Page 29 of Sick(ness)

“Fair enough.” She hesitated, tracing the rim of her bowl with her thumb before asking, “You ever been married? Kids?”

This time, his spoon stilled completely. For a heartbeat, she thought she’d pushed too far. Then he set it down and leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the fire.

“No,” he said finally, his tone clipped but not angry. Just closed. “Never found time for it.”

She nodded, unsure what to say next. He didn’t offer more, and she didn’t want to pry. The silence stretched again, this time thicker, filled with things unspoken.

Then Sawyer looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “What about you?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady. “You married? Kids?”

Addy blinked, surprised he’d turned the question around. “No,” she said softly, shaking her head. “I dated someone for a few years, but… it didn’t last. He wanted someone who needed him more, I think. I’ve always been a little too good at taking care of myself.”

Sawyer’s gaze held hers for a moment that seemed longer than it should have. “That’s not a bad thing,” he said. “Needing people can get you killed now.”

Addy looked down at her hands, turning his words over in her head. There was truth in them, cold and sharp, but still, a part of her missed the old kind of needing. The kind that came with warmth, laughter, and trust.

The fire popped, breaking the silence.

“Guess we’re both too independent for our own good,” she said, forcing a small smile.

Sawyer gave a quiet grunt that might have been agreement, or maybe it was just exhaustion. He stood, carrying both their bowls to the sink, rinsing them with a careful economy of motion.

As she watched him move around the cabin—strong, capable, utterly composed, Addy realized how rare that was now. To find someone steady in a world that had gone mad.

Sawyer didn’t waste time after dinner. The easy calm that had settled between them shifted into quiet efficiency. He moved through the space like a man who’d done this a hundred times before, checking, locking, reinforcing. The kind of habits that kept people alive.

“Help me with this,” he said, nodding toward the door. Together, they pushed one of the old storage trunks from the corner, its wooden legs scraping harshly against the floorboards. It was heavier than it looked, filled with old tools and books. Sawyer positioned it against the door frame, bracing it tight beneath the handle. He took a chair from the table and braced the back door next.

“That’ll slow anyone down,” he muttered, giving it a testing shove.

Addy nodded, breathless from the effort. “Anyone? You think there’s still—”

“Don’t know,” he cut in. “But I’d rather plan for the worst.”

That was becoming a theme with him, always prepared, always two steps ahead. It was oddly comforting, even when it scared her.

He crossed to the windows next, latching the shutters and securing them with a thick length of wire he’d found hanging by the stove. The sound of the metal twisting tight echoed in the quiet room. Addy followed behind, checking for drafts, pressing her hands against the seams to make sure the cold air stayed out.

Outside, the forest had gone still. The last streaks of sunset had faded to a deep indigo, and shadows swallowed the outline of the trees. The only light came from the fire, flickering against the log walls and painting everything in warm, shifting gold.

Sawyer crouched by the hearth, feeding more wood into the flames. The logs hissed and popped, sparks spiraling up the chimney. “Should last most of the night,” he said, mostly to himself. “Still, we’ll need to keep an ear out. Cold can get in fast up here.”

Addy watched him from across the room, the firelight catching in his dark hair, outlining the angles of his face. His movements were methodical, stack a log, close the grate, adjust the iron poker. Even the smallest actions seemed deliberate, purposeful.

When he stood, he brushed his hands on his jeans and turned to her. “Windows are sealed. Fire’s set. That trunk and chair will hold the doors unless someone drives through them.”

She gave a small, nervous laugh. “Comforting.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

For a moment, they both just stood there, the weight of exhaustion finally settling over them.

Addy moved to the bed, smoothing the blanket absently. “It’s strange,” she said quietly. “I feel… safer here than I have in weeks. Even with everything. Thank you, Sawyer.”

Sawyer looked toward the shuttered window, his jaw tightening just slightly. “Safety’s temporary now. But yeah… this’ll do for tonight.”

He reached for his duffel near the door, pulled out his rifle, and leaned it against the wall beside the bed within easy reach. “Just in case,” he said.

She nodded, her eyes lingering on the weapon before drifting back to him. The steady firelight flickered over his face, catching the faint scar that traced down his jaw.