Three
By Thursday, Tilly Franklin knew they hated Savannah Wells’ style.
Not her reporting, exactly. Savannah was sharp, confident, and knew how to find the soundbite and make it sing. But she worked like she was still an MMJ, fast, precise, controlling every detail as if no one else existed on the crew. It made collaboration feel like a fight for space.
Tilly wasn’t used to that. They’d spent years reading their reporters’ rhythms, adjusting quietly behind the camera so everything looked effortless on air. Jamie had been the best at that balance — trusted them completely, never hovered. Savannah? She hovered.
They were shooting a follow-up piece in Charlestown, something about a stalled housing project. Savannah wanted a particular shot of the cranes, “low angle, wide frame, skyline in the background.” Tilly framed it their way anyway, tighter, cleaner, better for the lead.
Savannah noticed. “That’s not the angle I asked for.”
Tilly didn’t look up from the viewfinder. “It’s the one that works.”
Savannah stepped closer, voice even but cold. “For who?”
Tilly pressed record. “The viewer.”
Savannah exhaled, visibly reining herself in. “It’s my story, Franklin. My call.”
Tilly finally lowered the camera. “No,” they said, calm but sharp. “It’s our story.”
The words landed heavier than either of them expected. For a second, Savannah looked like she might argue, but the wind whipped her hair across her face, breaking the tension. She turned away, adjusting her jacket, her voice clipped when she spoke again. “Fine. Just get it steady.”
Tilly did. The lens stayed trained on the site, steady as their heartbeat, even as Savannah’s reflection flickered in the viewfinder — impatient, frustrated, and something else they couldn’t quite name.
The last of the daylight had started to drain from the sky, washing Charlestown in gray.
Traffic hummed on the bridge above, and the skeletal outline of the construction site glowed orange under a single security light.
Tilly adjusted their frame, tracking a gust of wind that sent a loose tarp snapping across the fencing.
They were just about to call it when a pickup truck turned down the service road and rolled toward the site entrance. The door read Dalton Development Group.
Savannah’s eyes lit up. “That’s them.”
“Yeah,” Tilly said slowly, “and we’re done.”
Savannah was already moving. “Not if they’re here.”
Tilly followed with the camera, swearing under their breath as she approached the truck. A man in a high-vis jacket climbed out, frowning when he saw her mic. Savannah was already mid-question.
“Are you with Dalton Development? Can you comment on the work stoppage?”
The man froze, hand on his door. “You can’t be here.”
Savannah’s smile didn’t budge. “You’ve got millions in city funding on hold. The neighborhood wants answers.”
He shook his head and started back into the truck. “No comment.”
“Then say that on record,” Savannah pressed, taking a half step closer.
Tilly winced through the lens. They kept rolling because instinct said never stop rolling, but they could feel the heat crawling up their neck. It wasn’t that Savannah was wrong — it was that she didn’t know when to stop.
The man finally muttered something about legal review and drove off, leaving a spray of gravel and Savannah standing in the exhaust cloud, mic still raised.
Tilly lowered the camera. “You’re out of your mind.”
Savannah turned, still catching her breath. “We just got our kicker.”
Tilly blinked. “We almost got trespassed.”
“Almost,” Savannah said, smiling. “Big difference.”
They didn’t talk on the drive back.
* * *
The newsroom had thinned out by the time they got back.
The ten o’clock rundown still glowed on the assignment board, and the hum of the edit bays filled the otherwise quiet space.
Tilly led the way, footage card in hand, saying nothing.
Savannah trailed a few steps behind, the soft click of her heels the only sound between them.
Inside the booth, the light from the monitors threw both of them into shades of blue. Tilly slid the card into the reader and queued up the raw footage.
Savannah leaned against the back wall, arms crossed. “You’re not still mad, are you?”
Tilly didn’t answer. They scrubbed through the timeline, finding the moment she’d chased down the developer. The wind was loud, the mic slightly overblown, but her voice cut clean through the chaos.
“—the neighborhood wants answers.”
The line landed harder than Tilly expected. They hit play again.
Savannah stepped closer, eyes on the screen. “It works.”
“It’s aggressive,” Tilly said, but their tone had softened.
“It’s honest.”
They replayed it a third time, slower now, their editor’s eye catching details: the sharpness in her voice, the framing they’d instinctively followed even while cursing under their breath, the faint smear of dust that crossed the lens when the truck pulled away. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did.
Savannah moved to stand beside them. “You can cut it right there,” she said quietly. “Let the silence hang before the tag.”
Tilly did as she suggested, trimming the clip down to her cue. The audio dipped into wind for a heartbeat before her closing line rolled in. The sequence landed clean. Too clean.
They sat back in the chair, exhaling. “It shouldn’t be this good.”
Savannah smiled, satisfied. “That’s what happens when you stop playing it safe.”
Tilly turned toward her, ready to argue, but stopped when they saw the look on her face, not smug, exactly. Just certain.
“You’re reckless,” they said.
“You’re cautious.”
“Someone has to be.”
“Maybe,” Savannah said. “But not all the time.”
They held each other’s gaze for a moment too long. Then Tilly cleared their throat and turned back to the monitor. “I’ll color correct this for the ten.”
Savannah lingered a beat before heading for the door. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Tilly waited until she was gone before hitting play one last time. The clip rolled in silence, her voice sharp, alive, undeniable.
They hated that she was right. Hated more that, for the first time in a while, the story felt alive too. And that it was Savannah Wells who’d brought it back to life.