Savannah Wells had worked in enough newsrooms to recognize one that ran on muscle memory. She stood straight without thinking, shoulders back, chin level, the posture of someone who’d learned early to look capable even when she wasn’t sure she felt it yet. WDTV smelled faintly of coffee and gaffer tape, the kind of place that had seen better budgets but refused to slow down. The cameras were dated, the tripods heavy, and the walls needed a new coat of paint, but everyone moved as if they belonged here. She respected that.
She also knew she’d have to earn it.
Savannah was tall enough to command space without trying, long-limbed and straight-backed, her posture so ingrained it felt structural. Dark hair fell just past her shoulders, smooth and deliberately styled, framing a face that read calm even when she wasn’t. Her features were sharp without being severe — strong brows, steady eyes, a mouth that defaulted to professionalism over softness. She dressed the way producers liked reporters to dress: fitted blazer, dark slacks, sensible heels, everything neutral and intentional. Camera-ready, always.
The newsroom layout was a maze of desks and cables, monitors stacked two high, every surface covered in half-empty coffee cups and old scripts. Someone had taped a photo of the last storm coverage above the assignment desk, smiling through rain slickers and chaos. Savannah had worked in stations withhalf the noise. WDTV was loud, unpolished, and alive in a way she hadn’t realized she missed.
The tension in the air wasn’t hostility exactly, but something close. People smiled at her the way they would at a new intern, polite and curious, already guessing how long she’d last. She’d expected that. Savannah felt it in the way she squared her shoulders and kept her hands still at her sides, resisting the urge to fidget as she had when she was younger.
Back in Providence, she’d worked as an MMJ — camera, copy, and standups all her own. It had been chaotic, but she’d liked the control. She knew exactly how her stories would look because she built them from start to finish. Here, she’d have to share that control, trust someone else’s eye. Tilly Franklin’s, apparently.
Her partner for the night hadn’t said much after the meeting. A quick nod, a steady look, nothing else. They struck Savannah as unflappable, the kind of photographer who’d seen it all and didn’t have the patience for hand-holding. Fine by her. She didn’t need hand-holding.
Still, this job mattered. Providence had been safe, predictable — and suffocating. WDTV wasn’t. It was Boston. Bigger market, bigger expectations. If she played it right, this could be the reel that got her noticed for real.
* * *
By dusk, the city had turned sharp and cold, the kind of night where breath fogged under streetlights. South Boston hummed with construction noise even after hours, the backdrop for yet another small business story about permits, delays, and lost foot traffic. Savannah stepped out of the rig, pulling her jacket tighter, already framing shots in her head. Her jacketwas fitted cleanly through the shoulders, dark and practical, the kind of wardrobe choice that signaled seriousness without sacrificing camera appeal. Her hair was pinned back neatly, makeup understated but precise, everything exactly where it was supposed to be.
Now, standing by the live truck, she watched Tilly set up the camera with practiced efficiency. Every movement was precise. No wasted motion.
She watched a second longer than she needed to.
People like that didn’t usually like people like her. It was impressive, and also vaguely irritating.
She’d barely finished reviewing her notes when Tilly said, “You’re long in the open,” without looking up from the viewfinder.
Savannah forced a smile. “I’m warming up.”
“You’re losing light,” they replied. “We’re rolling in thirty.”
Savannah exhaled through her nose, reset — and became abruptly, annoyingly aware of how closely Tilly had been watching her.
This time, she tightened her phrasing, hit the key words, and found her rhythm. The standup felt clean.
Until Tilly cut her off mid-sentence.
“Hold on, your pacing’s off,” they said, lowering the camera a fraction.
Savannah blinked, jaw tightening before she could stop it. “Excuse me?”
“Your pacing,” Tilly repeated, tone even but firm. “You’re rushing the second half. If you want it to cut clean, start slower.”
Savannah opened her mouth, closed it again, then forced another smile. “Got it.”
She started over. The next take was better, technically.
And worse, because now she could feel Tilly’s attention on her — steady, focused, impossible to ignore.
But as the words left her mouth, all she could think about was the way Tilly had saidif you want it to cut clean,like they were the one running the show.
By the time they wrapped, Savannah’s jaw ached from holding her smile. She thanked the business owner, packed her notes, and caught her reflection in the truck window. Calm. Professional. Still in control — hair smooth, eyeliner sharp, shoulders squared like armor.
Tilly moved with that same frustrating precision, every motion economical, practiced. Savannah could tell they’d done this a hundred times before. There was a rhythm to it, the kind that came from habit, not collaboration. She wasn’t sure if that made her want to impress them or annoy them.
Behind her, Tilly coiled the last cable and said, “You’re good on camera.”
Savannah turned. “Thanks.”
