Page 57 of Sick(ness)

This wasn’t about survival. Not entirely. There was something else here, something fragile and human.

For so long, she’d believed love was something she’d missed her chance at. Something for a world that had ended. But sitting here, wrapped in his quiet strength, she understood it: that ache, that warmth, that certainty. She hesitated to name it, afraid it might vanish if she did. But she knew.

It was love, real and terrifying in its simplicity.

Sawyer didn’t speak, but his hand stayed on her shoulder, solid and sure. She wondered if he knew what she was thinking, or if his thoughts mirrored hers. It’s possible he did. Perhaps that was why he held her a little tighter as the wind howled outside, his thumb brushing small, absent circles against her skin.

They sat like that for a long while, the storm lashing at the cabin, the fire slowly collapsing into glowing coals.

A feeling akin to security washed over Addy; it wasn’t the storm’s protection from the outside world, but the fact that in this fleeting, sacred time, both were free from the need to act tough.

* * *

When Addy woke, the world was muffled.

The first thing she noticed was the silence — deep, complete, the kind that seemed to have weight. The wind was gone, replaced by the soft creak of wood under snow. She sat up slowly, blinking in the dim gray light that filtered through the window.

Everything outside was buried.

The forest, the ridge, even the path they’d taken up here had vanished beneath a smooth white sheet that stretched in every direction. The cabin’s windows were frosted over, the cold seeping through every crack.

Sawyer was sitting near the door, rifle across his knees. He hadn’t slept.

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked quietly.

He looked over his shoulder, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Hours. You needed rest.”

Addy rubbed her hands together and moved closer to the fire, coaxing what little warmth remained. “The storm’s over.”

“Somewhat, snow stopped but the wind is whipping,” he said, standing and moving to the window. He used his sleeve to clear a small patch of frost and stared out at the endless white. “But it did its job. No tracks. No movement. Whoever was out there lost us.”

She exhaled in relief, but it was short-lived. “So now what? We can’t exactly walk through that.”

Sawyer’s jaw worked as he considered. “No. We’re stuck until it breaks.”

“How long will that take?”

He shook his head. Perhaps a day. It might take a week. Depends on how hard the cold sets in.”

Addy looked around the cabin, at the empty supply bag, the burned-down firewood pile, the frost already creeping across the inside of the windowpane. “We don’t have enough to wait a week.”

“I know,” he said simply.

He then turned back to her, and for the first time since she’d known him, she saw something close to fatigue in his eyes. Not only physical exhaustion, but the quiet kind, the kind that seeps into the bones when you’ve been running far too long on empty.

She stood and crossed to him, her hand brushing his arm. “You did the right thing, Sawyer. Getting us out. We’d be dead if we stayed.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on the snow-covered trees beyond the window, expression unreadable. “We’re alive, for now,” he said finally. “That’s all that matters.”

But she could tell from his tone that it wasn’t enough for him. Survival was never simply about breathing, not for Sawyer. It was about control, about protecting what he cared about.

And right now, that meant her.

Addy watched him for a long moment and spoke softly. “You don’t always have to carry everything.”

He looked at her, something flickering behind his tired eyes, a crack in the armor, for a heartbeat. “If I don’t,” he said quietly, “who will?”

The question hung between them, heavy as the snow outside.