Fifteen
The wind was angry.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Angry.
By the time Tilly finished loading the live truck, the parking lot no longer had edges. Snow blurred everything into one white smear, and the gusts hit hard enough to make the truck sway on its tires. Their gloves were soaked straight through, fingers stiff and useless inside the wet fabric.
Inside the station, the chaos was worse.
Producers shouted over each other. Meteorologists ran updated models from screen to screen. The assignment board looked like it had been attacked by a marker-wielding toddler. Everyone was moving fast enough to blur — except for Savannah, who was still assigned to Andrew.
She stood beside him at the planning table, flipping through notes about warming shelters. Her scarf was still looped around her neck like she hadn’t decided whether the newsroom was safe from the cold.
Tilly didn’t look at her.
They just… knew she was there.
Henry burst out of his office again, practically vibrating with stress. “Alright, Andrew’s route is blocked. That package isn’t happening. Savannah—”
Tilly felt the shift before the name even finished leaving Henry’s mouth.
Here it comes.
“You’re pulled,” Henry said. “We need another storm team, and you’re it.”
Andrew threw up his hands. “Have fun.”
Savannah blinked once, absorbing the new assignment, but Tilly didn’t look long enough to see more than that single blink.
Henry scanned the room. “Who’s prepped and loaded? Who can still get out before the roads close?”
Tilly already knew the answer.
“You,” Henry said, pointing. “Savannah with Tilly. Out the door in five.”
A quiet click went off in Tilly’s chest.
Not surprise.
Not dread.
Just a shift — like settling into a track they’d been circling for hours.
They turned toward the back hallway. “Truck’s ready.”
Savannah followed.
Tilly didn’t check if she struggled to keep up.
They didn’t need to.
They felt it.
The moment the exit door opened, the storm slammed into them hard enough to bend Tilly’s knees. Snow blasted into their face, searing cold hitting every inch of exposed skin.
Savannah stumbled with the force of it. Tilly reached out automatically and caught her elbow.
She steadied fast. “I’m good,” she yelled over the wind.
Tilly let go. “Watch your footing.”
They crossed the lot in heavy steps, the wind pushing and pulling at them like it was trying to rearrange their path. Savannah stayed close behind, not touching them, but close enough that Tilly could hear her breath when the gusts dipped.
She was breathing fast.
But steady.
Focused.
Tilly didn’t look back.
They set up at the edge of the lot — the place the assignment desk wanted for the first hit. Tilly jammed the tripod legs into a mound of snow, but their fingers weren’t bending right, and the latch slipped twice.
Savannah stepped in. “Let me clip the mic pack.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Your hands look like they’re about to fall off.”
“They’re fine,” Tilly muttered.
A gust hit Tilly square in the side, sending snow down their collar. The curse that slipped out wasn’t entirely quiet.
Savannah didn’t say anything smug. She just took the pack from their hand. “Let me help.”
Tilly let her.
She clipped the pack on cleanly and stepped back — only for her scarf to whip up and smack her across the face.
“Seriously?” she muttered, fighting it.
The scarf tangled itself in her hair, snapping against her cheek with every gust. She pulled at it, frustrated, but the wind had other plans.
“Hold still,” Tilly said.
They reached out, brushing the fabric down and untangling it from her hair. Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes, melting into droplets that tracked down her cheek.
Tilly’s glove skimmed her jaw.
Just for a second.
But the second landed.
Savannah went still.
The storm howled.
Someone’s live shot echoed from the IFB.
The wind stung Tilly’s face.
Everything moved — except her.
And Tilly felt the moment hit like a warm pulse under cold skin.
They pulled their hand back fast. “Your scarf was messing with the frame.”
“Right,” she said, barely audible over the wind.
The line crackled in her ear. “Savannah, you’re up in twenty.”
Tilly stepped behind the camera, grateful for the barrier of the viewfinder. Their hands shook as they adjusted focus, but the image held sharp. Snow swirled around Savannah in violent eddies, her hood half down, her mic steady, her eyes locked on the script in her head.
She looked… composed.
Stormproof.
Stronger than anyone had any right to be in weather like this.
“Ten seconds,” Tilly said.
Savannah planted her boots, squared her shoulders, and pulled the mic closer to her mouth. Snow clung to her hood and lashes, swirling around her like static. She blinked once. Twice. Then she locked in, eyes sharp.
The tally light flipped red.
Savannah transformed as if someone had flipped a switch.
“This is Savannah Wells reporting live from South Boston,” she began, voice steady despite the wind trying to rip the sound away. “Conditions are rapidly deteriorating as this blizzard continues to move through the area.”
A gust slammed into them from the left, shaking the tripod. Tilly steadied it with one hand, the leg of the camera digging into their wrist through the soaked glove.
Savannah braced, leaning into the storm without missing a beat.
“Visibility is dropping by the minute,” she continued.
Snowflakes stuck to her lips, her breath coming out in uneven bursts she tried to control.
“The National Weather Service has now issued a full blizzard warning for Suffolk County, and officials are urging residents to stay off the roads if at all possible.”
Her scarf whipped up again.
Tilly moved without thinking, reaching out to pin the bottom edge of it down with a gloved hand just out of frame. Savannah’s eyes flicked to them for half a heartbeat — a shock of connection — before she snapped back to the camera.
She didn’t flinch.
She didn’t break.
She just kept going.
“We’re hearing reports of multiple accidents on I-ninety-three,” she said, raising her voice as the wind howled even louder, “including jackknifed semis and several stalled vehicles. Plows are out, but the snowfall rate is increasing so quickly that many roads are becoming impassable shortly after they’re cleared. ”
Another gust hit so hard it shoved Savannah back half a step.
Tilly cursed under their breath and widened the frame slightly, tracking her movement to keep her centered.
Savannah steadied herself, dug her boots into the snow, and raised her mic again. Her cheeks were red, her lashes dripping, her hood half off — but her voice stayed clear.
“This is a fast-moving system, and forecasters say the worst bands of snow are still ahead,” she said, eyes narrowing against the sting of the cold. “Wind gusts like the ones you’re hearing behind me are expected to reach forty to fifty miles per hour over the next few hours.”
A cluster of snow blasted directly across the lens.
Tilly wiped it clean with their sleeve, breath catching from the cold.
Savannah kept talking.
“Officials are encouraging residents to check on elderly neighbors, keep extra layers and blankets on hand, and avoid driving until conditions improve. If you do have to be on the roads, reduce your speed and give plows plenty of space to work.”
Her voice wavered for the first time — not fear, just the cold drilling straight through her lungs. She tightened her grip on the mic.
Tilly found themselves leaning in without meaning to, as if that would help steady her.
But Savannah didn’t need steadying.
“The city has opened warming shelters across multiple neighborhoods,” she said. “We’ll have those locations on our website and app. For now, officials are urging everyone to stay indoors and stay safe.”
She finished the hit with a small breath, fog rolling in front of her face.
“This is Savannah Wells, WDTV News.”
The tally light snapped off.
Savannah lowered the mic immediately, her hand shaking once before she tucked it under her arm.
The storm roared so loud it felt like the world was cracking in half around them.
“You good?” Tilly asked, stepping out from behind the camera.
Savannah nodded, pushing snow off her eyelashes with the back of her wrist. “Yeah. You?”
Tilly didn’t answer because in that moment she shivered — a quick, sharp involuntary tremor — and before they could stop themself, they reached out and brushed snow from the side of her hood.
Her breath hitched again.
Not fear.
Not discomfort.
Just something that lived too close to the edge of awareness.
Neither of them said a word about the moment.
Savannah cleared her throat. “We should… get the next hit prepped.”
“Yeah,” Tilly said, stepping back. “Let’s move.”
Snow swirled between them, thick and cold and relentless.
But something else moved there too.
Something warm.
Something neither of them dared to touch.