Page 60 of Sawyer

Sawyer nodded, his gaze still fixed on the path. “Yeah, they’re good people.”

There was a weight to his words that made me hesitate. After what happened at lunch—Cooper’s comment, the way Sawyer snapped—I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something deeper going on.

I hesitated, then spoke up. “You okay? I know the leg’s been bothering you for a while now, but…”

Sawyer’s jaw clenched, and his pace picked up slightly, as if he could outwalk the conversation. “It’s fine, Casey. It’s nothing.”

I furrowed my brow, watching him limp harder, the familiar hitch in his step more pronounced. “You don’t seem fine.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He turned to face me, frustration clear in his eyes. “Why do you keep pushing this? Just drop it.”

I swallowed, taken aback by the sharpness in his tone. “I’m just trying to help. I know something’s bothering you, Sawyer.”

His expression hardened. “You think you know me so well? You don’t understand what it’s like—being told you should be fine, that you should be healed, and every day you wake up and it still hurts.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

“And then everyone acts like it’s in my head. Like I’m making excuses,” Sawyer spat. “I’m not weak. I’m not making this up.”

“I never said you were,” I said softly, stepping closer. “But you can’t just keep pushing people away because of this.”

Sawyer let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. It’s not that simple.”

“Then make me understand.” My voice grew firmer, hurt creeping in. “I’m trying, Sawyer, but you keep shutting me out. How am I supposed to help if you won’t let me?”

Then he snapped, his voice rising. “I don’t need your help, Casey. I don’t need you to fix me.”

The words hit like a slap. I instinctively stepped back, my chest tightening. I hadn’t expected him to lash out like that.

For a moment, I stood there, frozen, my mind racing.

The old fears clawed at the edges of my thoughts—memories of a different time, a different shifter—but I pushed them down. This wasn’t the same.

Sawyer wasn’t the same.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t hurt. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “Fine,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s how you feel.”

Sawyer’s eyes softened slightly, and I saw a flicker of something—regret, guilt—cross his face.

But it was too late. The damage was done, and neither of us knew how to undo it.

Without another word, I turned and started walking back toward the trailhead. Sawyer followed in silence, the distance between us growing with every step.

The ride back to my place was just as quiet. I stared out the window, watching the trees blur by, trying to untangle the knot in my chest.

I glanced at Sawyer out of the corner of my eye.

His hands were tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

He hadn’t said a word since we left the trail, and I wasn’t sure if I should be the one to break the silence.

Even after he snapped, I wasn’t scared of him. I didn’t feel that old, familiar fear creeping in—the kind I’d felt with Mason.

That surprised me more than anything. I thought I’d react differently.

Instead, I was just angry. Angry because he refused to listen and wouldn’t accept help when he needed it.

It frustrated me. It wasn’t just that he lashed out—I could handle that.