5. The Cabin #2
Sawyer was already moving with quiet purpose, scanning the room, checking corners, peering out the back window toward the lake, checking the back door to make sure it was secure.
Then he started opening the cupboards, one after another, pulling out dusty cans, half-filled oil bottles, and a few matches in a small glass jar.
“This isn’t bad,” he said finally, setting the items on the small counter. “They must’ve been here not too long ago. Stuff’s still good.” He gave a satisfied nod, as if that small discovery had restored a bit of faith in the world.
Addy leaned against the arm of the loveseat, arms wrapped around herself. She could already imagine the warmth from the fireplace, the glow of light against the dark logs, the weight finally lifting from her shoulders.
“I’m gonna check the wood situation,” Sawyer said, grabbing a flashlight from his bag. “If there’s any left in that shed out back, I’ll get a fire going.”
Before she could answer, he stepped outside, the old door groaning as it shut behind him.
For a moment, Addy just stood there in the stillness, letting her eyes travel around the little space. It wasn’t much, but to her, it was almost beautiful. A subtle aroma of pine and dust, the solid timbered enclosures that subdued the breeze beyond, the peaceful drone of existence embracing them.
She ran a hand over the back of the love seat, noting the rough fabric under her fingertips. It’ll do, she thought. It’s a home. For now.
Her gaze drifted to the bed again. She could almost picture Sawyer sleeping there, broad shoulders rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. The thought sent an unexpected warmth through her chest, one she quickly tried to smother.
Nope. Don’t go there.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her mind back to practical things: organizing the cans, checking the cupboards, pretending not to notice that every little sound outside made her pulse quicken.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open again, letting in a gust of cold air, and Sawyer.
He was carrying an armful of wood, snow-dusted and splintered, his gloves dark with bark and frost. Without a word, he crossed to the fireplace, crouched down, and began stacking the logs with practiced efficiency.
Addy watched from the loveseat, her arms tucked around her knees. The way he moved, calm, methodical, focused, was oddly grounding. Everything about him radiated control, even in a world that had lost every bit of it.
A spark flared to life, then another. The dry wood caught quickly, crackling as the flames began to rise. The warmth spread almost instantly, curling into the corners of the cabin, pushing out the chill that had sunk into her bones. Addy let out a slow breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
Sawyer sat back on his heels, watching the fire catch.
“That should do it for a while,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
The flickering light painted his face in amber and shadow, softening the hard lines that survival had carved into him.
His eyes, usually sharp and always scanning, looked tired now. Human.
Addy offered a small smile. “You’re full of surprises. First the supplies, now the fire. Anything else I should know? Can you bake bread too?”
A low laugh escaped him, the first she’d heard in days. “Well, if we find flour.” He tossed another log onto the fire and wiped his hands on his jeans.
She nodded, watching the flames dance. “You make it look easy.”
“It’s not,” he said quietly. “Just familiar.”
Something in his tone made her look up. For a second, his expression softened further; something unguarded flickered behind his eyes, but then it was gone. He leaned back against the wall near the fire, stretching his legs out with a sigh.
“You should eat,” he said after a moment. “We’ve got a few cans of stew. I’ll heat one.”
Addy wanted to protest, to say she could do it, but she didn’t. She was too tired, too content in that small bubble of warmth and safety. The scent of wood smoke filled the cabin, rich and comforting, wrapping around her like a blanket.
When he handed her the steaming tin a few minutes later, she took it gratefully, the metal warm against her palms. “Thanks,” she murmured, taking a cautious bite. It wasn’t gourmet by any means, but after days of jerky and ration bars, it was like heaven.
They ate quietly; the only sounds were the pop of the fire and the faint whistle of the wind outside. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was companionable, easy.
* * *
The stew was simple: thick broth, chunks of vegetables, bits of meat, but to Addy, it might as well have been a five-star meal.
The warmth seeped through her chest, easing the ache that had taken up permanent residence there.
She could almost feel life trickling back into her veins, thawing the edges of the numbness she’d been carrying since everything fell apart.
The fire crackled softly, throwing golden light across the small cabin.
Shadows flickered against the walls, alive and dancing, casting Sawyer in a shifting mix of warmth and shadow.
He sat across from her near the hearth, legs stretched out, one hand resting lazily on his knee.
The other turned a small tin cup between his fingers, the faint metallic scrape somehow comforting in its normalcy.
Addy watched him over the rim of her can, trying not to make it obvious.
He looked different in the firelight, less severe, less soldier.
His face, usually hard with focus, seemed to relax in the glow.
The lines of fatigue around his eyes softened, and the faint stubble on his jaw caught the light like brushed bronze.
It struck her, suddenly and sharply, how human he looked. Not just capable, or strong, or steady, but alive.
She hadn’t realized how starved she’d been for that.
He looked up, catching her staring. For a heartbeat, neither of them looked away. Then Sawyer’s lips tugged into a faint, knowing smirk. “What?”
Addy flushed and dropped her gaze back to the fire. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”
“About what?” he asked, his voice low and even.
She hesitated. “About how this is almost… normal. Sitting here. Warm. Eating.”
He hummed in agreement, his eyes on the flames. “Yeah. Almost.”
The fire popped, sending a small spray of sparks up the chimney. The aroma of smoke and iron filled the space. Addy let her head rest against the back of the loveseat, her eyelids heavy.
“Do you think it’ll ever be normal again?” She asked after a long pause.
Sawyer didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “I think normal’s gone. But… perhaps something else can take its place.”
His words hung in the air between them, fragile but hopeful. Addy studied him again: the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the firelight played along his jaw. He didn’t look like someone who’d given up. He looked like someone who’d been broken and rebuilt himself, anyway.
She drew her knees closer, wrapping her arms around them. “Do you really think we’ll make it through this?”
Sawyer looked at her then, and there was something fierce and unwavering in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said simply. “Because now it’s not just each of us on our own.”
The words caught her off guard. Warmth, different from the fire, bloomed in her chest, quiet and dangerous. She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything.
Instead, she watched as he leaned forward and fed another log to the fire, the movement slow and deliberate. The flames surged higher, washing the room in orange light.
Her body began to relax, the exhaustion finally creeping in. She set the empty can aside and curled up on the loveseat, the soft crackle of the fire and the rhythmic sigh of the wind against the cabin lulling her toward sleep.
* * *
Addy woke quickly from drifting off. She stood up to grab a blanket from the storage closet she had found earlier. She was determined to sleep on the couch.
“That bed is big enough for two, Addy. I don’t bite, I promise,” he said with a light tone in his voice.
The couch suddenly looked a lot smaller than it had a minute ago, its thin, cushions offering little promise of comfort. Still, the idea of sharing a bed with him sent a strange mix of heat and nerves through her stomach.
Sawyer stood by the fire, his hands resting casually on his hips.
The flickering light danced over the hard lines of his face, softening him just enough that she could almost forget how intimidating he looked when they’d first met.
He didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable about his suggestion; his tone was practical, not flirtatious.
“Addy,” he said, nodding toward the love seat, “that thing’s older than both of us combined, and about as soft as a bag of rocks. You’ll wake up with your neck at an odd angle.”
She blinked at him, trying to come up with a retort. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly like this is a luxury suite,” she said, setting the blanket down with a soft plop.
He gave a quiet chuckle, the sound low and warm. “No, it’s not. But it’s safe. And warm. And we’re both dead on our feet. That bed’s big enough to share, just barely.” He raised an eyebrow. “I promise to stay on my side.”
Addy frowned, trying to read his face. She’d seen enough of Sawyer now to know he wasn’t careless with his words.
If he said something, he meant it. He didn’t seem like the type to push boundaries; if anything, he was cautious to a fault.
Still, something about the offer was… vulnerable.
It reminded her that, despite his confidence, he was human too. Just as tired. Just as cold.
“Fine,” she muttered after a beat, her tone more resigned than defiant. “But you’re staying on your side. And you can keep your boots on in case you need to make a quick escape.”
He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Deal.”