5. The Cabin #5
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.”
“Fair enough.” She hesitated, tracing the rim of her bowl with her thumb before asking, “You ever been married? Kids?”
This time, his spoon stilled completely. For a heartbeat, she thought she’d pushed too far. Then he set it down and leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the fire.
“No,” he said finally, his tone clipped but not angry. Just closed. “Never found time for it.”
She nodded, unsure what to say next. He didn’t offer more, and she didn’t want to pry. The silence stretched again, this time thicker, filled with things unspoken.
Then Sawyer looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “What about you?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady. “You married? Kids?”
Addy blinked, surprised he’d turned the question around. “No,” she said softly, shaking her head. “I dated someone for a few years, but… it didn’t last. He wanted someone who needed him more, I think. I’ve always been a little too good at taking care of myself.”
Sawyer’s gaze held hers for a moment that seemed longer than it should have. “That’s not a bad thing,” he said. “Needing people can get you killed now.”
Addy looked down at her hands, turning his words over in her head. There was truth in them, cold and sharp, but still, a part of her missed the old kind of needing. The kind that came with warmth, laughter, and trust.
The fire popped, breaking the silence.
“Guess we’re both too independent for our own good,” she said, forcing a small smile.
Sawyer gave a quiet grunt that might have been agreement, or maybe it was just exhaustion. He stood, carrying both their bowls to the sink, rinsing them with a careful economy of motion.
As she watched him move around the cabin—strong, capable, utterly composed, Addy realized how rare that was now. To find someone steady in a world that had gone mad.
Sawyer didn’t waste time after dinner. The easy calm that had settled between them shifted into quiet efficiency. He moved through the space like a man who’d done this a hundred times before, checking, locking, reinforcing. The kind of habits that kept people alive.
“Help me with this,” he said, nodding toward the door.
Together, they pushed one of the old storage trunks from the corner, its wooden legs scraping harshly against the floorboards.
It was heavier than it looked, filled with old tools and books.
Sawyer positioned it against the door frame, bracing it tight beneath the handle.
He took a chair from the table and braced the back door next.
“That’ll slow anyone down,” he muttered, giving it a testing shove.
Addy nodded, breathless from the effort. “Anyone? You think there’s still—”
“Don’t know,” he cut in. “But I’d rather plan for the worst.”
That was becoming a theme with him, always prepared, always two steps ahead. It was oddly comforting, even when it scared her.
He crossed to the windows next, latching the shutters and securing them with a thick length of wire he’d found hanging by the stove.
The sound of the metal twisting tight echoed in the quiet room.
Addy followed behind, checking for drafts, pressing her hands against the seams to make sure the cold air stayed out.
Outside, the forest had gone still. The last streaks of sunset had faded to a deep indigo, and shadows swallowed the outline of the trees. The only light came from the fire, flickering against the log walls and painting everything in warm, shifting gold.
Sawyer crouched by the hearth, feeding more wood into the flames. The logs hissed and popped, sparks spiraling up the chimney. “Should last most of the night,” he said, mostly to himself. “Still, we’ll need to keep an ear out. Cold can get in fast up here.”
Addy watched him from across the room, the firelight catching in his dark hair, outlining the angles of his face. His movements were methodical, stack a log, close the grate, adjust the iron poker. Even the smallest actions seemed deliberate, purposeful.
When he stood, he brushed his hands on his jeans and turned to her. “Windows are sealed. Fire’s set. That trunk and chair will hold the doors unless someone drives through them.”
She gave a small, nervous laugh. “Comforting.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
For a moment, they both just stood there, the weight of exhaustion finally settling over them.
Addy moved to the bed, smoothing the blanket absently. “It’s strange,” she said quietly. “I feel… safer here than I have in weeks. Even with everything. Thank you, Sawyer.”
Sawyer looked toward the shuttered window, his jaw tightening just slightly. “Safety’s temporary now. But yeah… this’ll do for tonight.”
He reached for his duffel near the door, pulled out his rifle, and leaned it against the wall beside the bed within easy reach. “Just in case,” he said.
She nodded, her eyes lingering on the weapon before drifting back to him. The steady firelight flickered over his face, catching the faint scar that traced down his jaw.
“Thanks,” she said softly. “For… knowing what to do. For making it seem like it’s not all falling apart.”
He met her gaze for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. “It’s falling apart,” he said quietly. “We’re just holding the pieces together for a while.”
Then he turned back to the fire, crouching once more to adjust the logs. The light flared, bright and warm, filling the cabin with a golden pulse of life.
Addy sat on the edge of the bed, watching him until her eyes grew heavy. Outside, the wind began to whisper through the trees, rattling faintly against the shutters, but inside, everything became still. Contained.
The doors were braced, the windows sealed, and the fire glowed steady in the hearth. The night didn’t seem threatening.
By the time he turned back toward her, the fire had burned low. Shadows stretched across the cabin walls, long and soft.
“Get some sleep,” he said quietly. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
She nodded, but as she lay down that night, listening to the wind whisper through the trees outside, Addy found her thoughts circling back to him. To the way he’d said never found time for it.
She wondered what, or who, had stolen that time from him.
* * *
Morning crept in slow and quiet. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, filling the cabin with a steady warmth that made it hard to move.
Addy blinked awake, cocooned in blankets. For a blissful moment, she forgot where she was, forgot the silence that ruled the world outside. Then she caught the faint, unmistakable scent of coffee, and her eyes shot open.
Coffee.
She sat up fast, the blanket pooling around her waist, looking toward the small kitchen area.
Sawyer stood near the stove, stirring something in a dented pot, a faint curl of steam rising in front of him.
The sleeves of his thermal shirt were pushed up, forearms dusted with soot.
He looked completely at ease, like a man who had been living this life his whole life.
“You have coffee?” she asked, her voice scratchy from sleep.
He didn’t turn right away. “Instant. Don’t get too excited.”
She smiled, rubbing her eyes. “I could cry right now.”
“Please don’t. We can’t afford to waste water,” he said dryly, and she laughed, an actual laugh, the sound strange in the stillness.
He gestured to the table where a bowl of steaming water sat beside a rag and a bar of soap. “Hot water, if you want to wash up.”
Addy blinked at him, genuinely taken aback. “You… heated water? For me?”
“For both of us,” he corrected. “But yeah. Figured it might help you feel somewhat human again.”
Human. The word hit her harder than she expected.
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, and took the bowl into the small bathroom.
The air was cool against her bare skin as she undressed, the first touch of the hot rag against her face making her sigh.
She washed slowly, methodically, neck, arms, chest, stomach, between her legs, each pass of the rag washing away some of the grime, exhaustion, and fear.
When she looked in the cracked mirror, her reflection startled her. There were dark circles under her eyes and a hollowness to her cheeks, but she looked alive. Still here. Still trying.
A soft tap came at the door. “Coffee’s ready,” Sawyer said.
“Give me a sec,” she called, quickly pulling on her clothes. When she opened the door, he was standing there with a steaming tin mug, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.
“Thanks,” she said, wrapping her hands around the mug. “You have no idea how good this smells.”
“I do, actually,” he said, moving back toward the stove. “It’s the only thing that’s kept me halfway sane.”
She followed him to the table, where two bowls of oatmeal waited. “You really know how to spoil a girl,” she teased, taking a seat.
He chuckled, the sound low and rough. “Don’t get used to it. Supplies don’t exactly restock themselves.”