12. The Climb #3
Addy experienced a mix of emotions she couldn’t sort through fast enough: fear, protectiveness, and something deeper that scared her more than any stranger in the woods ever would. It wasn’t just worry for her own safety anymore. It was him.
The thought of losing Sawyer, of waking one day and finding his side of the bed cold, made her chest ache.
Not due to her thinking she wouldn’t make it without him, but because she lacked the desire to.
This was crazy. Who falls in love this fast?
But maybe not being promised tomorrow pushed her to be more honest with herself. She didn’t know exactly.
She traced her fingers over the worn fabric of the blanket he slept under, her touch light, almost reverent.
The emotions blooming inside her were new, raw, and impossible to name without saying too much.
She’d never been the kind of woman who believed in falling for someone quickly, let alone someone in the middle of an apocalypse.
It wasn’t infatuation. It was something steadier, like gravity pulling her toward him no matter how she tried to resist.
She wanted to tell him. To ask if he sensed it too, that strange connection that had formed somewhere between fear and survival, between quiet nights and shared danger. But the words stayed stuck in her throat.
What if he didn’t feel the same? What if this was just circumstance, two desperate people clinging to warmth because the world had gone cold?
The uncertainty stung more than she wanted to admit.
Sawyer shifted in his sleep, muttering something under his breath. His hand twitched toward the space where his rifle usually lay before relaxing again. Addy smiled faintly. Even asleep, he was half-ready for battle.
“I’ll keep you safe,” she whispered, barely audible. “Just this once, it’s my turn.”
The fire popped softly in response, the sound small but grounding. Addy leaned back against the wall, letting her eyes drift to the window and the quiet white beyond.
* * *
Sawyer woke with a start. For a split second, he didn’t know where he was: the smell of smoke, the soft crackle of the dying fire, the low groan of the wind outside. Then it came back to him, sharp and clear. The ranger station. The storm. Addy.
He sat up slowly, blinking against the dim light. The fire had burned low, casting the room in long shadows. Through the frost-covered window, night had settled deep and silent, the snow outside reflecting faint traces of moonlight.
He rubbed a hand over his face, realizing how stiff his muscles felt. He’d meant to sleep two hours, possibly three. Judging by the darkness outside, he’d been out for at least twice that. Or longer.
Across the room, Addy lay near the hearth, awake and quietly working. Supplies were spread out beside her, the contents of the pack he’d managed to grab during their escape from the cabin. His pack.
He watched her for a moment, unseen. She was sorting through everything with methodical care, grouping what little they had left: a few cans of food, two bottles of water, a flashlight, a small first-aid kit, and several boxes of ammo.
She’d laid them out in neat lines, checking and rechecking, as if control over those few things might anchor her to sanity.
Thank God, he thought. They still had enough to make it a few days, maybe more if they were careful.
But it wasn’t the gear that held his attention.
It was her.
Addy sat cross-legged by the fire, the orange glow painting her face in soft, uneven light.
Her hair was tangled from too many days without washing, falling in messy strands over her shoulders, but it suited her, honest and unpolished in a way that made his chest tighten.
Her eyes reflected the firelight, steady and intent as she worked, and Sawyer realized he couldn’t look away.
It had been years since he’d let anyone in, years since anyone had stirred anything in him beyond instinct or duty.
Attraction, sure, that still happened sometimes.
But this? This mix of protectiveness and fear, of wanting to reach out and pull her close and not let the world touch her, that was new. And terrifying.
He’d buried too many people he cared about.
Family. Friends. Teammates. Every loss had carved a little more out of him until there wasn’t much left but the part that knew how to survive.
He’d promised himself he’d never let it happen again.
Never care enough for someone that their absence could undo you.
And yet, here she was.
This small, stubborn woman with plain brown hair and those eyes, God, those eyes, that saw straight through every wall he’d built and didn’t flinch.
He didn’t understand her. Didn’t understand why she wasn’t broken, why she could still look at the world with some scrap of hope when he’d long since stopped believing in it.
He wanted to look away, to force the emotions down, bury them where the rest of his ghosts lived. But instead, he found himself memorizing the way her fingers moved, the tiny crease between her brows as she focused, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
He could almost forget, for a moment, the world outside: the sickness, the hunters, the cold. It was just her. The flicker of firelight. The sound of his own heartbeat trying to catch up to something it hadn’t experienced in years.
Don’t, he warned himself silently. Don’t start this. You can’t afford to care.
But when Addy looked up and met his eyes across the fire, offering a faint, tired smile, he knew it was already too late.
The words escaped before Sawyer could catch them, three syllables he’d never intended to release into the world.
“I love you.”
They hung suspended between them like smoke in still air.
Addy went motionless, her lips parting slightly.
Something flickered across her expression, shock giving way to a warmth that spread from her eyes to the soft curve of her mouth.
Sawyer’s chest tightened. The realization that he’d spoken aloud hit him only when he saw the transformation on her face.
Christ, what had he done?
It was out there now. No taking it back.
He held her gaze, waiting, bracing for her to laugh, or look away, or worse, pity him. He’d faced firefights, lost friends, survived everything the world could throw at him, but this, this was different.
Addy didn’t laugh.
Instead, she moved toward him slowly, crawling across the rough wooden floor until she was right in front of him. The firelight danced across her face, soft and golden, her breath mingling with his. She reached up and cupped his jaw, her fingers warm and trembling slightly.
“Sawyer,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He didn’t breathe.
Then she leaned in, her lips brushing his in a soft, deliberate kiss, gentle but filled with everything words couldn’t quite manage. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his.
“I love you, too,” she said, just as quietly.
Sawyer let out a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Relief hit him first, sharp and almost painful, followed by something softer that settled deep in his chest.
He smiled then, small and real. “You sure about that?” he murmured.
Addy’s lips curved faintly. “Pretty sure.”
He laughed, the sound low and rough, but full of something new: hope. It seemed alien, yet pleasant.
They sat together in the flickering light, foreheads touching, hearts steadying. For a while, the world could stay broken. In here, it had just begun to heal.