Thirty Four
Savannah had never seen the newsroom look so tired.
Even the Christmas decorations seemed exhausted. A sagging string of colored lights blinked around the assignment desk, one bulb stubbornly dark in the middle. Someone had taped a paper snowflake to a monitor and forgotten about it. The smell of coffee and cheap peppermint creamer hung in the air.
Two days before Christmas, and nightside felt half empty.
She counted three missing jackets from the chairs around the desk. A couple of reporters were already on vacation. A producer had taken the week off. Graphics worked with their headphones on, clicking through lower thirds like they were half-asleep.
Sav shrugged off her coat and draped it over her chair, fingers lingering just long enough to register the leftover cold in the fabric. Nightside in December always felt like stepping through a portal into a different season.
Harper appeared at her elbow, a red scarf wrapped around her neck — something she’d definitely insist wasn’t festive even though it had tiny candy canes on it.
“You look less like a ghost today,” Harper said. “Proud of you.”
Sav raised an eyebrow. “That’s the nicest thing anyone at this station has ever said to me.”
“It’s not,” Harper said. “I once told you your blizzard standup made me believe in local news again.”
“You also said I looked like a half-defrosted raccoon.”
“Both can be true.”
Sav huffed something that almost counted as a laugh. Harper’s eyebrows inched up like she was cataloging the sound for later analysis.
“So,” Harper said. “Are we surviving the week?”
Sav’s gaze flicked — without permission — toward the hall that led to the gear room. Empty for now. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“Yeah,” she said. “So far.”
It had been almost a week since things shifted between her and Tilly again.
Since that strange, brittle silence in the truck had been replaced with something more bearable.
They still weren’t what they had been before the hotel — no late-night texts, no lingering touches, no charged pauses that felt like they might tilt into something more.
But they talked.
They worked.
They stood at the same cart without holding their breath.
It wasn’t what she secretly wanted. But it wasn’t the coldness, either.
Harper followed her glance and hummed knowingly. “You two seem normal again.”
Sav pushed her hair behind her ear. “We’re fine.”
“Sure,” Harper said, voice too light to be neutral. But she let it go. “Henry says meeting in two.”
“Thrilling,” Sav muttered. “Can’t wait to see what heartwarming holiday content we’re pushing tonight.”
“Ten bucks, it’s last-minute shopping.”
Sav lifted her pen like a toast. “I won’t take that bet.”
They joined the small circle forming around the assignment desk. Henry stood in the center with a rundown in one hand and a half-drunk coffee in the other. The colored lights flickered above him.
“Alright, folks,” Henry said, clapping once. “We’re on skeleton crew tonight, so let’s not make me regret showing up.”
Harper raised her hand before he even finished listing assignments. “Please let me interview panicked shoppers. I need this.”
“That tracks,” Henry said. “Fine. Harper and Andrew on the mall crush.”
He shifted his focus. “Wells, want the toy drive at Engine Three?”
Sav nodded. “Yeah.”
“Tilly?” Henry called toward the gear room.
Sav felt her pulse jump as Tilly stepped into view, camera strap already across their chest. “Yeah?”
“Toy drive with Wells,” Henry said. “Kids, Santa, firefighters, the usual. Package for the ten.”
“Got it,” Tilly said.
Assignments wrapped fast — half the staff wasn’t even there — and the circle dissolved.
Harper passed Sav with a nudge. “Toy drive’s a good one. Fewer stampedes.”
“Improvement,” Sav agreed.
She grabbed her notepad and headed toward the gear room. Tilly rolled the cart out at the same time, and the tripod balanced neatly on top.
“Hey,” Sav said.
“Hey,” they echoed.
Simple. Steady. Something inside her loosened.
“You ever been to Engine Three at Christmas?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Tilly said. “Last year. They go all out — giant wreaths, hot chocolate, firefighters in sweaters like they’re auditioning for a calendar.”
Sav snorted. “Holiday thirst content.”
“Viewers love a festive bicep,” Tilly said with a shrug.
The joke was small but real. Warm enough to thaw a thin stretch of air between them.
Outside, the cold cut sharper. The sky had that heavy, holding-its-breath look that usually meant snow was waiting somewhere above the clouds.
They loaded the truck together. Sav passed Tilly the mic kit and a spare battery. Tilly secured everything with sure movements.
“Got everything?” Sav asked.
“Think so,” Tilly said. “Or we fake it.”
She climbed into the passenger seat. The heater sputtered out a weak breath of warm-ish air.
“You good?” they asked.
Sav nodded. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
They drove in a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable — just present. The radio murmured a soft Christmas song. Holiday lights blinked along apartment balconies. A half-deflated snowman leaned forward on a stoop like it was giving up on the season.
After a few minutes, Tilly spoke.
“You heading to see your family after tomorrow?”
Sav stared at the lights flickering over the river as they crossed the bridge.
“No,” she said.
Tilly’s head tilted. “No?”
She could’ve stopped there. Kissed the surface of the truth. But something in their voice — steady, not prying — nudged her forward.
“I’m staying here this year,” Sav said. “I told my parents I wasn’t driving home.”
Tilly didn’t fill the silence. They waited.
“It just didn’t feel right,” Sav continued. “The drive, the questions. The whole ‘How’s Boston?’ thing. The ‘Are you eating enough?’ thing. The ‘Met anyone?’ thing.”
Heat rose in her neck. She hoped the low light hid it.
“Sounds exhausting,” Tilly murmured.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to explain it,” they said. “Staying in town’s not a bad thing.”
“I know.” She twisted a loose thread on her glove. “It just felt… like I was breaking some rule.”
Tilly let out a breath through their nose. “Then it’s a stupid rule.”
She smiled despite herself. “My mom did sound disappointed.”
“Disappointed’s not the same as wrong,” they said softly. “You’re allowed to do what you need. Even at Christmas.”
Sav stared at the blurred reflection of lights on the windshield. “Thanks.”
“What about you?” she asked quickly.
“I’m heading to my mom’s place.” They added. “Should be good.”
“Sounds fun,” she offered gently.
“It has too many scented candles,” they said. “So, sure.”
Sav bit back a grin. “Your mom is already sending centerpiece photos?”
“She sent a picture of something she called a ‘tablescape.’ There are layers involved.”
“You have to send me that,” Sav said.
“You want photographic evidence?”
“For public record.”
Tilly smiled — a real one, quick and soft. “I’ll keep you updated. There are napkin rings that light up.”
“Oh, I need those pictures.”
“You’ll get the full report.”
Her chest warmed in a slow, unfamiliar way.
They pulled up to Engine Three. Giant wreaths hung from the bay doors. Children in puffy coats clustered near boxes of wrapped toys. A firefighter in a Santa hat waved them in.
Sav inhaled the warm air spilling from inside — hot chocolate, sugar cookies, cinnamon.
“This is kind of cute,” she said.
“Low chaos,” Tilly agreed. “High adorableness.”
They got to work. Sav interviewed the captain, crouched down to talk to kids, handed over toys, and watched a toddler wobble in snow boots twice the right size.
Tilly captured everything with practiced ease, ducking and weaving through the crowd, angling shots to catch the way Christmas lights glowed off helmets and shiny ornaments.
At one point, Sav caught them smiling behind the camera.
It hit her somewhere soft.
They wrapped just as the sky deepened into a winter blue. They packed up the truck without hurry, moving in a gentle rhythm.
“This was nicer than gas mains,” Sav said as she clipped the mic back into its case.
“Yeah,” Tilly said. “I’ll take toys over broken pipes any day.”
They climbed into the cab. The heater worked a little better this time.
“What time are you going over tomorrow?” Sav asked.
“Right after the show,” they said. “My mom has a whole schedule. I’ve been warned not to disrupt the cookie timeline.”
Sav laughed. “A sacred tradition.”
“Oh, she’s serious,” Tilly said. “There are spreadsheets.”
“Terrifying.”
“She’s unstoppable.”
Sav hesitated. “You gonna be there all day?”
“Pretty much,” Tilly said. “They’ll feed me until I can’t move, then send me home so I’m not useless for the twenty-sixth.”
“So I get you back for the post-holiday slump,” she said.
“Look at that,” Tilly said lightly. “A gift.”
She smiled down at her hands. “If you want… You can text me. While you’re there. For the bit. Sweater evidence. Tablescape proof.”
Tilly’s eyes flickered toward her, warm. “Yeah,” they said. “I can do that.”
Her chest tightened in a way that wasn’t painful — not exactly.
They drove the rest of the way in a quiet that felt like something thawing. Back at the station, they carried in gear together. The newsroom looked even emptier now, lights turned off across half the floor.
At the gear cart, Sav lingered.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Yeah?”
“I hope you have a good time. With your family. With the sweater. And the bells. And the napkin rings.”
Tilly’s mouth quirked — a half-smile they didn’t bother hiding.
“…do you want to come?”
Sav’s heart stumbled.
“What?” she asked, quiet, not startled — just caught.
Tilly’s fingers tapped once on the edge of the cart, the only sign they’d surprised themself. Their voice stayed even. Too even.
“Tomorrow. Or Christmas Day. If you’re not going home. You can come by. It’s just food and too many candles and my mom forcing everyone into sweaters. Nothing dramatic.”
Sav blinked at them, warmth rising in her chest so fast she almost couldn’t breathe.
“Tilly…” she said, softer than she meant it to be.
“It doesn’t have to be a thing,” they added quickly. “I just… didn’t want you spending the whole day alone.”
Her throat felt tight. Not painful. Just full.
“That’s… really sweet,” she managed. “But I don’t want to crash your family stuff.”
“You wouldn’t be crashing,” Tilly said, and something in their voice — small and earnest — made her pulse jump. “They always make too much food anyway.”
Sav smiled helplessly. “Let me think about it?”
“Yeah,” Tilly said. “Of course.”
The invitation hung between them. Fragile. Warm. Real.
Sav swallowed once. “I’ll, um… see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Tilly said. “See you tomorrow.”
She walked toward her desk with her heart beating a little too loud, a little too fast.
Behind her, Tilly watched her go, the faintest hint of something hopeful tugging at their expression — like they weren’t sure what they’d just done, but they didn’t regret it.
And for the first time in weeks, Savannah didn’t feel like Christmas meant choosing between loneliness and pretending.
For the first time, she felt like she had options.
Like maybe she wasn’t as alone as she thought.