Page 56 of Sick(ness)

Even with her eyes partly shut, Sawyer remained visible to her at the window, the outline of a man forged for resilience yet diminished by its toll.

She realized exactly how much of himself he’d been holding back and wasn’t sure how much longer he would keep it up before something inside him finally broke.

* * *

By late afternoon, Addy noticed the shadows on the floor stretching faster than they should. The light through the cracked window pulsed, dimming then brightening as if someone outside flicked a switch. Sawyer’s head snapped up. Through the glass, dark masses tumbled over the western ridge, swallowing the mountaintops. The pine branches outside bent, their needles trembling before falling still, then bent again, deeper this time. A loose shutter somewhere slapped once, twice, then settled into a rhythm against the cabin wall.

Sawyer pressed his palm flat against the window, frost forming around his fingertips. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Winter’s coming in hard.”

Addy followed his gaze. The snow started as faint flurries, scattered white flecks swirling past the glass. Within an hour, it had become a curtain, heavy and unbroken, erasing the forest and the tracks below.

“It’ll cover everything,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” Sawyer replied. “Including our trail.”

For the first time in days, he looked… lighter. Not relaxed, exactly, but less coiled. The storm meant protection. It meant their hunters would have to stop — for now.

They secured the door, moved what little furniture they could to reinforce it, and built a small fire from what remained of the old desk legs and broken shelves. The warmth was thin, but it was enough.

As night fell, the wind howled against the walls, snow tapping against the windows in frantic bursts. Addy sat close to the fire, legs tucked beneath her, watching Sawyer as he cleaned his rifle by the dim light.

“You’re still awake,” she said softly.

He gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Someone needs to keep watch”.

She studied him for a long moment. The lines in his face looked deeper tonight, exhaustion carving its way through control. “You should rest,” she said.

“I will,” he said automatically, but they both knew he wouldn’t.

Addy hesitated, then asked, “Are you scared?”

That made him pause. The faint scrape of metal against cloth stopped, and he looked up at her. “Scared?” He almost smiled. “Yeah. Every minute.”

She didn’t expect him to admit it. “You don’t look it.”

He shrugged. “You learn to wear it differently. Fear’s not the problem. It’s what it does to you if you let it take over.”

Addy looked down at her hands. “I used to think I wasn’t afraid of anything,” she said. “But all this happened, and I realized how wrong I was. I’m scared of everything now: the dark, the quiet, waking up alone.”

Sawyer leaned back against the wall, the faint light outlining the edge of his profile. “You’re still here,” he said quietly. “That’s what matters. Fear doesn’t mean weakness. It means you still have something left to lose.”

She met his eyes across the flickering fire. “What about you? What did you lose?”

He was silent for a long time. The storm outside filled the space where an answer should have been. Finally, he said, “Too much. People. A version of myself that I believed I would be content with. I used to think control was the only thing that kept me alive. But I’m starting to think it only kept me empty.”

Addy’s chest tightened, a fist of emotion clenching beneath her sternum. “You’re not empty, Sawyer.”

He looked at her—really looked—his storm-gray eyes catching the firelight, revealing flecks of amber she’d never noticed before. Something shifted in his expression, like ice breaking on a frozen river.

“No,” he said softly, the word barely audible above the hiss and pop of burning wood. “Not anymore.”

The fire crackled between them, casting waves of amber light that painted Sawyer’s weathered face in a patchwork of gold and deep shadow, softening the hard lines around his mouth. His scar—the thin white one that cut through his right eyebrow — seemed to disappear in the warm glow. Outside, the storm raged, a relentless wall of wind and snow hammering against the wooden walls, making the old timbers groan in protest. But inside this fragile shelter, everything was still, suspended in the narrow space between their words.

Addy shifted closer, drawn by warmth and something quieter, something that had nothing to do with the cold. Their shoulders brushed, and when Sawyer didn’t move away, she leaned in a little more. He hesitated for only a moment before slipping an arm around her, pulling her to his side.

It wasn’t possessive or desperate. It was careful, a silent promise that they weren’t alone.

Addy closed her eyes, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, the slow rise and fall of his chest. His hand rested against her arm, fingers tracing idle circles against the fabric of her sleeve, grounding her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.