Six
Savannah had never liked how the newsroom sounded when it was proud of her.
Compliments overlapped with ringing phones and the clack of keyboards, all of it too bright, too loud. It wasn’t ‘you did well,’ it was ‘let’s see how long you can keep this up.’
She smiled through it anyway, because that was what she did best. Smile, nod, keep moving.
By the time she reached the edit bay, the glow from the Dorchester story had already cooled.
The hum of machines filled the air, screens flickering blue over gray walls.
Tilly was hunched over the monitor, sleeves shoved up past their elbows, tattoos along their forearms catching light as they adjusted the timeline.
Their hair looked freshly trimmed at the sides, the top still messy from the wind outside.
It wasn’t a style Savannah would ever try, but on them it worked. More than it had any right to.
They had a way of staying completely still while they focused—shoulders squared, steady hands, that small furrow between their brows that didn’t go away until they exhaled.
It was precision, not performance, and Savannah found herself watching longer than she meant to.
Long enough to notice details she didn’t need.
A small pulse of heat climbed behind her collar before she straightened her posture.
“You’re already cutting?” she asked.
“Trying to,” they said without looking up. “You wanted it turned by five.”
“I said by five, not at five,” Savannah said, but her tone was softer than she intended. “I just wanted to check levels.”
Tilly shifted aside with a short nod. “Go for it.”
She leaned in to listen, close enough to catch the faint scent of cold air and something sharper she couldn’t place.
She stepped back a second later than she needed to.
The audio from the tenant’s interview was uneven, with static popping on one side. Savannah winced. “That’ll need a filter.”
“Already did that. Twice.”
She blinked. “Right.”
Tilly clicked through another clip, muttering to themself about white balance. Savannah folded her arms. “The stand-up shot needs tightening.”
“It’s framed the way you asked.”
“It’s a little wide.”
Tilly finally looked up. “You said you wanted background context.”
“I did, but the poles in the back look distracting.”
“They’re streetlights. In a street.”
The silence stretched until Savannah sighed. “Can you just zoom in ten percent? It’ll read cleaner.”
They didn’t answer, only adjusted the crop and pressed play. The difference was minor but noticeable. Savannah nodded. “Better.”
Tilly’s jaw worked once, like they were biting back a comment. “Glad it meets your standards.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting.”
“Yes, you are. You have that tone.”
They gave a small, humorless laugh. “What tone?”
“The one that says you’re annoyed I asked for something.”
Tilly turned in the chair, fully facing her now. “You always ask for something.”
“That’s my job.”
“And mine’s to make it work, which I do. But you treat every frame like it’s a test I’m supposed to pass.”
Savannah crossed her arms tighter. “I’m not grading you.”
“Feels like it.”
The air between them thinned, both waiting for the other to blink first. Then Jamie’s laugh echoed faintly from down the hall, a reminder of someone else’s easy rhythm cutting through the tension.
Savannah looked away. “You’re reading too much into it.”
Tilly snorted. “You think?” They stood and brushed past her, muttering something she couldn’t catch.
Savannah stayed where she was for a long time after they left. The computer fans whirred. A piece of gaffer tape stuck to the floor near her boot, curling at the edges. She bent to peel it up, then tossed it in the trash just to have something to do.
People argued in edit bays all the time. It was nothing new. But her chest still felt too tight.
She refilled her coffee, though it had already gone cold twice. Savannah wrapped her hands around the mug like it might warm something in her she couldn’t name. She wasn’t shaken — she refused to be that — but the argument in the edit bay replayed in flashes she couldn’t seem to stop.
Tilly’s face when they looked at her.
Not angry.
Not intimidated.
Just… steady.
Unafraid.
Most people gave her space when she pushed. Back in Providence, some practically tripped over themselves trying not to upset her. Even here, half the newsroom was still treating her like a visiting dignitary they weren’t sure how to talk to yet.
But Tilly?
They’d met her force with their own, matched tone for tone, like they knew exactly what she could handle.
And the worst part was that Savannah liked it—that resistance, that refusal to be impressed. It felt sharper than anything else in the room. Clearer.
Like something she could actually push against.
It dug under her skin in a way she couldn’t quite label.
She pressed her lips to the rim of the mug, letting the heat fog her reading glasses.
She didn’t want to admit it — not even to herself — but she cared what Tilly thought.
More than she should have. More than made sense.
She didn’t even know them. Not really. But something about today had hit too close, cracked a seam she’d been patching since Providence.
She tightened her grip on the mug and told herself to get over it.
Around her, the newsroom was moving on—producers shouting timecodes, the police scanner murmuring about a fender bender on I-93, phones ringing without urgency.
She caught sight of Tilly across the floor, looping cables into neat coils and dropping them into the equipment bag with more force than necessary.
Jamie passed by, tossing them a teasing comment that Savannah couldn’t hear.
Tilly smiled—barely—but it softened the lines of their face, and something in Savannah eased just a fraction.
She didn’t realize she’d been holding tension there until it let go.
She told herself she didn’t care whether they were still irritated.
That wasn’t her problem. But she found her gaze drifting back anyway, tracing the shape of their focus, the faint set of their shoulders.
When she caught herself, she forced her attention to her notes. Twice.
By late afternoon, the adrenaline of the day had burned off, leaving behind that strange, weightless fatigue that always hit after a good story aired.
The newsroom dimmed to a steady hum. Computer screens glowed in quiet blues, broken only by the flicker of a monitor someone had forgotten to turn off.
* * *
“Hey, why’d the B-roll from Milton Street come in short? We’re missing that vent shot.”
Hardy’s voice came from the producers’ corner, cutting through the lull. Savannah didn’t even think before answering. The words left her mouth before the reason did.
“That was me. I told Tilly not to use it. The focus was soft.”
The producer barely looked up from his notes. “Alright, thanks.”
Across the room, Tilly’s head lifted. They froze for a second, surprise flashing across their face.
Savannah didn’t hold the glance long—just long enough to know they’d seen it.
Long enough for her chest to tighten in that strange mix of guilt and satisfaction.
Like she’d shifted something between them, even if only slightly.
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.