Page 42 of Sick(ness)

She moaned, a high, fractured sound, and Sawyer reached up, grabbing her waist, guiding her, meeting her rhythm. Their bodies moved together, desperate, raw, and when she came, it was with a noisy intensity that shocked her, a force she hadn’t expected or believed she could still summon. Sawyer followed, gasping her name, his face twisted in something like pain, like worship.

She collapsed onto his chest, breathless, his arms folding around her like a shield. For a long, silent minute, neither of them spoke. The world outside was empty and dead, but in this firelit room, they were alive. She’d never felt more herself.

It wasn’t until the sweat cooled and her breath came back that Addy realized she was laughing—soft, incredulous, giddy. Sawyer smiled up at her, dazed, and brushed a strand of hair off her face. “You okay?” he asked, his voice rough.

She nodded, still grinning. “Yeah. I really am.”

She rolled off him, flopping onto her back, and for once she didn’t pull the covers up to hide. She let herself lie there, skin bare and shining, her heart pounding a wild, impossible tattoo. Sawyer shifted beside her, wrapping her in his arms, and she went willingly, tucking her head beneath his chin, letting herself be held.

The silence that followed was comfortable, a rare and precious thing. Addy closed her eyes, letting the reality of what just happened seep into her bones. She wasn’t sure what the world would look like come morning, or if she and Sawyer would even survive another day. But for tonight, there was this: warmth and want and the knowledge that she’d claimed something good, something hers, before the darkness came back.

Nine

The After

She drifted again, this time in dreams that had color and heat, dreams that seemed alive. She wasn’t running or hiding. She was simply there, warm, seen, wanted.

When she woke, light was filtering through the window. The fire had burned down to ashes. Her mind was slow to catch up, floating in that fog between dream and memory. But awareness hit her all at once.

Her clothes. Gone.

Addy’s breath caught, and she sat up too quickly, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her body felt heavy and sore in a way that made the truth undeniable, even if the details blurred. A wave of confusion and embarrassment crashed over her.

She looked toward Sawyer. He was already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to her. His shoulders were tense, broad, solid against the pale morning light.

When he spoke, his voice was steady — calm in the way that he always seemed to be, even when the world wasn’t.

“Hey,” he said quietly, without turning. “Don’t do that.”

She swallowed. “Do what?”

“Regret it.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes finding hers, soft but certain. “It’s a natural thing, Addy. Two people. Alone. Scared. Still human. You don’t have to make it more or less than that.”

His words were gentle, but they cut straight through her confusion. He was right; it didn’t need to be anything more. But it wasn’t nothing, either.

Addy looked down at her hands, clutching the blanket tighter. “I wasn’t planning to regret it,” she said finally, her voice small. “Just trying to figure out what it means.”

Sawyer turned fully toward her, sitting on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “It means we’re alive,” he said simply. “That’s all it has to mean right now.”

She studied him: the quiet confidence, the faint exhaustion behind his eyes. For all his control, she noticed it had shaken him too, but in a quieter way.

After a long moment, she nodded. “Alive,” she echoed softly.

He gave a faint smile, stood and reached for his shirt. “We should eat,” he said, breaking the moment with the kind of easy practicality that had come to define him. “Now we get back to packing.”

Addy watched him move, the light catching his face, the faint edge of a smile that was almost kind. She pulled the blanket a little tighter, breathing deeply, grounding herself in the scent of wood smoke and warmth still lingering on the sheets.

Whatever last night had been — mistake, instinct, or something more — she couldn’t bring herself to call it wrong.

It served as a reminder that despite a flawed existence, she retained the capacity to feel.

* * *

Addy moved quietly through the small cabin, her body still vibrating with a strange, restless energy. The air seemed different that morning, charged somehow, sharper.

Sawyer was already dressed and gone outside, the door left slightly ajar to let in the crisp air. She could hear the faint clink of metal, the sound of him checking the truck or chopping wood, something practical, grounding. She was grateful for it. She needed a few minutes alone.