Chapter 8: Oasis Edge

The storm began to falter on the third day, its howl softening to a ragged whimper. Zara woke to a stillness that felt foreign after days of chaos, the silence ringing in her ears as she rolled out of bed. The flashlight was dimming, its beam a weak flicker, but a faint gray light seeped through the blinds—real light, not the storm's murky haze. She crossed to the window, peering out, and saw the dunes emerging from the sand's grip, their curves sharp against a sky bruised with fading clouds. It wasn't over, not fully, but the worst had passed, and the relief hit her like a cool breeze.

She dressed quickly—fresh tank top, shorts, boots—and grabbed her camera bag, itching to shoot something after days cooped up. The fight with Rylan still gnawed at her—the kiss, his retreat, the way he'd shut her out—but she shoved it down, focusing on the job. She needed air, space, a lens between her and the mess they'd made. The hall was quiet as she descended, the emergency lights off, replaced by a faint hum of power trickling back. The lobby was a wreck—sand piled high, furniture askew—but the guests were stirring, their voices a low buzz of hope.

Rylan was there, near the cracked window, prying the tarp loose with a crowbar. His shirt clung to his back, sweat-darkened, and his hair was a mess of sand and curls. He didn't see her at first, too focused on the task, and she paused, caught by the flex of his arms, the memory of his lips crashing into hers. Her stomach flipped, and she cursed it, stepping forward before she could overthink.

"Morning," she said, keeping her tone neutral, and he glanced back, crowbar stilling.

"Kade." His voice was rough, guarded, but his eyes softened—just a flicker—before he turned back to the tarp. "Storm's dying. Should clear by noon."

"Good." She adjusted her camera strap, needing something to do with her hands. "Thought I'd get some shots before it's gone completely."

He nodded, prying the last corner free, and the tarp fell in a dusty heap. Light streamed in, weak but real, cutting through the gloom. "Be careful out there," he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Sand's still shifting."

"Noted." She hesitated, the air between them thick with yesterday's fight, and then blurted, "You okay?"

He looked at her, surprise crossing his face, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. You?"

"Fine." A lie, but she let it sit. "Just… needed to move."

He studied her, then set the crowbar down, stepping closer. "Look, about last night—"

"Don't." She cut him off, sharper than she meant, and softened it with a shrug. "Let's just… leave it."

He nodded, slow, but his jaw tightened, like he wanted to argue. Instead, he grabbed a water bottle from the desk and tossed it to her. "Come with me," he said, already heading for the door. "Got something to show you."

She caught the bottle, frowning. "What?"

"Peace offering." He didn't look back, just pushed through the glass doors, and curiosity—damn it—pulled her after him.

The air outside was warm, heavy with the storm's leftovers, but it moved now, a faint breeze stirring the sand. Rylan led her along the path to the oasis, his strides long and sure, and she followed, camera bouncing against her hip. The dunes were scarred, reshaped by the wind, and the palms leaned, fronds tattered but standing. The oasis came into view—smaller, wilder than before, its water murky with silt but still shimmering under the breaking sky.

"Thought you'd want to see it like this," he said, stopping at the edge. "Before it settles."

She nodded, lifting her camera to frame it—the churned water, the bent palms, the dunes looming like silent witnesses. Click. The shutter snapped, and she adjusted the lens, chasing the light as it pierced the clouds. "Thanks," she said, lowering it. "Good call."

He shrugged, hands in his pockets, and watched her work. "Figured I owed you. After… everything."

She glanced at him, the fight hovering between them like a ghost. "You don't owe me anything, Rylan. We both said shit we meant."

"Maybe." He kicked at a stone, sending it into the water with a soft plop. "Doesn't mean I liked it."

She snorted, setting her camera down on a rock. "What, kissing me or yelling at me?"

"Both." His eyes met hers, steady and unguarded, and her breath caught. "Mostly the yelling."

Her lips twitched, a reluctant smile breaking through. "You're not great at it. Too calm."

"Years of practice." He stepped closer, the breeze tugging at his shirt, and she felt the shift—the air warming, the space shrinking. "You're not bad yourself. Got a mean glare."

"Comes with the territory." She held his gaze, her pulse kicking up, and the oasis faded, the world narrowing to him—his sand-dusted jaw, the gold in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

"Zara," he said, low and rough, and her name in his mouth was a hook, reeling her in. He reached out, his hand brushing her arm, and she didn't pull away, letting his fingers slide to her elbow, warm and firm.

"Don't start something you won't finish," she warned, but her voice betrayed her—soft, wanting—and his grip tightened, pulling her closer.

"I'm not." He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek, and her hands found his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. The kiss from last night flashed through her—the heat, the desperation—and she tilted up, ready for it again, slower this time, deeper.

A crack split the air—a branch snapping overhead, loosened by the storm—and they jerked apart, her heart slamming as the limb crashed into the water, splashing them both. She laughed, sharp and startled, wiping wet sand from her face, and he cursed, stepping back, his shirt clinging where the spray had hit.

"Desert's got timing," he muttered, but his eyes were still on her, dark with the same hunger she felt.

"Guess so." She shook her head, the moment broken but not gone, lingering in the damp heat between them. She grabbed her camera, needing an anchor, and framed a shot of the fallen branch, the water rippling around it. Click. "Still a good shot."

He watched her, silent, and she felt his gaze like a touch, raising goosebumps along her arms. "You're something else, Kade," he said finally, voice low, and she smirked, hiding the way it warmed her.

"Back at you, Voss." She slung the camera over her shoulder, brushing past him as she headed back to the path. "Thanks for the tour."

He followed, close enough that she could feel his presence, steady and unyielding. "Anytime," he said, and the promise in it stuck with her, a thread she couldn't untangle.

Back in the lobby, the power flickered on—dim, unsteady, but there—and the guests cheered, a ragged sound that broke the tension. Zara climbed to her suite, the oasis still vivid in her mind—the water, the branch, the almost-kiss that had her lips tingling. She dropped her bag and sank onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The storm was clearing, but something else was brewing—something with Rylan at its center—and she didn't know if she wanted to run from it or straight into it.

She pulled out her notebook, sketching the oasis, the branch, his silhouette against the dunes. Her pen paused over his name, and this time, she didn't scratch it out. The desert wasn't done with them yet, and neither was she.