Page 60 of Sick(ness)

He rubbed a hand over his face, realizing how stiff his muscles felt. He’d meant to sleep two hours, possibly three. Judging by the darkness outside, he’d been out for at least twice that. Or longer.

Across the room, Addy lay near the hearth, awake and quietly working. Supplies were spread out beside her, the contents of the pack he’d managed to grab during their escape from the cabin. His pack.

He watched her for a moment, unseen. She was sorting through everything with methodical care, grouping what little they had left: a few cans of food, two bottles of water, a flashlight, a small first-aid kit, and several boxes of ammo. She’d laid them out in neat lines, checking and rechecking, as if control over those few things might anchor her to sanity.

Thank God, he thought. They still had enough to make it a few days, maybe more if they were careful.

But it wasn’t the gear that held his attention.

It was her.

Addy sat cross-legged by the fire, the orange glow painting her face in soft, uneven light. Her hair was tangled from too many days without washing, falling in messy strands over her shoulders, but it suited her, honest and unpolished in a way that made his chest tighten. Her eyes reflected the firelight, steady and intent as she worked, and Sawyer realized he couldn’t look away.

It had been years since he’d let anyone in, years since anyone had stirred anything in him beyond instinct or duty. Attraction, sure, that still happened sometimes. But this? This mix of protectiveness and fear, of wanting to reach out and pull her close and not let the world touch her, that was new. And terrifying.

He’d buried too many people he cared about. Family. Friends. Teammates. Every loss had carved a little more out of him until there wasn’t much left but the part that knew how to survive. He’d promised himself he’d never let it happen again. Never care enough for someone that their absence could undo you.

And yet, here she was.

This small, stubborn woman with plain brown hair and those eyes, God, those eyes, that saw straight through every wall he’d built and didn’t flinch.

He didn’t understand her. Didn’t understand why she wasn’t broken, why she could still look at the world with some scrap of hope when he’d long since stopped believing in it.

He wanted to look away, to force the emotions down, bury them where the rest of his ghosts lived. But instead, he found himself memorizing the way her fingers moved, the tiny crease between her brows as she focused, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

He could almost forget, for a moment, the world outside: the sickness, the hunters, the cold. It was just her. The flicker of firelight. The sound of his own heartbeat trying to catch up to something it hadn’t experienced in years.

Don’t, he warned himself silently. Don’t start this. You can’t afford to care.

But when Addy looked up and met his eyes across the fire, offering a faint, tired smile, he knew it was already too late.

The words escaped before Sawyer could catch them, three syllables he’d never intended to release into the world.

“I love you.”

They hung suspended between them like smoke in still air.

Addy went motionless, her lips parting slightly. Something flickered across her expression, shock giving way to a warmth that spread from her eyes to the soft curve of her mouth. Sawyer’s chest tightened. The realization that he’d spoken aloud hit him only when he saw the transformation on her face.

Christ, what had he done?

It was out there now. No taking it back.

He held her gaze, waiting, bracing for her to laugh, or look away, or worse, pity him. He’d faced firefights, lost friends, survived everything the world could throw at him, but this, this was different.

Addy didn’t laugh.

Instead, she moved toward him slowly, crawling across the rough wooden floor until she was right in front of him. The firelight danced across her face, soft and golden, her breath mingling with his. She reached up and cupped his jaw, her fingers warm and trembling slightly.

“Sawyer,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He didn’t breathe.

Then she leaned in, her lips brushing his in a soft, deliberate kiss, gentle but filled with everything words couldn’t quite manage. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his.

“I love you, too,” she said, just as quietly.

Sawyer let out a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Relief hit him first, sharp and almost painful, followed by something softer that settled deep in his chest.