Chapter 3: The Storm Breaks

The sky turned traitor by mid-afternoon. Zara had been on the rooftop terrace, framing a shot of the dunes as they shimmered under the climbing heat, when the first warning came—a low, guttural moan rolling in from the west. She lowered her camera, frowning at the horizon. The haze Rylan had mentioned had thickened into a wall of yellow-brown, swallowing the sun and casting an eerie, muted light over the resort. The air felt heavy, charged, like it was holding its breath before a scream.

She'd ignored his advice to stick close to the main building, chasing the perfect angle instead. Now, as the wind picked up, tugging at her hair and sending sand skittering across the terrace, she regretted it. The moan grew into a howl, and she cursed under her breath, slinging her camera bag over her shoulder. Time to move.

The stairs down were narrow, metal, and rattled under her boots as she descended, the sound swallowed by the rising gusts. She hit the lobby level just as the first real blast hit—a wall of sand slamming against the glass doors, rattling them in their frames. The chandelier swayed overhead, crystals clinking like a frantic wind chime, and the few guests she'd seen earlier were scrambling, their voices sharp with panic.

"Inside, now!" Rylan's voice cut through the chaos, steady and commanding. He stood near the entrance, ushering a middle-aged couple through the doors, his shirt whipping against his frame in the wind. His eyes caught hers across the room, narrowing slightly, and she knew he'd clocked her absence from the safe zones. She lifted her chin, defiant, and made for the desk to drop her bag.

The storm didn't wait. Another gust roared in, louder now, and the lights flickered—once, twice—before settling into a dim hum. The couple stumbled past her, the woman clutching a scarf to her face, the man muttering about canceled flights. Zara ignored them, focusing on securing her gear. Sand was already seeping through the cracks, a fine grit dusting the floor, and she zipped her bag tight, cursing the timing.

"Thought I told you to stay close," Rylan said, suddenly beside her. His voice was low, edged with something that might've been concern—or irritation. She couldn't tell.

"Needed the shot," she said, not looking up. "Didn't think it'd hit this fast."

"It's the desert. Fast is all it knows." He grabbed a stack of towels from behind the desk, tossing one to her. "Cover your face if you're heading back up. It's only getting worse."

She caught the towel, the fabric soft against her calloused fingers, and met his gaze. His hair was tousled, a few grains of sand caught in the dark strands, and his jaw was tight, like he was holding back more than he'd said. "I'm fine," she replied, though the words felt hollow as another blast shook the windows. "You've got enough to handle here."

He snorted, a dry sound that didn't match the storm's fury. "Yeah, well, you're part of it now. Storm's locked us in—roads are gone, heliport's useless. You're stuck."

"Stuck?" She straightened, the word landing like a punch. "For how long?"

"Hours. Maybe days." He shrugged, but his eyes didn't leave hers. "Depends on how hard it wants to hit."

Days. The thought churned in her gut, mixing with the adrenaline already pumping from the chaos. She'd planned for a quick shoot—three days, tops—not a forced stay in this glass-and-sand cage with a man who already got under her skin. "Great," she muttered, slinging the towel over her shoulder. "Just what I needed."

"Welcome to my world." He turned away, barking an order at a staff member she hadn't noticed—a young guy in a polo shirt, scrambling to secure a side door. The lobby was a flurry now, guests clustering near the bar, staff darting with blankets and water bottles. Rylan moved through it like he'd done it a hundred times, his calm a stark contrast to the storm's rage.

Zara hesitated, then headed for the elevator, determined to ride this out in her suite. But the power flickered again, and the doors stayed shut, a red light blinking mockingly. She swore, spinning back to the lobby. Rylan caught her eye from across the room, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as if he'd known she'd hit a wall.

"Stairs," he called, pointing to a hallway off the main space. "Power's dicey in a blow like this."

She didn't thank him, just grabbed her bag and marched toward the hall, the towel clutched in her fist. The stairwell was dim, lit by emergency strips that cast a greenish glow, and the wind's howl followed her up, muffled but relentless. By the time she reached the top floor, her legs burned, and her breath came in short, sharp bursts—not from the climb, but from the weight of being trapped.

Her suite was still a haven, the windows rattling but holding, the view now a swirling mass of sand that blotted out the dunes. She dropped her bag by the bed and crossed to the glass, pressing her forehead against it. The cold steadied her, grounding the restless energy that had been building since Rylan's warning. Days. She could handle days. She'd handled worse—Ethan's lies, the months of silence after, the way she'd rebuilt herself shot by shot. This was just sand and wind. Nothing personal.

A knock jolted her from her thoughts, sharp and insistent. She turned, frowning, and crossed to the door, cracking it open. Rylan stood there, a flashlight in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. His shirt was dusted with sand, clinging to his chest where the wind had pressed it, and his eyes were darker in the hallway's dim light—green, she decided, with flecks of gold.

"Checking on you," he said, leaning a shoulder against the frame. "Power's out for good now. Thought you might need this."

She took the water, their fingers brushing again—deliberate this time, she'd swear it—and the same jolt from last night sparked up her arm. "I'm fine," she said, stepping back to widen the distance. "You don't need to play hero."

"Not trying to." He held up the flashlight, offering it next. "But it's dark up here, and I'd rather not fish you out of a stairwell later."

She snatched it, her jaw tight. "I can handle a blackout."

"Sure you can." His tone was dry, but there was a flicker of something else—amusement, maybe, or challenge. "Just don't trip over your pride on the way down."

She glared, but he was already turning, his boots echoing in the hall as he headed back to the stairs. She shut the door harder than necessary, the sound swallowed by the storm's roar, and set the water and flashlight on the desk. Her pulse was up, and not just from the wind. He was infuriating—too calm, too sure, too… present. She didn't need him checking on her like some damsel in distress. She'd been fine on her own for months, and she'd be fine now.

The room dimmed further as the storm thickened, the windows groaning under the onslaught. She flicked on the flashlight, its beam cutting through the gloom, and sank onto the bed, pulling her notebook from her bag. Work. That's what she'd focus on—sketching out shots for when the sand cleared, mapping the story she'd tell. But her pen hovered, her mind drifting to Rylan's voice, his steady hands, the way he'd looked at her like he saw past the armor she'd built.

A crash downstairs snapped her back—glass, maybe, or something heavy toppling in the wind. She stood, flashlight in hand, and crossed to the door, peering into the hall. Empty, silent, save for the storm's muffled fury. She should stay put, wait it out. But the restlessness won, and she stepped out, the beam bouncing off the walls as she made for the stairs.

The lobby was a mess when she reached it—chairs overturned, a potted cactus spilled across the floor, sand piling against the doors like it wanted in. The guests were huddled near the bar, their faces pale in the flickering light of a few lanterns. Rylan was by the entrance, wrestling a tarp over a cracked window, his muscles straining under his shirt as he tied it down. He didn't see her at first, too focused on the task, and she watched him for a moment, caught by the quiet strength in his movements.

"Need a hand?" she called, surprising herself. Her voice cut through the wind's whine, and he glanced back, surprise flashing across his face before it settled into that damn half-smile.

"Thought you were staying put," he said, securing the last knot.

"Got bored." She stepped closer, shining the flashlight on the tarp to help him see. "What's the damage?"

"Window took a hit. Nothing major—yet." He straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans, and nodded toward the bar. "Guests are spooked, though. Could use some calm if you're offering."

She snorted. "I'm not exactly the soothing type."

"Could've fooled me." His eyes held hers, steady and warm, and her breath caught despite the chaos around them. "You're here, aren't you?"

She didn't answer, just handed him the flashlight and moved to right a chair, giving herself something to do. He followed, working beside her in silence, their movements syncing without words—lifting, shifting, steadying the space as the storm raged on. It was strange, how natural it felt, how his presence anchored her even as it unsettled her.

When they finished, the lobby was still a wreck, but less so, and the guests had quieted, sipping water and murmuring among themselves. Rylan handed the flashlight back, his fingers lingering on hers a beat too long. "Thanks," he said, voice low. "Didn't expect you to jump in."

"Didn't expect to be stuck in a sandstorm," she shot back, but there was no bite in it. "Guess we're even."

He chuckled, a sound that warmed the cold edges of the room. "Guess so."

She stepped back, needing space from the pull of him, and headed for the stairs. "See you when it clears," she said over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply. But she felt his eyes on her all the way up, a heat that followed her into the dark.

The storm howled on, and in her suite, she curled up with the flashlight and her thoughts, the memory of his touch burning brighter than the wind outside.