Tilly blamed the lighting first.
The morning light in the newsroom was always too bright, too flat, bouncing off monitors and glass walls so everything looked a little washed out. Today it made Savannah look sharper, like the edges of her were outlined. She was at her desk near the middle row, coat still on the back of her chair, hair down, talking to Aimee about b-roll like she’d been here for years.
Tilly pretended not to see her.
They set their bag down in the gear alcove, checked batteries, checked again, because checking things was easier than thinking about the way Erin had said the wordcrushlike it was a diagnosis. They’d decided, firmly, sometime around midnight, that Erin was wrong. It wasn’t a crush. It was proximity plus irritation plus the fact that Savannah talked like she ran the building.
That was all.
“Morning,” Jamie said, popping her head into the alcove. “You look… intense.”
“I look normal,” Tilly said.
“Uh-huh.” Jamie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, amused. “Erin says hi.”
“Tell Erin I’m not talking to her.”
Jamie laughed. “You talked about Wells the whole night, Til.”
“I did not.”
“You did.” Her smile widened. “And I’m thrilled.”
Tilly rolled their eyes and shouldered the camera. “Don’t you have a show to proofread?”
“Don’t you have someone to stare at from a distance?”
“Goodbye, Jamie.”
They stepped out before she could say anything else, but the damage was done—their ears burned, and now they were hyper-aware of Savannah’s voice floating over from the assignment desk. They didn’t even have to look to know it was her. Smooth, measured, slightly lower than most reporters. Everything enunciated. Everything controlled.
Henry’s voice cut through. “Franklin—you’re with Wells on the East Boston parking-ban follow-up. Streets and Sanitation’s doing a presser at four, then Aimee wants a couple of soundbites from residents.”
Savannah turned at the same time Tilly did. Their eyes met for the first time in two days.
“Got it,” Tilly said.
“Sounds good,” Savannah said, professional, neutral, like earlier in the week they hadn’t nearly snapped at each other over a frame.
It should’ve been fine. Parking-ban stories were low stakes—cold, quick, mildly annoying to drivers, six-soundbite packages where you could practically script the reactions ahead of time. It was the kind of assignment they could do in their sleep.
It didn’t feel like sleep.
By the time four o’clock rolled around, the temperature had dropped. East Boston wind cut in off the harbor, biting through coats and scarves. The small city podium was set up crooked near a row of parked cars dusted with salt. A couple of local reporters were already there, shoulders hunched, cameras on tripods. Somebody from the city was late. Of course.
Savannah stood beside the live truck, flipping through her notes with gloved fingers. She’d layered up—long wool coat, neat scarf—but she still looked like she’d walked out of a promo. No red nose, no wind-frizzed hair. Tilly hated how composed she looked out here.
“Levels good?” she asked without looking up.
“Yeah,” Tilly said, adjusting the viewfinder. “I’ll grab a cutaway of the tow-zone signs after the presser.”
“Perfect.”
The word landed weirdly. Polite. Too polite for the way they usually talked.
The city spokesperson finally arrived, breathless and apologetic, and started talking about snow emergencies and courtesy warnings. Savannah slid into reporter mode immediately, eyes sharp, questions quick. Tilly tracked her with the camera, steady as ever. Muscle memory. They worked well. That was the problem—they worked too well for people who were supposedly nothing to each other.
When the presser broke up, Savannah walked over, cheeks pink from the cold. “Let’s grab a couple of man-on-the-street shots?”
