Page 43 of Sick(ness)

She filled a bowl with water from the hand pump and splashed it over her face, the chill biting against her skin. The shock helped, though not as much as she’d hoped. Her pulse still thrummed unevenly. She reached for the rag and wiped herself down slowly, deliberately, trying to anchor herself in the routine, in something ordinary.

Her skin was still warm beneath the cool water. Alive. That’s what it was like, too alive. As she washed, her fingers brushed tender spots that made flashes of memory rise unbidden: the heat of his hands, the steady weight of him, the sound of her own breath catching in the dark.

It wasn’t regret she was experiencing. But awareness. Of her body. Of him. Of the way everything had changed without either of them saying a word.

She caught her reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink, hair tousled, eyes soft and uncertain. For a long moment, she studied her face, searching for guilt or shame, but what she saw instead was something quieter. Acceptance.

Addy sighed, wringing the rag out and hanging it on the peg by the door. Outside, she saw movement — Sawyer crossing the clearing toward the woodpile, his shoulders broad against the morning light. He hadn’t looked back at the cabin once.

She wasn’t sure if that made her relieved or disappointed.

She ran a hand through her hair, took one more steadying breath, and whispered to her reflection, “Get it together, Addy.”

She straightened her shoulders and stepped outside, ready to face whatever this new version of them was going to be.

* * *

The cold air hit her like a wall the moment she stepped outside. It smelled of pine and smoke and the faint trace of wood dust from the fresh-cut pile beside the cabin. Her breath puffed in small clouds that vanished almost instantly.

Sawyer was there, kneeling by the woodpile, splitting logs with smooth, practiced movements. Each swing of the axe came down clean and steady, the rhythm almost hypnotic. His jacket was unzipped, sleeves rolled up, and the muscles in his forearms flexed with each strike.

He glanced up as she approached, the faintest trace of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he nodded toward the stacked wood.

“Morning,” he said simply.

“Morning.” Her voice sounded smaller than she meant it to, but she didn’t correct it.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. The steady thunk of the axe filled the silence. Addy wrapped her arms around herself, unsure if the chill came from the air or from how close she’d let herself get to him last night, in every sense.

“Sleep okay?” he asked finally, setting another log on the block.

“Yeah,” she lied. “You?”

He gave a short nod, eyes fixed on the wood. “Didn’t sleep much. Too many things running through my head.”

She hesitated, asked softly, “About us? Or about leaving? Which if we are leaving why are you chopping wood?”

Sawyer stopped mid-swing, the axe balanced loosely in his hands. He didn’t look at her right away, exhaled through his nose and let the axe drop into the snow with a dull thud. When he finally met her eyes, his expression was calm, but there was something fragile behind it.

“Both,” he admitted. Ignoring the wood chopping question. “I don’t regret anything, Addy. Not a second. But I also know what happens when people start needing things from each other. It makes choices harder.”

She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint stubble on his jaw catching the morning light. “Is that your assessment of last night’s events?” Needing something?”

He looked down, silent for a moment, and said quietly, “I think it was two people trying to remember they’re not dying.”

Addy nodded, her throat tight. “And if it’s more than that?”

He gave a small, humorless smile. “Addy, we’ll figure it out. One problem at a time.”

The wind shifted, carrying the crisp scent of the lake across the clearing. Addy looked out at it, the ice catching pale sunlight, the world so breathtakingly still. “I don’t want to lose focus,” she said finally. “I know what you mean about needing things. But… I also don’t want to pretend we didn’t experience something real.”

He stepped closer, his presence filling the cold space between them. “You don’t have to pretend,” he said, voice low. “You have to keep your head clear. I’ll do the same.”

Addy gave a small nod, more to herself than to him. “Okay.”

For a few heartbeats, they stood there, breath misting in the cold. After a while Sawyer bent to gather the cut wood, tossing a few logs into her arms. “If you really want to help,” he said, his tone softer but teasing now, “you can stack those inside before I freeze my hands off.”

She smiled, the first real one of the morning. “Bossy,” she said.