at her.
Not angry.
Not intimidated.
Just… steady.
Unafraid.
Most people gave her space when she pushed. Back in Providence, some practically tripped over themselves trying notto upset her. Even here, half the newsroom was still treating her like a visiting dignitary they weren’t sure how to talk to yet.
But Tilly?
They’d met her force with their own, matched tone for tone, like they knew exactly what she could handle.
And the worst part was that Savannahliked it—that resistance, that refusal to be impressed. It felt sharper than anything else in the room. Clearer.
Like something she could actually push against.
It dug under her skin in a way she couldn’t quite label.
She pressed her lips to the rim of the mug, letting the heat fog her reading glasses. She didn’t want to admit it — not even to herself — but she cared what Tilly thought. More than she should have. More than made sense. She didn’t even know them. Not really. But something about today had hit too close, cracked a seam she’d been patching since Providence.
She tightened her grip on the mug and told herself to get over it.
Around her, the newsroom was moving on—producers shouting timecodes, the police scanner murmuring about a fender bender on I-93, phones ringing without urgency. She caught sight of Tilly across the floor, looping cables into neat coils and dropping them into the equipment bag with more force than necessary.
Jamie passed by, tossing them a teasing comment that Savannah couldn’t hear. Tilly smiled—barely—but it softened the lines of their face, and something in Savannah eased just a fraction. She didn’t realize she’d been holding tension there until it let go. She told herself she didn’t care whether they were still irritated. That wasn’t her problem. But she found her gaze drifting back anyway, tracing the shape of their focus, the faint set of their shoulders.
When she caught herself, she forced her attention to her notes. Twice.
By late afternoon, the adrenaline of the day had burned off, leaving behind that strange, weightless fatigue that always hit after a good story aired. The newsroom dimmed to a steady hum. Computer screens glowed in quiet blues, broken only by the flicker of a monitor someone had forgotten to turn off.
* * *
“Hey, why’d the B-roll from Milton Street come in short? We’re missing that vent shot.”
Hardy’s voice came from the producers’ corner, cutting through the lull. Savannah didn’t even think before answering. The words left her mouth before the reason did.
“That was me. I told Tilly not to use it. The focus was soft.”
The producer barely looked up from his notes. “Alright, thanks.”
Across the room, Tilly’s head lifted. They froze for a second, surprise flashing across their face. Savannah didn’t hold the glance long—just long enough to know they’d seen it. Long enough for her chest to tighten in that strange mix of guilt and satisfaction. Like she’d shifted something between them, even if only slightly.
