Seven
Tilly almost said no.
Jamie caught them on the way out of the station with her coat half-buttoned and that look that meant don’t argue.
It was Thursday night, the kind that smelled like coffee grounds and deadlines.
Tilly had every intention of going home, eating leftover lo mein, and not thinking about Savannah Wells for at least one evening.
“Come with me to Erin’s,” Jamie said. “She’s making actual food, and Leo misses you.”
Tilly tried for a flat “I’m fine,” but Jamie was already texting. The choices were to go or get badgered all night by follow-ups about self-care.
Erin’s building sat near the river, one of those narrow brick walk-ups with a balcony that fit a single chair and some wind chimes.
The hallway smelled faintly of detergent and basil.
Inside, the apartment was all warmth and low light.
A lamp glowed near the couch; fairy lights strung along the balcony door reflected on the hardwood.
It looked lived-in but precise. Even Leo’s toys were stacked in a woven basket near the sofa.
A framed photo of a marathon finish line hung beside a few plants that had clearly been watered this week.
It was the kind of space that belonged to someone who knew how to maintain things—someone who didn’t let anything fall apart.
Someone exactly like Erin. Savannah probably lived somewhere like that, tidy and curated.
Tilly hated that the thought even occurred.
The oven was on; something was roasting inside, filling the air with garlic and rosemary. Leo bounded across the floor the second the door opened, nails skidding on the wood.
“Hey, man,” Tilly said, crouching to rub behind his ears. “Still my favorite person in this city.”
From the kitchen, Jamie called, “He’s not a person. Also, he licks everything.”
“That’s what makes him better company,” Tilly said.
Erin turned from the stove, hair pulled into a loose knot, wearing a faded BPD charity-run sweatshirt. “I didn’t know we were having company.”
Jamie shrugged out of her coat. “You love company. And Tilly needs something that isn’t shelf-stable.”
Erin smirked. “Wine’s on the counter.”
Dinner started calmly. Pasta, roasted vegetables, garlic bread, and a bottle of red opened without ceremony.
Leo parked himself beneath the table, nose inches from Jamie’s knee.
The conversation moved easily at first—stories from the newsroom, Erin’s run-ins with a new precinct captain, Leo’s ongoing war with the mailman.
Tilly listened, picking at bread crusts, letting the tension ease out of their shoulders.
It was domestic in a way they never quite trusted themselves to relax into.
They tried to stay quiet, but newsroom talk was muscle memory. And newsroom talk meant Savannah.
“She’s already got a nickname,” Tilly said before realizing it. “Harper started calling her Saint Savannah after the housing piece. Like she personally solved the crisis.”
Jamie’s eyes lit up. “Saint Savannah? That’s catchy.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Tilly said. “She’s been here five minutes.”
Erin glanced over. “She’s the new reporter you’ve been paired with?”
“Unfortunately.” Tilly took a long drink of water. “She works like she’s the only one who knows how.”
Jamie smiled into her glass. “I seem to recall someone else who used to say that about me.”
“That was different,” Tilly said. “You weren’t wrong and loud about it.”
Jamie laughed. Erin hid hers behind a sip of wine. Leo sighed dramatically under the table.
They’d barely moved to second helpings when Savannah’s name slipped out again. “She—uh—Wells. She blew another stand-up this morning. Wind caught her hair, made it look like a shampoo commercial.”
Jamie’s grin was instant. “You’ve been paying a lot of attention to her hair.”
Tilly frowned. “I was behind the camera. That’s literally my job.”
“Sure,” Jamie said. “Your job.”
Tilly knew they should shut up, but something about Savannah made their skin buzz — not attraction, not exactly. Just… awareness.
Erin tilted her head. “You’ve mentioned her a few times now.”
“I’m venting,” Tilly said quickly. “She’s… she’s just—”
“Hot?” Jamie offered.
“Annoying.” Tilly countered.
“Confident?” Jamie shot back.
“Overconfident.” Tilly rolled their eyes.
“Talented?” Erin offered.
Tilly hesitated. “Lucky.”
Jamie nearly choked on her wine. “You hate that she’s good.”
“I don’t hate that she’s good,” Tilly said. “I hate that she knows she’s good. She talks with her hands, like she’s conducting an orchestra. Knows exactly where the frame ends. And she does this little half-smile when she gets a line right—like she’s congratulating herself in real time.”
Jamie and Erin exchanged a look that said everything.
“What?” Tilly said. “I’m observant.”
Erin set her glass down, voice mild but sharp around the edges. “Dude, you sound a lot like someone who’s got a crush they don’t want to admit.”
Jamie folded over the table, laughing. “Oh my god, Erin.”
Tilly froze. “A crush? No. Absolutely not. She’s impossible.”
Leo barked once, perfectly timed.
“See?” Erin said. “Dog agrees.”
Jamie wiped her eyes. “It’s killing me. You’re completely gone.”
“I’m not gone,” Tilly said, heat creeping up their neck. “She’s everywhere. She’s trending. She’s in promos. Her voice is stuck in my head.”
Jamie smirked. “Uh-huh.”
“I mean it. She drives me insane.”
“That’s step one,” Jamie said.
Erin smiled faintly. “Whatever you call it, it’s not hate. You talk about her differently. That’s interest, not irritation.”
“I’m not interested,” Tilly said. “I’m concerned. Big difference.”
Jamie lifted her glass in mock salute. “To concern.”
Erin chuckled. “It’s fine. Crushes happen. You’ll figure it out.”
“I do not have a crush,” Tilly said. “I have an occupational hazard.”
Jamie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Erin reached over to steady the glass, smiling like she was watching a movie she’d already seen the ending to.
“Anyway,” Tilly said, too quickly. “Is Medford still a thing? People wouldn’t shut up about it tonight.”
Jamie blinked. “Wow. Escape hatch.”
Erin’s smile faded. “Yeah. It’s still a thing.”
“I thought it was basically done,” Tilly said.
Jamie leaned forward. “Wait, why? What changed?”
Erin hesitated, then shrugged. “Timeline’s still not clean. There’s a gap they can’t fully explain.”
“So defense is still pushing coercion,” Jamie said.
“Among other things,” Erin replied. “They’re trying to knock the charges down. Prosecutors aren’t on the same page about how hard to push back.”
Jamie frowned. “But if they wait too long, doesn’t that weaken the whole case?”
“It can,” Erin said. “But moving too fast can wreck it too.”
Tilly leaned back in their chair. “Cool. So it’s just going to sit there forever while everyone argues.”
Jamie shot them a look. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s realistic,” Tilly said. “Cases like that don’t resolve cleanly. They just… linger.”
Erin didn’t disagree. “Yeah. That’s kind of where it is.”
Jamie sighed, frustrated. “God. I hate stories like that.”
“Try working them,” Erin muttered.
Dinner shifted after that—lighter talk again, more stories about Leo’s bad habits and Erin’s cooking experiments—but Tilly wasn’t really listening.
Their brain was a loop: crush, interest, the way Savannah’s scarf had brushed her jaw in the cold last night.
They hated that they could picture it in detail.
When plates were cleared, Jamie packed leftovers into containers. Erin rinsed dishes at the sink, humming under her breath. Leo followed Tilly from room to room, hopeful for one last piece of bread. It was all too comfortable. Too normal.
At the door, Jamie hugged them quickly. “Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for the interrogation,” Tilly said.
“You needed it,” Jamie said. “And for what it’s worth, you’re terrible at pretending you don’t care.”
Erin leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, Leo sitting neatly beside her. “She gets under your skin,” she said softly. “That’s not a bad thing. Means you’re paying attention.”
Tilly didn’t have a comeback for that, so they just nodded and stepped into the hallway.
The air outside was sharp and cold. Their breath came out in clouds as they crossed toward the car.
“I don’t have a crush,” Tilly said to the empty street. “She’s just infuriating.”
Another bark echoed, faint and smug.
They shoved their hands into their pockets and kept walking.
The drive home was quiet. Streetlights flashed across the windshield, and every song on the radio felt too slow.
They told themself to think about anything else—camera maintenance, the next assignment, replacing that one cable in the live-truck kit.
Instead, they kept seeing Savannah in the cold, eyes bright, scarf pulled tight, the small, proud smile she gave when a take landed clean.
Tilly tightened their grip on the wheel.
“Not a crush,” they said again.
The traffic light ahead turned green, and they didn’t believe their own words for a second.