Page 27 of Sick(ness)

Addy crouched beside him, curious. Inside the tote was a neatly organized spread of supplies—tools, rope, a small camping stove, propane canisters, rolls of duct tape, a few flashlights, extra batteries, and a first-aid kit that looked military-grade. Everything was clean and packed tight, as if it had been prepared with precision long before things went bad.

She raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were stocked.”

Sawyer smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard. When you spend years being told to plan for worst-case scenarios, it kind of sticks.”

He moved to the next tote. “Food, mostly canned. Rice, beans, dehydrated meals, a few protein bars. Enough for a month if we ration it right.”

Addy nodded, taking it all in. “You really thought of everything, huh?”

“Almost everything,” he said, his voice dipping a bit quieter. “Didn’t exactly plan for the company.”

She smiled lightly. “Guess I messed up your system then.”

He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers for a moment. “Nah,” he said finally. “Not in a bad way.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she quickly looked away as he reached into the truck and pulled out a long black case. He set it on the tailgate and opened it with a soft click.

Inside was a compact rifle, a handgun, and two boxes of ammunition. Each weapon was wrapped in oiled cloth and meticulously maintained. Addy let out a low whistle. “So, that’s what you’ve been hiding.”

Sawyer gave a small, almost proud grin. “These are tools, not trophies. They’ve kept me alive.”

He picked up the handgun, a matte black Glock, and held it out to her grip-first. “You said you could shoot. Let’s make sure you still can.”

Addy took it carefully, the weight familiar in her hands. She checked the chamber, the safety, the mag. It came back to her like muscle memory. “Still got it,” she said with a little smirk.

Sawyer chuckled. “Alright, Texas. Let’s find a tree stump and make sure that confidence’s well-placed.”

They walked a few yards behind the cabin to a clearing near the lake, where a half-rotted log sat surrounded by patches of frost. He set up a few empty cans from breakfast as makeshift targets.

“Alright,” he said, standing beside her. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Don’t fight the recoil, let it work with you. You know the drill.”

Addy lined up her shot, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. The sound cracked through the cold air, echoing across the water. The can jumped, spun, and fell over.

She grinned, lowering the gun. “Still good,” she said confidently.

Sawyer gave a low whistle. “Remind me not to piss you off.”

Addy laughed the first time in what seemed like weeks. It was small, but real, and it startled her a little.

He smiled too, nodding toward the cabin. “You’ll take the handgun on the run with me. Keep it on your hip. Always.”

“Got it.”

They packed everything back up, the air between them lighter now. As they worked, the faint warmth of the afternoon sun filtered through the trees, glinting off the lake.

And as Sawyer shut the tailgate and looked toward her, a small smile tugging at his lips, she realized something else.

She trusted him.

Which was odd, Addy rarely trusted anyone. Trust, in her experience, was something you earned over years, not days. Even with Evan, it had been… complicated.

Evan had been steady and kind in the beginning. The kind of man who liked predictability, quiet dinners, steady routines, numbers that always added up. And she’d tried to fit into that life, she really had. But Evan thought she was too independent, too comfortable doing things on her own. He used to say she didn’t need anyone, and he was right.

Addy had always been that way. She’d learned early on that needing people came with disappointment.

She grew up on a small cattle ranch tucked along the edge of nowhere, with her mom and her granddad. Her father had died before she was born, a motorcycle accident on a rain-slick road that changed everything. Her mom had packed up her city apartment and moved back home so her father could help raise her baby, and he had.

Her granddad had been the kind of man who could fix anything with baling wire and a curse word. He’d taught her how to ride, how to mend fences, how to get up early and do the hard things before the sun even considered rising. She’d learned how to calm a spooked horse, deliver a calf in the middle of a thunderstorm, and shovel manure without complaint.