Chapter 7: Echoes in the Frame

The storm wore on, a relentless beast that refused to tire. By the second day, Zara felt its weight in her bones—a dull ache that matched the restlessness clawing at her chest. She'd stayed in her suite most of the morning, the flashlight her only companion as she flipped through her notebook, trying to focus on shots she couldn't take. But her mind kept circling back to the control room—Rylan's breath against her cheek, his hand on hers, the heat that had nearly swallowed them whole. She'd dodged him since, keeping to the upper floors, but the isolation was fraying her edges, and she couldn't sit still any longer.

She grabbed her flashlight and headed downstairs, the lobby a familiar mess of sand and shadows. The guests were quieter now, resigned to the blackout, their murmurs blending with the wind's howl. The vents hummed faintly, a small victory from yesterday, but the air still felt thick, oppressive. She needed something—food, coffee, a distraction—and made for the dining area, her boots crunching over the grit.

A flicker of movement caught her eye—Rylan, slipping through the Staff Only door with a toolbox in hand. Her pulse kicked up, unbidden, and she hesitated, torn between following and retreating. Curiosity won, as it always did, and she trailed him, keeping her steps light. The hall was dim, the lantern light from his room spilling out as she nudged the door wider. He wasn't there, but a second door stood ajar at the back—a smaller office, its desk cluttered with papers and a single chair tipped against the wall.

She shouldn't have gone in. Should've turned back, grabbed a granola bar, and left well enough alone. But her feet carried her forward, the flashlight beam sweeping over the chaos—maps pinned to the walls, a cracked coffee mug, a stack of invoices stamped Past Due. It was messier than his lounge, more personal, and she felt like an intruder, her breath shallow as she scanned the space.

A photo frame teetered on the edge of the desk, half-buried under a notebook. She reached for it, brushing the papers aside, and froze. It was Rylan—younger, cleaner-shaven, his arm slung around a woman with bright eyes and a wide smile. They stood in front of a small plane, the sky behind them a clear, endless blue. He looked… happy, unguarded, a version of him she hadn't met. The woman's head rested on his shoulder, her hand curled against his chest, and a sharp, ugly twist tightened Zara's gut.

Jealousy. She recognized it instantly, bitter and hot, and hated herself for it. She had no claim on him—nothing beyond a few charged moments and a story that mirrored hers. But the sight of him with someone else, someone who'd known him before the desert, stung like sand in an open wound. Was this her? The fiancée who'd gutted him? Or someone else, someone he'd loved enough to frame and keep?

"Find something interesting?" Rylan's voice cut through the silence, low and edged, and she flinched, the frame slipping from her fingers. It hit the desk with a clatter, and she spun to face him, her flashlight beam catching his boots as he stepped into the room.

"I—" She stopped, caught, her cheeks burning. "Door was open. I was just…"

"Snooping," he finished, crossing his arms. His face was hard, shadows sharpening the lines of his jaw, and the warmth from last night was gone, replaced by something cold and guarded. "Didn't peg you for the type."

"I'm not," she snapped, defensive. "I was looking for you. Figured you'd be here."

"And you thought you'd dig through my stuff while you waited?" He stepped closer, his eyes flicking to the frame, and his expression tightened. "That's not yours to touch."

"I didn't mean to—" She cut herself off, frustration flaring. "Who is she?"

The question slipped out, sharp and unfiltered, and she regretted it the second it hit the air. His brows shot up, surprise giving way to a scowl. "None of your damn business," he said, voice rising. "What gives you the right to ask?"

"Maybe the fact that you've been spilling your sob story to me," she shot back, stepping toward him, the desk between them a flimsy shield. "You tell me about your fiancée, your crash-and-burn life, then act like I'm crossing a line for wondering?"

He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that echoed in the small space. "Wondering's one thing. Poking around my office is another. You don't get to play detective because we shared a drink."

"Oh, please." She gripped the flashlight tighter, her knuckles whitening. "It's more than a drink and you know it. You're the one who keeps pulling me in—checking on me, dragging me into your messes. Don't act like I'm the only one here."

He stared at her, his chest heaving, and for a moment, she thought he'd turn and walk out. But he stepped closer, rounding the desk until he was in her space, the air between them crackling. "You want to know about her?" he said, voice low, dangerous. "Fine. That's Jenna. My ex. The one who took everything and left me to rot. Happy now?"

She swallowed, the name landing like a stone. "Not really," she said, quieter, but her chin lifted, refusing to back down. "You still keep her picture around."

"It's not about her." He grabbed the frame, shoving it into a drawer with a force that rattled the desk. "It's about what I lost. What I won't lose again."

"Then why hide it?" she pressed, her voice rising again. "Why act like it's nothing when it's clearly eating at you?"

"Because it's mine to carry!" he shouted, and the storm's howl seemed to falter against his anger. "Not yours, not anyone's. You don't get to judge me for it."

"I'm not judging," she fired back, stepping into his space now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. "I'm trying to figure you out. You're the one who's got me twisted up in this—whatever this is—and I don't even know why!"

He froze, his eyes locking on hers, and the fight drained from him, leaving something raw in its wake. "Twisted up, huh?" he said, softer, but there was an edge to it, a dare. "That makes two of us."

Her breath caught, the admission hanging heavy between them. She could see it now—the strain in his jaw, the way his hands flexed like he was holding himself back. "Then what are we doing, Rylan?" she asked, her voice trembling with frustration and something deeper. "Fighting over a ghost? Pretending this doesn't mean anything?"

He didn't answer, just stared at her, his gaze dropping to her lips and back up. The room was too small, too hot, the storm a distant roar against the thud of her pulse. She stepped closer—reckless, defiant—and his hand shot out, catching her wrist, his grip firm but not bruising.

"Don't," he said, but it sounded more like a plea than a command, and his thumb pressed against her pulse, feeling it race.

"Why not?" She tilted her head, her free hand brushing his chest, and he inhaled sharply, his grip tightening. "You're the one who started this."

"Zara—" Her name was a growl, a warning, and she felt it in her bones, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. His other hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, and she leaned into it, daring him to cross the line.

He did. His palm cupped her face, rough and warm, and she surged forward, closing the gap. Their lips crashed together—hard, desperate, a collision of anger and want that stole her breath. He tasted of whiskey and sand, his mouth demanding, and she matched him, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. The desk dug into her hip, but she didn't care, lost in the heat of him, the way his fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

It was over too fast. He broke away, breathing ragged, his forehead pressed to hers. "Damn it," he muttered, his voice wrecked. "We can't—"

"Why not?" she demanded, still clutching his shirt, her lips tingling where his had been.

"Because I'm a mess," he said, pulling back, his hands dropping to his sides. "And you're… you're not here for this."

She laughed, sharp and shaky. "Don't tell me what I'm here for." She stepped back, needing space, her chest heaving. "You don't get to decide that."

He didn't respond, just watched her, his eyes dark with a mix of regret and hunger. She grabbed her flashlight, the beam shaking as she turned for the door. "Figure out what you want, Rylan," she said over her shoulder. "I'm done guessing."

The hall swallowed her, the storm's roar rushing back, and she climbed the stairs, her lips burning, her heart a tangled knot. She'd pushed him too far, and he'd pushed back, and now the fight had cracked something open—something she couldn't unfeel. In her suite, she sank against the door, the flashlight clattering to the floor, and let the storm drown out the echo of his kiss.