Page 28 of Sick(ness)

“Character-building,” he used to call it, though she suspected it was mostly about free labor.

She smiled faintly at the memory, watching Sawyer crouched by the fire pit, stacking wood with the same kind of no-nonsense precision her granddad had. There was something familiar about him, steady, grounded, a man who didn’t waste words or energy. He reminded her of the people she grew up around, the ones who didn’t say much but could always be counted on when things went sideways.

That’s why she trusted him.

Because beneath the rough edges and the quiet intensity, Sawyer carried himself like someone who would do what needed to be done, no matter how bad it got.

And Addy realized, as the flames flickered to life and the cabin began to glow with warmth, that she hadn’t felt that kind of reassurance in a very long time.

* * *

The day moved on slowly, steady like the world outside was still normal.

They worked side by side, fixing weak spots in the cabin where cold air crept through the seams. Sawyer reinforced the shutters with nails he scavenged from an old crate, while Addy held the boards steady and handed him tools. Each hammer strike echoed in the crisp afternoon air, sharp and reassuring. It was good to be doing something, to have purpose again.

Afterward, Sawyer turned his focus to the woodpile, a massive stack that leaned precariously against the porch. He methodically sorted through it, stacking and organizing the logs with the kind of precision that made Addy wonder if he ever truly stopped moving. She caught herself watching him a few times, the way his muscles flexed under his shirt as he worked, the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated.

Meanwhile, she took charge of the inside.

Addy swept the cabin from corner to corner with an old straw broom she’d found in the storage closet, the bristles stiff but still serviceable. Dust swirled up in lazy clouds, catching in the thin beams of sunlight that cut through the cabin’s cracks. Each sweep of the broom was strangely satisfying, like she was reclaiming the space inch by inch from neglect, and from whatever had haunted it before they came.

She shook out the bedding, then hauled the blankets onto the porch, hanging them over the railing to air out. The afternoon breeze was cool and fragrant, carrying the scent of pine and damp leaves. By the time she pulled them back inside, they smelled fresh and earthy, like the outdoors.

Sawyer joined her as she tucked the corners of the blanket under the mattress. “You nesting?” he asked with a faint smirk.

“Maybe,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Its good to make it… livable.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, glancing around the cabin. “Feels good making it… ours.”

That word, “ours”, caught her off guard. It sat heavy in her chest in a way she didn’t expect.

By mid afternoon, the fire was burning steadily in the hearth, a pile of cut wood stacked neatly beside it. A pot of water simmered on the old stove, filling the cabin with warmth and the faint metallic scent. Sawyer had drawn a rough map of the surrounding area, marking where they might find supplies or game.

Addy sat back on the love seat, stretching her sore arms and looking around at their small space. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t permanent.

But it was safe, for now.

She felt a flicker of pride as her eyes moved over the cleaned floor, the folded blankets, the neat stacks of kindling by the hearth. After days of running and fear and noise, this seemed like control. Like breathing again.

Addy experienced a sense of accomplishment.

* * *

As they ate in silence, the cabin filled with the faint crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of spoons scraping metal bowls. The stew Sawyer had made wasn’t much, just canned vegetables, a handful of rice, and some dried meat, but it was hot, and it was delicious.

Outside, the sun sank low behind the trees, washing the sky in bruised shades of orange and violet. The last light of the day slipped through the cabin window, painting the floorboards in long amber streaks before fading away completely.

Addy sat across from Sawyer at the small wooden table, watching the firelight dance across his face. His features looked softer in the glow, less rugged soldier, more man. There was something steady about the way he moved, the way he ate in silence as if every motion was deliberate. She’d noticed that about him since the day they met: nothing he did was wasted.

She wanted to ask him something, anything, to bridge the quiet. But it seemed like talking to a wall that could crumble if she pressed too hard. Still, curiosity burned through her nerves like static.

“So…” she started, forcing a lightness she didn’t quite fully embrace. “How old are you?”

He didn’t look up right away, just stirred what was left in his bowl, then said simply, “Thirty-nine. I will be forty in March.”

Addy smiled faintly, surprised he’d even answered. “March, huh? Pisces?”

He gave a soft huff of amusement, something almost like a laugh. “Don’t really keep up with that kind of thing.”