Thirty Three
Tilly woke up already tired.
Afternoon light pushed through the curtains in a soft, washed-out smear — the kind that said they’d slept later than planned, but not well. Their brain had been awake for hours anyway, circling the same memories until they were worn thin.
The truck.
Savannah’s breath caught when their hands brushed.
Her quiet “thank you” over that hand warmer.
The way she’d moved through the station yesterday, like her skin didn’t quite fit right.
It all kept looping, refusing to settle.
Tilly stared at the ceiling and dragged a hand over their face.
What did they expect, anyway? That one hotel room and one night could rewrite an entire life? That Savannah would wake up and suddenly be someone who knew what she wanted and could say it out loud?
Stupid.
They turned their face into their pillow and let out a slow breath.
This wasn’t working.
Lying here.
Replaying everything.
Waiting for something that clearly wasn’t coming.
Fine.
They’d make a decision.
They weren’t doing the weird silence anymore — the avoiding, the flinching, the holding their breath every time Savannah walked into a room. They’d be normal. Polite. Professional. They’d fake it until it felt real. It had worked before. It could work again.
They got up, showered, dressed in dark jeans and a hoodie, slung their camera bag over one shoulder, and checked their batteries twice, even though they didn’t need to. Habit was easier than thinking.
Outside, the cold air snapped at their cheeks. Good. That helped.
The drive to the station felt short. The radio played a low-energy midday talk show that they barely heard.
By the time they walked through the WDTV doors, the familiar nightside energy hit them in the chest — slower, more muted, a mix of coffee and stale carpet, the hum of computers warming up for the shift.
Producers gathered at the assignment desk with crumpled rundowns. A graphics intern yawned hard enough to crack their jaw. Someone laughed too loudly near the edit bays.
And Savannah was already in the gear room.
Her hair was tucked behind her ears in that way she did only when she was trying to look composed. A pen was hooked behind one ear. Her rundown sheet was in her hand. Her shoulders were pulled back like she was trying to hold herself upright with a string.
She looked… steadier, but not fine.
Tilly adjusted their camera strap and stepped toward the doorway.
“Hey,” they said, keeping it simple.
Savannah’s head snapped up.
Just for a second, her eyes were too wide — like she hadn’t expected them to talk to her. Then she smoothed it over. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
“Hi,” she said. “Hey.”
It landed more softly than yesterday. It still tugged at something in their ribs.
Tilly moved past her to grab the tripod. “Henry got assignments yet?”
“Meeting in a minute,” she said. “He wants everyone circled.”
“Cool.”
They loaded the equipment together in a quiet rhythm. Savannah hovered close, then backed off, then stepped in again — unsure, but trying. When she reached to hand them a mic cable, her fingers brushed theirs.
She pulled back fast.
Tilly pretended they didn’t notice.
“Need help with anything?” she asked, voice careful.
“I’ve got it,” they said. “Thanks, though.”
It wasn’t cold. Just… neutral. A controlled middle ground.
Savannah nodded, but her throat moved in a small swallow. “Okay.”
Henry clapped his hands over his head. “Alright, people. In the circle.”
Nightside reporters and photogs drifted in.
Harper twirled her pen and gave Savannah a quick, assessing look before turning her attention to Henry.
Jamie stood with her tablet under one arm, hair perfect, reviewing her 6 p.m. copy while a producer spoke quietly beside her — anchor things, not field work.
Henry rattled through assignments.
Harper was on the city council livestream updates.
A rookie was put on a school program feature.
Jamie was working on tease scripts and A-block prep; she waved her tablet absently without looking up.
And—
“Riverfront follow,” Henry said, eyes flicking between Savannah and Tilly. “Wells, you on that again?”
Savannah nodded. “Yeah.”
“Tilly, you free?”
“Yep.”
“You two take it. Quick VO/SOT turnaround for the six.”
That was that. The group broke apart.
Savannah lingered.
“If you want to switch,” she said quietly, “I can ask Andrew. You don’t have to go back out there with me.”
There it was — the offering.
Tilly tightened their grip on the tripod handle.
“It’s fine,” they said. “We can handle riverfront.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” They met her eyes for the briefest second. “It’s just a story.”
Something flickered across her face — maybe relief, maybe something else — and she nodded. “Okay.”
They walked to the truck. This time, Savannah didn’t hang back several steps. She walked beside them, close enough that their jackets brushed once before she pulled an inch away.
Tilly didn’t comment.
Didn’t look at her.
Didn’t let themself want anything.
Inside the truck, Savannah buckled in and stared at her notebook while Tilly started the engine, the air tight for a few beats before it turned over.
“Music?” Tilly asked.
“Sure.”
They kept the volume low.
Halfway down the street, Savannah cleared her throat. “Did you sleep okay?”
The question hit harder than it should’ve.
“Eventually,” Tilly said.
“Oh.” She hesitated. “Yesterday was… weird. I hope it wasn’t too—”
“Work gets weird sometimes,” Tilly said. “It’s not a big deal.”
She looked out the window for a long moment. “It felt like a big deal.”
Their fingers tightened on the wheel. They softened their hold.
“You were tired,” they said. “We both were. Long week.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Long week.”
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t yesterday’s silence — the kind that sliced open your sternum. This one was… muted. Manageable.
At the river, everything was brisk and straightforward. They got the VO/SOT done fast. Savannah hit her lines on the first take. Tilly framed her clean, checked audio twice, and avoided letting their eyes linger on the way the wind lifted her hair.
They moved like a team — not the team they were becoming before the hotel, but something functional. Something steady.
Back at the station, Tilly dumped footage in an edit bay while Savannah wrote in a booth across the hall. Harper walked by, glanced between them, and raised one eyebrow at Tilly in a way that said, We’re talking later. Tilly ignored it.
The VO/SOT made the slot. The producer was happy. Things kept moving.
Near the end of their shift, Tilly ducked into the break room for more coffee. The pot was nearly empty. Of course. They coaxed the last sad inch into their mug.
Footsteps approached behind them.
Savannah stopped in the doorway, fingers curled around her empty cup. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
She crossed to the counter. “I can start another pot.”
“Thanks.”
As she reached for the filter box, her sleeve brushed the back of their hand. She froze. Tilly pretended they didn’t feel it.
The coffeemaker began its familiar gurgle.
“Thanks for not switching assignments,” she said, voice low. “I know I was… off yesterday.”
Tilly leaned back against the counter. “We’re fine.”
She looked at them for a beat too long. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” they said. “We’re okay.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly — not all the way, but enough to look like she could breathe again. “Okay.”
The pot finished. She poured herself a cup and held it between both hands like she was grounding herself.
They left the break room together. At the doors, their paths split. Savannah glanced back once — a small, instinctive thing — but didn’t speak.
As the door swung shut behind her, Tilly let out a quiet breath.
It wasn’t closeness.
It wasn’t the hotel.
It wasn’t what they wanted.
But it didn’t hurt the way yesterday did.