5. The Cabin #4
He looked at her and smiled faintly again, softer this time. “Good. And Addy?”
“Yeah?”
“Glad you’re on my team.”
Her lips curved into a small smile.
“Me too,” she said, and she silently noted that she meant it.
* * *
They spent the rest of the morning checking over the cabin and what little land that surrounded it.
The frost still clung to the edges of the tall grass, glittering faintly in the sunlight.
Sawyer moved with purpose, steady, methodical, as he made a slow circle around the cabin, checking windows, testing the door locks, and scanning the tree line.
Addy followed close behind, mimicking his movements and trying to memorize what he did.
“Rule number one,” he said quietly as he peered under the porch. “Never assume you’re alone. Even if you think you are.”
Addy swallowed hard, glancing toward the woods. The forest was quiet, too quiet, just the sound of a woodpecker in the distance. “Got it,” she said softly.
They finished the sweep and returned to the small clearing near the truck. Sawyer dropped to one knee, unzipping one of the large plastic totes. “Alright,” he said, flipping the lid back, “let’s go over what we’ve got.”
Addy crouched beside him, curious. Inside the tote was a neatly organized spread of supplies—tools, rope, a small camping stove, propane canisters, rolls of duct tape, a few flashlights, extra batteries, and a first-aid kit that looked military-grade.
Everything was clean and packed tight, as if it had been prepared with precision long before things went bad.
She raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were stocked.”
Sawyer smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard. When you spend years being told to plan for worst-case scenarios, it kind of sticks.”
He moved to the next tote. “Food, mostly canned. Rice, beans, dehydrated meals, a few protein bars. Enough for a month if we ration it right.”
Addy nodded, taking it all in. “You really thought of everything, huh?”
“Almost everything,” he said, his voice dipping a bit quieter. “Didn’t exactly plan for the company.”
She smiled lightly. “Guess I messed up your system then.”
He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers for a moment. “Nah,” he said finally. “Not in a bad way.”
Her cheeks warmed, and she quickly looked away as he reached into the truck and pulled out a long black case. He set it on the tailgate and opened it with a soft click.
Inside was a compact rifle, a handgun, and two boxes of ammunition. Each weapon was wrapped in oiled cloth and meticulously maintained. Addy let out a low whistle. “So, that’s what you’ve been hiding.”
Sawyer gave a small, almost proud grin. “These are tools, not trophies. They’ve kept me alive.”
He picked up the handgun, a matte black Glock, and held it out to her grip-first. “You said you could shoot. Let’s make sure you still can.”
Addy took it carefully, the weight familiar in her hands. She checked the chamber, the safety, the mag. It came back to her like muscle memory. “Still got it,” she said with a little smirk.
Sawyer chuckled. “Alright, Texas. Let’s find a tree stump and make sure that confidence’s well-placed.”
They walked a few yards behind the cabin to a clearing near the lake, where a half-rotted log sat surrounded by patches of frost. He set up a few empty cans from breakfast as makeshift targets.
“Alright,” he said, standing beside her. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Don’t fight the recoil, let it work with you. You know the drill.”
Addy lined up her shot, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. The sound cracked through the cold air, echoing across the water. The can jumped, spun, and fell over.
She grinned, lowering the gun. “Still good,” she said confidently.
Sawyer gave a low whistle. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
Addy laughed the first time in what seemed like weeks. It was small, but real, and it startled her a little.
He smiled too, nodding toward the cabin. “You’ll take the handgun on the run with me. Keep it on your hip. Always.”
“Got it.”
They packed everything back up, the air between them lighter now. As they worked, the faint warmth of the afternoon sun filtered through the trees, glinting off the lake.
And as Sawyer shut the tailgate and looked toward her, a small smile tugging at his lips, she realized something else.
She trusted him.
Which was odd, Addy rarely trusted anyone. Trust, in her experience, was something you earned over years, not days. Even with Evan, it had been… complicated.
Evan had been steady and kind in the beginning.
The kind of man who liked predictability, quiet dinners, steady routines, numbers that always added up.
And she’d tried to fit into that life, she really had.
But Evan thought she was too independent, too comfortable doing things on her own.
He used to say she didn’t need anyone, and he was right.
Addy had always been that way. She’d learned early on that needing people came with disappointment.
She grew up on a small cattle ranch tucked along the edge of nowhere, with her mom and her granddad.
Her father had died before she was born, a motorcycle accident on a rain-slick road that changed everything.
Her mom had packed up her city apartment and moved back home so her father could help raise her baby, and he had.
Her granddad had been the kind of man who could fix anything with baling wire and a curse word.
He’d taught her how to ride, how to mend fences, how to get up early and do the hard things before the sun even considered rising.
She’d learned how to calm a spooked horse, deliver a calf in the middle of a thunderstorm, and shovel manure without complaint.
“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.