Two
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 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 jacket was 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 said if 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.”
The word landed differently than it should have.
“Just don’t fight the edit,” they added, almost like advice.
It wasn’t the compliment. It was the way they said it. Easy. Certain.
She nodded once, sharper than she meant to. “I never do.”
They both knew that was a lie.
She should have felt satisfied. The standup was clean, the soundbites solid. But the whole thing still felt off, like a song played just slightly out of tune.
She’d spent her whole life trying to control the variables.
As a child, controlling things meant keeping Alana fed and safe while Dad worked doubles.
As an adult, it meant keeping her stories tight and her relationships distant.
Tilly was a variable she couldn’t control.
That terrified her. Not entirely for the reasons it should have.
* * *
In the car on the way back to the station, they stopped to fill up the rig. While Tilly was pumping gas, Savannah pulled up her notes app and began a new one labeled ‘Tilly Franklin.’
Under it, she typed:
precise, maybe too much
likes control
doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary
probably edits in silence
not impressed by charm
She stared at the list for a second, thumb hovering over the screen, then added one more line.
problem
…and not for the reason she’d tell anyone else.
It was a stupid habit — logging her first impressions like she was still twenty-two and terrified of disappointing every person above her on the masthead.
Providence had drilled that into her. One bad story, one shaky live shot, one mistake in the field, and suddenly the whispers started: maybe she’s not ready, maybe she peaked early, maybe she only got the job because someone vouched for her.
Boston was worse. Bigger market, bigger ego. There were a dozen people in this newsroom who would kill for a permanent nightside spot. If she messed up in front of Tilly — one of the best shooters here, someone people actually listened to — it wouldn’t just be embarrassing. It would be ammunition.
She swallowed hard, her thumb hovering over the screen.
It wasn’t that she wanted Tilly to like her.
It was that she couldn’t afford for them not to.
She’d learned that at ten — make yourself useful, make yourself needed, earn your place. At twenty-nine, she still couldn’t work any other way.
Savannah closed the Notes app, but her phone didn’t dim fast enough to hide the notification banner that popped up at the top of the screen.
Missed call — Alana.
Then:
Hope Boston’s treating you okay. Call when you can.
Her stomach tightened.
Alana didn’t call to check in. She called when she felt something was off, when Savannah sounded a little too put together, a little too careful. Providence had been safe, but small. Boston was louder, sharper, and Savannah hadn’t figured out yet how much of herself she was allowed to show here.
She deleted her sister’s voicemail without opening it.
Through the rig’s window, she caught her reflection in the glass: hair neat, makeup sharp, posture straight. Exactly the version of herself people expected. Exactly the version she couldn’t afford to let crack.
Tilly climbed back into the driver’s seat, brushing the cold from their jacket. Savannah dropped her phone into her lap a little too fast.
Tilly noticed. “What’s that look for? I catch you texting your secret lover or something?”
Savannah blinked. “What? No. Notes.”
“Work notes?”
“Yeah,” she said, forcing it to sound casual. “I like to keep track of what I can tighten next time.”
Tilly started the engine. “You mean tonight.”
Savannah turned toward them. “Is that a critique?”
“Observation.”
“Right,” she said. “Because I’m sure my pacing offended your artistic sensibilities.”
That earned the faintest smirk. “You said it, not me.”
The expression was quick, almost gone as soon as it appeared.
Savannah noticed anyway.
Which was… new.
The heater kicked on with a soft hum as they merged onto the main road. Outside, the city lights slid past in blurred reflections across the windshield. Savannah stared straight ahead, pretending not to think about the phone burning in her lap.
She told herself it was just another note. Another name in a long list of coworkers she’d learned how to win over. Nothing new. Nothing complicated.
She didn’t believe it.
The newsroom was louder when they got back, a ripple of energy rolling through the desks the way it always did before the ten o’clock. Savannah headed for her workspace, but two producers near the printer were whispering just loud enough for the words to carry.
“I’m telling you, Aimee’s watching the new girl like a hawk.”
“Of course she is. We don’t need another transfer who flames out in three months.”
“She came from Providence, right?”
“Yeah. Big talk, small market. We’ll see.”
Savannah kept her expression flat, set her bag on her desk, and pretended she didn’t hear a word. She’d joined enough newsrooms to know no one meant harm — not really. But they were watching. Measuring. Waiting to see if she belonged here.
Across the room, Aimee stepped out of her glass office, scanning the bullpen with the cool efficiency of someone who missed nothing. Savannah straightened automatically, defaulting to camera-ready.
Aimee didn’t look her way. She didn’t need to.
Savannah tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, lifted her chin a fraction, and sat down like the room wasn’t humming with judgment.
She’d prove herself. She always did.
But God — she hated the part where everyone waited to see if she would.