Tilly went back to their screen, jaw set, and the low hum of computers filled the space between them again.
Savannah returned to her desk, trying to make her heart slow down. It was stupid, really. Covering for someone over a shot that didn’t matter. But the idea of them getting flagged for something small—it didn’t sit right. Not after the way she’d spoken to them earlier.
She told herself it was just professionalism, protecting her crew, basic teamwork. But there was something else under it, something quieter. Something that had nothing to do with the story.
When she was younger, she’d learned to shield people from consequences they didn’t deserve. To absorb the blow so someone else wouldn’t have to. Now, she didn’t know how to stop.
Maybe it was the look they’d given her during that argument—steadfast, unflinching, like they weren’t afraid of her. Most people flinched when she pushed. They didn’t.
That night, she lingered at her desk long after the monitors went black. The cleaning crew’s vacuum droned faintly in the hallway, and someone’s half-eaten granola bar sat forgotten on a desk nearby. Coffee and disinfectant still lingered in the air.
She replayed their argument in her head, each line sharper than she’d meant it. It was strange how easily she remembered the sound of their voice when they weren’t speaking to her—low, even, somewhere between calm and defiant. She wondered if they were still in the building, finishing their edits, or if they’d already left without saying anything.
The second thought lingered longer than it should have.
Outside, frost traced the edges of the window, delicate lines threading through the glass. Savannah caught her reflection in the dark pane—the sharp angle of her shoulders, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth.
She hadn’t lied. The shot was soft. But that wasn’t why she’d taken the blame. It was because, for once, she wanted to make something easier for someone who never flinched when she pushed.
Even if she didn’t understand why.
Seven
Tilly almost said no.
Jamie caught them on the way out of the station with her coat half-buttoned and that look that meantdon’t argue.It was Thursday night, the kind that smelled like coffee grounds and deadlines. Tilly had every intention of going home, eating leftover lo mein, and not thinking about Savannah Wells for at least one evening.
“Come with me to Erin’s,” Jamie said. “She’s making actual food, and Leo misses you.”
Tilly tried for a flat “I’m fine,” but Jamie was already texting. The choices were to go or get badgered all night by follow-ups about self-care.
Erin’s building sat near the river, one of those narrow brick walk-ups with a balcony that fit a single chair and some wind chimes. The hallway smelled faintly of detergent and basil. Inside, the apartment was all warmth and low light. A lamp glowed near the couch; fairy lights strung along the balcony door reflected on the hardwood.
It looked lived-in but precise. Even Leo’s toys were stacked in a woven basket near the sofa. A framed photo of a marathon finish line hung beside a few plants that had clearly been watered this week. It was the kind of space that belonged to someone who knew how to maintain things—someone who didn’t let anything fall apart. Someone exactly like Erin.Savannah probably lived somewhere like that, tidy and curated. Tilly hated that the thought even occurred.
The oven was on; something was roasting inside, filling the air with garlic and rosemary. Leo bounded across the floor the second the door opened, nails skidding on the wood.
“Hey, man,” Tilly said, crouching to rub behind his ears. “Still my favorite person in this city.”
From the kitchen, Jamie called, “He’s not a person. Also, he licks everything.”
“That’s what makes him better company,” Tilly said.
Erin turned from the stove, hair pulled into a loose knot, wearing a faded BPD charity-run sweatshirt. “I didn’t know we were having company.”
Jamie shrugged out of her coat. “You love company. And Tilly needs something that isn’t shelf-stable.”
Erin smirked. “Wine’s on the counter.”
Dinner started calmly. Pasta, roasted vegetables, garlic bread, and a bottle of red opened without ceremony. Leo parked himself beneath the table, nose inches from Jamie’s knee. The conversation moved easily at first—stories from the newsroom, Erin’s run-ins with a new precinct captain, Leo’s ongoing war with the mailman. Tilly listened, picking at bread crusts, letting the tension ease out of their shoulders. It was domestic in a way they never quite trusted themselves to relax into.
They tried to stay quiet, but newsroom talk was muscle memory. And newsroom talk meant Savannah.
“She’s already got a nickname,” Tilly said before realizing it. “Harper started calling her Saint Savannah after the housing piece. Like she personally solved the crisis.”
Jamie’s eyes lit up. “Saint Savannah? That’s catchy.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Tilly said. “She’s been here five minutes.”
