Tilly didn’t have a comeback for that, so they just nodded and stepped into the hallway.
The air outside was sharp and cold. Their breath came out in clouds as they crossed toward the car.
“I don’t have a crush,” Tilly said to the empty street. “She’s just infuriating.”
Another bark echoed, faint and smug.
They shoved their hands into their pockets and kept walking.
The drive home was quiet. Streetlights flashed across the windshield, and every song on the radio felt too slow. They told themself to think about anything else—camera maintenance, the next assignment, replacing that one cable in the live-truck kit. Instead, they kept seeing Savannah in the cold, eyes bright, scarf pulled tight, the small, proud smile she gave when a take landed clean.
Tilly tightened their grip on the wheel.
“Not a crush,” they said again.
The traffic light ahead turned green, and they didn’t believe their own words for a second.
Eight
By Friday morning, Savannah was already behind.
Not visibly. Not in any way that the newsroom could clock. Her scripts were clean. Her hair was pinned back just right. She hit the morning meeting with a notebook full of angles and a voice that sounded calm enough to anchor a hurricane.
But she was behind.
Aimee moved through the rundown faster than usual, reshuffling assignments mid-sentence like cards in a deck. A protest downtown. A zoning vote pushed up. Overnight storm damage out west. The board filled, erased, filled again.
“Wells,” Aimee said without looking up. “You’re off transit. We need you on the council story. Andrew’s already rolling.”
Savannah blinked once. “Okay.”
No one else reacted. That was how it worked. Stories moved. People adjusted. Only rookies needed explanations.
Still, the change sat wrong in her chest. Transit had been hers. She had sources, context, and momentum. Now she was stepping into something half-built, expected to make it look intentional.
She glanced toward the gear lockers.
Tilly was there, back turned, loading a tripod into its case with practiced efficiency. They didn’t look up. Didn’t even hesitate.
Savannah told herself it meant nothing.
And still, something in her chest tightened anyway.
“Franklin,” Aimee added, “warehouse fire follow-up with Andrew.”
Tilly gave a short nod. “Got it.”
No protest. No question. Just movement.
That bothered her more than it should have.
She waited until the meeting broke, until the newsroom dissolved into its usual controlled chaos. Then she crossed the floor, timing it so she intercepted them near the back door.
“Hey,” she said lightly. “We’re not a package deal anymore?”
The words came out easily. The question didn’t feel like one.
Tilly slung the gear bag over one shoulder. “Were we ever?”
