Page 51 of Sick(ness)

“Found footprints,” he said quietly, shutting the door behind him. “Whoever it was, they’re gone for now.”

“For now,” she repeated softly, her hands twisting together.

Sawyer nodded, setting the rifle by the door. “We’ll reinforce the shutters. I’ll double the traps tonight. As a precaution.”

Addy nodded too, but her voice trembled when she spoke. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

He met her gaze, seeing the exhaustion there, the fear she was trying so hard to keep buried.

“Yeah,” he said honestly. “If he saw us, he would.”

He paused, softer than before. “But he won’t get past me.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The wind pressed against the cabin walls, and the fire snapped behind them. Addy finally crossed the small space between them and placed her hand lightly on his arm, a silent thank-you, or simply a plea.

Sawyer didn’t move, but something in him eased, ever so slightly.

He didn’t have the ability to promise her safety, not really. But he could promise this: whoever came out of those woods again wouldn’t live long enough to take her away.

* * *

That night, the woods seemed to breathe. The wind had died, leaving behind only the soft whisper of shifting branches and the faint crack of frozen bark.

Addy stood at the window, the firelight painting her reflection in the glass as Sawyer moved outside. He’d said he needed to reset the perimeter, add more traps, make the alarm lines tighter, but the way he’d spoken told her this wasn’t routine. This was defense.

From the porch, his silhouette was visible against the pale wash of moonlight. He moved as if he were part of the forest: low, deliberate, efficient. Each step had a purpose. He checked the old lines first, running his gloved fingers along the fishing wire, adjusting a few knots. Then he began setting new ones: narrow coils of cord strung between trees, small tin scraps hanging low to the ground that would rattle at the slightest movement.

It was precise. Unnervingly precise.

Addy hugged her arms around herself, watching as he crouched, wedged a thin branch under a rock, and twisted wire into place. It was something she’d seen soldiers do in old news footage, practiced, instinctive, done without a word. And for the first time, she understood that Sawyer wasn’t simply a man who’d survived. He was built for this.

He paused once, glancing toward the cabin. Even from where she stood, she could sense his gaze, the flicker of it cutting through the dark, finding her through the glass. For a heartbeat, she wondered what he saw: a partner, a liability, or someone he was trying desperately not to lose.

When he finally came back inside, his shoulders carried the weight of something unseen. He shut the door carefully, locking it with practiced calm before hanging his rifle on the wall.

“It’s done,” he said, his voice low. “No one’s getting within twenty yards without me knowing.”

“Do you ever stop being ready?” she asked quietly.

He finally met her eyes, and for a second the mask dropped. “No,” he said. “You just get used to it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it buzzed with the unspoken. Addy turned toward the fire, trying to ignore the knot in her chest. She trusted him. She really did. But there was a part of her, small and trembling, that wondered what would happen if the day came when she saw that same precision, that same deadly calm, turned on someone who wasn’t outside the walls.

Or worse, if he ever needed to use it for her.

Sawyer stood, checked the window locks again, and moved towards her. His tone softened. “Get some rest. I’ll take the first watch.”

Addy nodded, trying to match his composure. “Do you think he’ll come back tonight?”

He looked toward the trees, his expression unreadable. “If he does,” he said quietly, “we’ll be ready.”

She lay down on the bed but didn’t sleep. Outside, she could hear the faint rattle of one of the new traps swaying in the breeze, a ghost of sound that made her wonder whether safety and danger might be the same thing now, separated only by how long Sawyer could keep them both alive.

* * *

The night stretched thin, the fire burned to faint glowing coals, and the cabin’s silence settled heavy and complete.

Addy drifted in and out of a restless half-sleep, the faint hiss of wind outside mixing with the occasional pop from the stove. Sawyer sat by the window, rifle propped across his lap; the pale light of the moon served to outline the tension in his shoulders.