Five
Tilly had spent the morning pretending not to hear Savannah’s name echo around the newsroom. Everyone was still talking about her housing story, the clicks, the shares, the line she delivered that had half the city cheering and the other half squirming.
Tilly didn’t join in. They had work to do, cables to coil, batteries to check, and if they focused hard enough, maybe they could tune out the laughter spilling from the edit bays.
By the time lunch rolled around, they dropped their tray across from Jamie in the breakroom, the plastic rattling loud enough to spill half the fries.
Jamie didn’t even flinch. “So, I’m guessing it’s not the food.”
Tilly glared at their fries like they had done something wrong. “She’s unbearable.”
Jamie glanced up, fork hovering over her salad. “Savannah?”
“Who else? She struts around like she reinvented journalism because one clip went viral. She’s been here less than a week, and suddenly we’re all her production assistants.”
Jamie leaned her chin on her hand, half-smiling. “You two didn’t exactly start off easy.”
“She doesn’t trust anyone to do their job,” Tilly said, stabbing a fry. “Micromanages every frame. She told me to keep it tight during the stand-up. Like I’ve never shot a package before.”
“Maybe she just wanted a different angle.”
“She wanted her angle. There’s a difference.”
Jamie set her fork down. “She’s new, Til. Probably trying too hard. You were like that when I met you.”
Tilly looked up. “I was not.”
Jamie raised a brow. “You practically wrestled the tripod out of my hands because you thought I was framing too wide.”
“That’s because you were framing too wide.”
Jamie laughed. “My point stands.”
Tilly sighed, pushing food around the tray. “She’s just loud. All the time. She talks like she’s already got the piece cut in her head, and the rest of us are there to catch up.”
“Confidence bothers you,” Jamie said.
“No. Arrogance bothers me.”
Jamie tilted her head, studying them the way she did when she was about to make a point. “You don’t hate her. You hate that she’s right sometimes.”
Tilly froze mid-chew. “Excuse me?”
“She’s good,” Jamie said simply. “You know she’s good. It’s messing with your sense of order.”
“I do not have a sense of order.”
Jamie grinned. “You color-code your SD cards. You labeled my batteries with smiley faces so I’d remember which ones were charged.”
“That’s efficiency.”
“That’s obsessive.”
Tilly threw a fry at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side,” Jamie said, laughing. “But I’ve also seen you lose a full hour of your life reorganizing the gear closet because someone put a light stand in the wrong slot.”
“That was Harper’s fault, and it was chaos in there.”
“See?” Jamie said, still smiling. “Order.”
Tilly leaned back, arms crossed. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe a little.”
They sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the kind that came easy after months of working side by side, after long drives and rain-soaked live shots and cold coffees shared in parking lots.
Jamie pulled up a new rundown on her tablet while Tilly picked at the fries they swore they didn’t want.
Tilly nudged the carton closer without looking. Jamie took one automatically, like it had been offered aloud. She didn’t say thank you. Tilly didn’t comment. They’d stopped narrating those small kindnesses a long time ago.
Jamie scrolled, pausing when she hit a segment note that didn’t sit right. She tilted the tablet just enough in Tilly’s direction. They leaned in, scanned it once, and made a quiet sound of agreement. That was enough. It always was.
Finally, Jamie said, “You’ll figure her out. You always do.”
“Not sure I want to,” Tilly muttered.
Jamie smiled without looking up. “You already are.”
* * *
That evening, the city felt like it had finally given in to winter.
December cold had teeth: dry air that burned in their throat when they spoke, and turned every exhale into fog under the streetlights. The pavement shone with frost where the rain had frozen thin, and each passing car sent a shimmer of white across the road.
They were parked outside a stretch of older apartment buildings in Dorchester, the kind with stoops that had seen a hundred winters. The story was about tenants still living without heat after a string of broken boilers and city code complaints that had gone unanswered.
The lights inside the buildings flickered unevenly. A window near the top floor was cracked open, a towel stuffed in the gap for insulation. Somewhere down the block, a baby cried, and somewhere else, a dog barked. It was the kind of neighborhood where everyone just endured.
Tilly pulled the tripod from the van, the metal legs biting at their hands through the gloves. Their breath came out in uneven bursts, fogging up the camera’s eyepiece when they leaned in too close. Savannah stood a few yards away, flipping through her notes beneath a halo of cold light.
She had layered up in a long coat, scarf tucked neatly, but she still looked composed and professional, like the weather didn’t touch her. Her breath fogged steadily and even, the same rhythm as the words she murmured under her breath while rehearsing.
Tilly adjusted the focus ring, the motion automatic. The lens clicked faintly in the quiet. Usually, they liked that sound. It meant control, precision, purpose. Tonight, it only reminded them of how aware they were of her.
“You good on framing?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” Tilly said. It came out clipped, their voice scratchy from the cold.
Savannah stepped into the light. The camera caught her in profile first, breath fogging, eyes locked on her notes, and then head-on, the perfect grid. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her hair just barely catching the streetlight.
Tilly zoomed in to adjust focus, pretending it was for exposure. They tried not to notice how her breath hung in the air between takes, how it drifted and disappeared.
Jamie’s voice from lunch came back uninvited, clear as if she were standing beside them.
You don’t hate her. You hate that she’s right sometimes.
Tilly swallowed. They’d learned a long time ago that admiration was a slippery thing when work brushed up too close to personal. It started with trusting someone’s instincts. Letting schedules overlap. Letting conversations stretch past the job because it felt harmless.
It hadn’t been.
They thought of Erin Calhoun — of how easy it had been to blur lines when their worlds touched just enough to feel safe. Different buildings. Different roles. The same hours, the same late nights, the same understanding of what the job took.
And how careful everything had become after she stepped back. The rewritten emails. The rerouted calls. The quiet math of making sure paths didn’t cross unless they had to.
Tilly’s jaw tightened. “Not true,” they muttered under their breath.
“What?” Savannah asked, glancing up.
“Nothing. You’re good. Whenever you’re ready.”
Savannah nodded, lifted her mic, and gave a quick countdown. “Rolling in three, two.”
They hit record.
Her voice came through the mic low and steady, words sharp enough to slice the night air.
“Residents here on Milton Street say they’ve gone more than two weeks without reliable heat, despite multiple complaints filed with the city’s housing department.
The property management company promised repairs last month, but tonight, as temperatures drop below freezing again, tenants tell us they’re still waiting. ”
Behind her, the camera caught the faint glow of apartment windows and the rising fog from vents along the curb. Savannah held eye contact with the lens just long enough to make the silence that followed hit harder.
She didn’t stumble once.
Through the viewfinder, her breath kept rhythm with her lines. Speak. Exhale. Vanish.
When she finished, Savannah turned toward them, a small smile ghosting across her face. “That one felt better.”
Tilly nodded. “It was clean.”
“Thanks.”
The word lingered. Not warm, not cold, just enough to make Tilly’s pulse catch.
They busied themself with coiling cords, keeping their gloves on even though it made the knots sloppy. Anything to avoid looking up. Savannah gathered her things, calm and deliberate, the sound of her boots crunching over a thin layer of salt dusting the sidewalk.
The van heater sputtered weakly on the way back to the station. Savannah’s phone glowed in her hands, lighting her face in soft flashes of blue. Outside, Christmas lights blurred together in passing storefronts, the whole city pretending warmth.
Tilly caught their reflection in the window, tired eyes, tense jaw, and looked away.
Jamie’s voice surfaced again, teasing, amused. You don’t hate her.
They told themself the staring meant nothing. Just looking for a fault.