Chapter 4: Whiskey and Dust

The storm didn't relent. By nightfall, it had settled into a relentless roar, a beast clawing at the resort's walls with sand and wind. Zara paced her suite, the flashlight beam bouncing off the furniture as she moved—bed to window, window to desk, desk back to bed. The power was still out, the room cloaked in a darkness that felt alive, pressing in with every gust that rattled the glass. She'd tried to work, sketching shot ideas by the thin light, but her focus kept slipping, dragged back to the lobby, to Rylan's steady hands and that quiet laugh that had caught her off guard.

She stopped by the window, peering into the void outside. The sand was a swirling mass, blotting out the world, and the isolation gnawed at her. She wasn't claustrophobic—not usually—but this felt different, like the desert was swallowing her whole. Her stomach growled, a reminder she hadn't eaten since the coffee that morning, and the minibar's water wasn't cutting it anymore. She needed food, air, something to shake the restless itch under her skin.

Grabbing the flashlight, she headed out, the hallway a tunnel of shadows as she descended the stairs. The lobby was quieter now, the guests either holed up in their rooms or passed out from exhaustion. A single lantern glowed by the bar, casting a faint circle of light over the chaos—overturned chairs still scattered, sand piled in corners like drifts of snow. She picked her way through, aiming for the dining area, hoping for a leftover pastry or anything to quiet her hunger.

A clink stopped her—glass on glass, soft but deliberate, coming from a side corridor she hadn't explored. She swung the flashlight toward it, the beam catching a half-open door marked Staff Only. Curiosity tugged, sharper than the hunger, and she crept closer, nudging the door wider with her boot. It opened into a narrow hall, then a larger room—a private space, not meant for guests. The air here was warmer, tinged with leather and woodsmoke, and Rylan sat at a small table in the center, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in front of him.

He looked up, mid-pour, and froze, his eyes locking on hers. "Kade," he said, voice rough from the day or the drink—she couldn't tell. "Didn't expect company."

"Didn't expect to find you drinking alone," she shot back, stepping inside. The room was a contrast to the resort's polish—raw, lived-in, with a worn leather couch, a cluttered desk, and shelves stuffed with books and maps. A single window rattled behind him, sand battering the glass, but the space felt steady, like it belonged to him in a way the lobby didn't.

He leaned back in his chair, the lantern light carving shadows across his jaw. "Not alone now, am I?" He nodded to the empty glass. "Join me?"

She should've said no. Should've turned back to the dining room, grabbed a snack, and retreated to her suite. But her feet moved anyway, carrying her to the table, and she dropped into the chair across from him, setting the flashlight down. "Only if it's good whiskey," she said, keeping her tone light, a shield against the pull she felt.

"Best I've got." He slid the glass over, pouring a finger of amber liquid that caught the light like liquid fire. "Figured it's a night for it."

She took the glass, their fingers brushing—third time now, and she still wasn't used to the spark it lit under her skin. "To surviving the storm," she said, raising it.

"To that." He clinked his glass against hers, and they drank, the whiskey burning a smooth path down her throat. It was good—better than she'd expected—and she let it settle, warming the edges of her nerves.

"Nice hideout," she said, glancing around. "This where you ride out all your storms?"

"Something like that." He sipped again, watching her over the rim. "Built it for myself when I started this place. Needed somewhere that wasn't… polished."

She nodded, tracing a finger along the glass's edge. "Doesn't match the rest. Lobby's all glass and glamour. This is—"

"Real?" He finished for her, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Rough," she corrected, meeting his gaze. "Like you."

He laughed, low and quiet, and the sound did something dangerous to her pulse. "Guess that's fair. You're not exactly polished yourself, Kade."

"Never claimed to be." She leaned back, mirroring his posture, the whiskey loosening her tongue. "So what's the deal, Voss? You hole up here with a bottle every time the sand kicks up?"

"Only the bad ones." He set his glass down, fingers lingering on it. "Keeps me sane when the world's falling apart outside."

She tilted her head, studying him. He looked tired—not the bone-deep kind, but the kind that came from carrying something heavy too long. "You said you built this place when everything fell apart. What fell?"

His smile faded, and for a moment, she thought he'd shut her down. But he poured another splash of whiskey, staring into it like it held the answer. "Life I had before," he said finally. "Business went under. People I trusted… didn't. Left me with nothing but a pile of debt and a need to get the hell out."

The words were clipped, but they carried weight, and she felt the echo of her own scars in them. "So you picked the desert?"

"Seemed far enough." He looked up, his eyes catching hers, steady and unguarded. "What about you? What's a photographer like you doing out here?"

"Work," she said, too fast. He raised a brow, and she sighed, swirling the whiskey. "Fine. Needed a reset. Things back home got… messy."

"Messy how?" He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and the space between them shrank, the air thickening.

She could've dodged it—should've—but the storm and the whiskey and the way he looked at her pulled the truth out. "Caught my fiancé with someone else. Six months ago. Been picking up the pieces since."

His jaw tightened, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. "Bastard."

"Yeah." She took a sip, letting the burn chase the memory. "Didn't see it coming. Should've."

"Never do." His voice softened, and he tapped his glass against the table, a restless little rhythm. "Mine was a fiancée too. Took half my company with her when she left. Guess we've got that in common."

She stared at him, the shared wound hanging between them like a thread. "Guess so," she said, quieter now. "Doesn't make it easier."

"Nope." He drained his glass, setting it down with a soft clink. "But it makes this—" he gestured to the room, the storm, them "—feel a little less crazy."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she drank instead, the whiskey warming her from the inside out. The silence stretched, not awkward but alive, filled with the rattle of the window and the faint creak of the building under the wind's assault. He watched her, and she let him, too tired or too reckless to care.

"You're not what I expected," he said after a while, his voice low, almost lost in the storm.

"What'd you expect?" She tilted her head, a challenge in her eyes.

"Some artsy type, maybe. All gear and no grit." He smirked, but it was softer now, less teasing. "Not someone who'd jump into a sandstorm to fix a mess."

"Not someone who'd build an oasis in the middle of nowhere," she countered, leaning forward. "You're not exactly predictable either."

"Good." He held her gaze, and the air shifted—thicker, hotter, like the storm had slipped inside. Her breath hitched, and she saw it register in his eyes, a flicker of heat that matched her own.

She should've pulled back. Should've said goodnight and retreated to her suite. But her hand moved instead, brushing his on the table—accidental, then not, her fingers lingering against his knuckles. His skin was warm, rough, and he didn't pull away. Neither did she.

"Zara," he said, her name a quiet rumble, and it was the first time he'd used it. It hit her like a touch, raising goosebumps along her arms.

"Rylan," she replied, testing it, and his eyes darkened, the gold flecks catching the lantern light. Her heart thudded, loud enough she was sure he'd hear it over the wind.

He turned his hand, palm up, and her fingers slid into his, a slow, deliberate tangle. His grip was firm, steady, and the contact sent a jolt through her—sharp, electric, undeniable. She didn't know who moved first, but they were closer now, the table a flimsy barrier between them. His breath brushed her cheek, warm with whiskey, and her lips parted, caught in the pull of him.

The window banged—a sudden, violent gust—and they froze, inches apart, the spell cracking but not breaking. He exhaled, a shaky sound, and squeezed her hand once before letting go. "Storm's not done with us yet," he said, voice rougher than before.

"Guess not," she managed, pulling back, her skin still buzzing where he'd touched her. She stood, grabbing the flashlight, needing air even if it was sand-choked. "Thanks for the drink."

"Anytime." He stayed seated, watching her go, and she felt his gaze like a weight all the way to the door.

The hall was cold, dark, the storm's howl louder now, but it couldn't drown out the thrum in her chest. She climbed the stairs, flashlight shaking in her hand, and locked herself in her suite, leaning against the door. Her fingers flexed, remembering his, and she cursed the storm, the whiskey, and the man downstairs who'd just turned her reset into something far more dangerous.