Page 23 of Sick(ness)

Her gaze drifted to the bed again. She could almost picture Sawyer sleeping there, broad shoulders rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. The thought sent an unexpected warmth through her chest, one she quickly tried to smother.

Nope. Don’t go there.

She exhaled slowly, forcing her mind back to practical things: organizing the cans, checking the cupboards, pretending not to notice that every little sound outside made her pulse quicken.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open again, letting in a gust of cold air, and Sawyer. He was carrying an armful of wood, snow-dusted and splintered, his gloves dark with bark and frost. Without a word, he crossed to the fireplace, crouched down, and began stacking the logs with practiced efficiency.

Addy watched from the loveseat, her arms tucked around her knees. The way he moved, calm, methodical, focused, was oddly grounding. Everything about him radiated control, even in a world that had lost every bit of it.

A spark flared to life, then another. The dry wood caught quickly, crackling as the flames began to rise. The warmth spread almost instantly, curling into the corners of the cabin, pushing out the chill that had sunk into her bones. Addy let out a slow breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Sawyer sat back on his heels, watching the fire catch. “That should do it for a while,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. The flickering light painted his face in amber and shadow, softening the hard lines that survival had carved into him. His eyes, usually sharp and always scanning, looked tired now. Human.

Addy offered a small smile. “You’re full of surprises. First the supplies, now the fire. Anything else I should know? Can you bake bread too?”

A low laugh escaped him, the first she’d heard in days. “Well, if we find flour.” He tossed another log onto the fire and wiped his hands on his jeans.

She nodded, watching the flames dance. “You make it look easy.”

“It’s not,” he said quietly. “Just familiar.”

Something in his tone made her look up. For a second, his expression softened further; something unguarded flickered behind his eyes, but then it was gone. He leaned back against the wall near the fire, stretching his legs out with a sigh.

“You should eat,” he said after a moment. “We’ve got a few cans of stew. I’ll heat one.”

Addy wanted to protest, to say she could do it, but she didn’t. She was too tired, too content in that small bubble of warmth and safety. The scent of wood smoke filled the cabin, rich and comforting, wrapping around her like a blanket.

When he handed her the steaming tin a few minutes later, she took it gratefully, the metal warm against her palms. “Thanks,” she murmured, taking a cautious bite. It wasn’t gourmet by any means, but after days of jerky and ration bars, it was like heaven.

They ate quietly; the only sounds were the pop of the fire and the faint whistle of the wind outside. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was companionable, easy.

* * *

The stew was simple: thick broth, chunks of vegetables, bits of meat, but to Addy, it might as well have been a five-star meal. The warmth seeped through her chest, easing the ache that had taken up permanent residence there. She could almost feel life trickling back into her veins, thawing the edges of the numbness she’d been carrying since everything fell apart.

The fire crackled softly, throwing golden light across the small cabin. Shadows flickered against the walls, alive and dancing, casting Sawyer in a shifting mix of warmth and shadow. He sat across from her near the hearth, legs stretched out, one hand resting lazily on his knee. The other turned a small tin cup between his fingers, the faint metallic scrape somehow comforting in its normalcy.

Addy watched him over the rim of her can, trying not to make it obvious. He looked different in the firelight, less severe, less soldier. His face, usually hard with focus, seemed to relax in the glow. The lines of fatigue around his eyes softened, and the faint stubble on his jaw caught the light like brushed bronze.

It struck her, suddenly and sharply, how human he looked. Not just capable, or strong, or steady, but alive.

She hadn’t realized how starved she’d been for that.

He looked up, catching her staring. For a heartbeat, neither of them looked away. Then Sawyer’s lips tugged into a faint, knowing smirk. “What?”

Addy flushed and dropped her gaze back to the fire. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“About what?” he asked, his voice low and even.

She hesitated. “About how this is almost… normal. Sitting here. Warm. Eating.”

He hummed in agreement, his eyes on the flames. “Yeah. Almost.”

The fire popped, sending a small spray of sparks up the chimney. The aroma of smoke and iron filled the space. Addy let her head rest against the back of the loveseat, her eyelids heavy.

“Do you think it’ll ever be normal again?” She asked after a long pause.

Sawyer didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “I think normal’s gone. But… perhaps something else can take its place.”