Page 83 of Sick(ness)

He crossed the room and crouched beside her, the firelight painting his face in gold and shadow. “Then we’ll fix it. Stronger this time.”

Jay nodded. “Hell, I’ll board the whole wall if it keeps us from waking up cold.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Addy’s lips. The warmth from the fire crept outward, brushing her face, softening her trembling hands.

They sat there a long time in silence, just the three of them and the sound of the wind fading against the boards.

It wasn’t safe yet. It might never be completely.

But for now, the cabin stood, the fire burned, and Sawyer was there beside her.

* * *

The fire burned low, a deep amber glow licking at the last of the wood. The warmth reached only so far, but Addy didn’t care. She sat between Sawyer’s legs on the worn rug, her back pressed against his chest, wrapped in one of his blankets that still smelled faintly of pine and smoke. His arms circled her, solid and safe, his breath steady against the side of her neck.

Jay had gone quiet on the couch, half-asleep with his boots still on, but Sawyer and Addy stayed by the fire. Neither of them spoke at first. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was the kind that came after too much chaos, when words didn’t know where to begin.

Addy reached out toward the flames, watching the light dance across her fingers. “I’ve been thinking,” she murmured. “About Gus and the other one “

Sawyer’s voice rumbled softly against her back, a low vibration she could sense through her spine. “Don’t. They’re gone. “

” I know,” she said, watching the fire’s orange light dance across her knuckles. “But… I don’t think there were more. The way they talked about me, about what they were going to do—” Her fingernails dug half-moons into her palms. “It didn’t sound like they had anyone waiting. They kept saying ‘we,’ not ‘they.’ They were bragging, like they’d finally found someone to make their day.” She swallowed, her throat clicking in the quiet room, voice catching on each word like fabric snagging on barbed wire. “If there were more, they would’ve said something. “

Sawyer’s arms tightened around her, his calloused fingers pressing into the worn flannel covering her arms. His chest expanded against her back as he took a deep breath, the scent of pine and sweat mingling in the fire-lit air. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, quietly, his lips close enough to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath, “That’s good, 2B.”

She nodded, staring into the fire. “Still… what they said—” She shuddered, unable to finish. The memory of their voices, their laughter, crawled under her skin.

He felt it, the tension rippling through her, and his hands came up to her arms, rubbing gently in slow, grounding circles. “You don’t have to think about that anymore. They’re done. You’re here.”

She exhaled shakily, leaning back more fully against him. His warmth seeped through the blanket and into her bones. “Maybe,” she said. “But sometimes it seems like the world’s just waiting to take more.”

“Then we make something it can’t take,” Sawyer said. His voice was low and certain. “We build something here. With Jay. There’s water, wood, and the lake for fishing. He’s got solar running. We could make this work, make it real.”

Addy turned her head slightly to look up at him. “You mean… stay?”

He met her eyes, the firelight catching in his dark lashes. “Yeah. Stay. Stop running, stop waiting for the next disaster. Just live. It doesn’t have to be fancy — it just has to be ours.”

She studied his face, the conviction they’re tempered by weariness. “What about you? You’d really want to stay here?”

Sawyer gave a faint smile, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with such tenderness that it made her breath catch. “Not here without you.”

Her heart stuttered, the warmth of his touch spreading like honey through her veins. “Sawyer—”

He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes holding hers with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade away. “You’re mine, Addy. Always. I’m never doing this life without you again.”

The raw honesty in his tone broke something loose in her chest—a dam she’d built against hope, against love. She reached up, covering his hand where it rested on her shoulder, noting the calluses that had protected her, saved her. “You don’t get to make promises like that,” she whispered, though her voice trembled with longing.

“Too late,” he said softly, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. “Already did.”

She turned her head fully, their faces inches apart, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. For a heartbeat, the world outside ceased to exist: no wind, no sickness, no fear. Just the flicker of the dying fire casting gold across his features and the quiet weight of a love that had bloomed in the darkest of places.

She smiled, her eyes glistening in the firelight. “You’re stubborn.”

“Only about what matters,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her temple like a promise.

They sat there until the fire sank into glowing coals, the light tracing their silhouettes on the cabin walls. The air was still, except for the distant sigh of the wind through the boarded-up window.

Outside, beyond the treeline, something moved.