Chapter 5: Cracks in the Walls

Morning brought no relief. The sandstorm clawed at the resort with renewed fury, a relentless howl that seeped through the walls and into Zara's bones. She woke to darkness, the flashlight's beam her only tether to the world beyond the bed. The clock was dead, but the grayish light leaking through the blinds told her it was past dawn—barely. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her hand flexing against the sheets where Rylan's touch still lingered in her memory. Last night had been a mistake—not the whiskey, not the conversation, but the way she'd let him in, let him see the cracks she'd spent months sealing shut.

She rolled out of bed, the floor cold against her bare feet, and pulled on yesterday's clothes—tank top, shorts, boots. The suite felt smaller now, the storm shrinking it into a cage, and she needed out, needed to move before her thoughts spiraled too far. Her camera bag stayed by the desk; no point shooting in this mess. Instead, she grabbed the flashlight and her notebook, scribbling a quick list of questions that had festered overnight: Why the desert? What fell apart? Who's he hiding from? Rylan's half-answers had only stoked her curiosity, and she wasn't one to let a story sit unfinished.

The hallway was a void, the emergency lights flickering like they were on their last breath. She descended the stairs, the wind's roar growing louder with every step, and found the lobby in a state of controlled chaos. A few guests huddled near the bar, wrapped in blankets, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Staff moved quietly, distributing coffee and granola bars, their voices low against the storm's din. Rylan was nowhere in sight, and a flicker of disappointment surprised her—sharp, unwelcome.

She snagged a coffee from a tray, the bitter heat grounding her, and scanned the room. The tarp from last night held firm over the cracked window, but sand still crept in, dusting the floor in thin, gritty waves. She sipped, letting the caffeine chase the fog from her mind, and headed for the corridor where she'd found him last night. If he wasn't here, that's where he'd be—holed up in his sanctuary, nursing his secrets and that damn whiskey.

The Staff Only door was ajar, a sliver of lantern light spilling into the hall. She pushed it open, stepping into the warm, cluttered space she'd left hours ago. Rylan was there, sprawled on the leather couch, a map spread across his lap and a mug in his hand. He looked up, mid-sip, and his eyes widened slightly before settling into that familiar, infuriating calm.

"Back for more?" he asked, setting the mug on the table. His voice was rough, sleep-deprived, and it tugged at something low in her gut.

"Couldn't sleep," she said, shutting the door behind her. The storm's howl dulled to a muffled growl, and she crossed to the table, dropping her notebook beside his map. "Figured I'd keep you company."

"Lucky me." He folded the map, a topographic sprawl of dunes and ridges, and leaned back, stretching his arms along the couch. His shirt pulled tight across his chest, and she forced her eyes to his face, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck. "What's on your mind, Kade?"

"You," she said, blunt as a hammer, and watched his smirk falter. "Last night—you said you built this place when everything fell apart. I want the rest of it."

He studied her, the lantern casting shadows that deepened the lines around his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I'm stuck here," she said, leaning a hip against the table. "And I don't like mysteries I can't solve."

He chuckled, dry and low. "Not much of a mystery. Just a guy who screwed up and started over."

"Bullshit." She crossed her arms, fixing him with a stare. "You don't build a resort in the middle of nowhere because you 'screwed up.' That's running, not starting over. So what happened?"

He didn't answer right away, just watched her, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the couch. The silence stretched, thick with the storm's pulse, and she thought he'd deflect again. But then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Alright. You want the ugly version? I had a charter airline—small, but mine. Built it from nothing. My fiancée ran the books. Turns out she was better at running them into the ground—and into her own pocket. Took off with half the profits and a pilot I'd trained myself. Left me with a bankrupt shell and a reputation in the gutter."

Zara blinked, the rawness of it catching her off guard. She'd expected evasion, not… that. "Jesus," she said, softening despite herself. "That's—"

"A mess," he finished, his voice flat. "Yeah. Took what I had left, bought this patch of sand, and made something she couldn't touch. That's the story."

She nodded, processing, the pieces clicking into place—his guarded edges, the way he'd clung to this place like a lifeline. "Why here, though? Why not some beach somewhere?"

"Beaches are loud. Crowded." He shrugged, but his eyes drifted to the window, to the storm beyond. "Desert's quiet. Honest. Doesn't pretend to be anything it's not."

She snorted. "Honest? It's trying to bury us alive right now."

"Exactly." He grinned, quick and sharp, and it lit something in her chest. "No games. You get what you see."

She held his gaze, the air between them shifting—warmer, heavier. "And what do I see with you?"

His grin faded, replaced by something deeper, more dangerous. "You tell me."

Her pulse kicked up, and she stepped closer, drawn by the challenge in his voice. "Someone who's good at hiding. But not as good as he thinks."

He stood, slow and deliberate, closing the gap until he was a breath away. "And you? What're you hiding, Zara?"

The way he said her name again—soft, rough, like a secret—sent a shiver down her spine. She tilted her head, defiant. "Not hiding. Just not handing it over."

"Fair enough." His eyes dropped to her lips, then back up, and the room shrank, the storm fading to a distant hum. "But you're here. Asking. That's something."

"Yeah," she said, her voice quieter now, caught in the pull of him. "It is."

He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek, and she didn't move—couldn't, not with the heat radiating from him, the whiskey-and-woodsmoke scent filling her lungs. His fingers brushed her jaw, light as a whisper, and her breath hitched, loud in the silence. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, his thumb tracing the edge of her chin.

She didn't. Couldn't. Her hand found his chest, palm flat against the hard plane of muscle, and she felt his heartbeat—fast, unsteady, mirroring hers. "Don't," she said, the word slipping out before she could catch it.

His eyes darkened, and he leaned in, his lips a heartbeat from hers. The world narrowed to the space between them, the storm a forgotten roar, and she tilted up, ready to close it—when a sharp crack split the air. The window shuddered, a hairline fracture spidering across the glass, and they jerked apart, the moment shattering like the pane.

"Shit," Rylan muttered, stepping back, his hand dropping to his side. He crossed to the window, inspecting the damage, and Zara stayed rooted, her skin buzzing, her breath ragged.

"Guess the desert's not done with us," she said, forcing a lightness she didn't feel.

He glanced back, his expression a mix of frustration and something softer—regret, maybe. "Guess not." He grabbed a roll of tape from the desk, patching the crack with quick, practiced moves. "You okay?"

"Fine," she lied, her voice steadier than her pulse. She grabbed her notebook, needing an anchor. "Just… need some air."

He nodded, not pushing, and she turned for the door, the flashlight beam shaking in her hand. The hall swallowed her, cold and dark, and she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. Her lips tingled where his hadn't quite landed, and she cursed herself—cursed him, the storm, the whole damn desert. She'd come here to reset, not to unravel, but Rylan Voss was pulling threads she didn't know she had.

Back in her suite, she sank onto the bed, the storm's howl a mocking echo of the chaos inside her. She'd pushed him, and he'd pushed back, and now the line between them was blurred—dangerously, deliciously blurred. She didn't know what came next, but one thing was clear: this wasn't just a job anymore.