Chapter 9: Buried Lines

The desert exhaled as the storm faded, leaving a brittle calm in its wake. Zara stood on her suite's balcony, the morning sun clawing its way through the last wisps of clouds, casting long shadows over the reshaped dunes. The air was crisp, scrubbed clean, and she breathed it in, letting it steady the restless hum that had haunted her since the oasis. Her camera hung around her neck, lens cap off, ready to capture the aftermath—sand sculpted into alien waves, palms bent but unbroken, the resort's glass walls streaked with grit. It was raw, beautiful, and she needed it between her and Rylan's pull.

She'd barely slept, the near-kiss replaying in her mind—his hand on her arm, his breath on her lips, the branch crashing like a cosmic joke. It had left her wired, her skin too tight, and she'd spent the night sketching half-formed thoughts in her notebook, his name slipping onto the page again and again. She didn't know what they were doing—fighting, flirting, falling—but it was a current she couldn't outrun, and part of her didn't want to.

Downstairs, the lobby buzzed with tentative life. Power was back, flickering but holding, and the guests milled around, their voices a mix of relief and complaint. Zara grabbed a coffee from the bar—black, strong—and headed for her Jeep, parked where she'd left it days ago, now half-buried in sand. She brushed off the windshield, climbed in, and drove her laptop up to the suite, eager to upload yesterday's shots. The oasis had been a gamble, but she'd felt the potential in her bones, and she needed to see it on screen.

The suite was quiet, the hum of the revived AC a soft backdrop as she plugged in her camera and opened the files. The images loaded one by one—wide shots of the dunes, close-ups of the churned water, the fallen branch stark against the silt. She scrolled, sipping her coffee, and paused on a frame she didn't remember taking: a distant angle of the oasis, the horizon jagged with dunes. Something caught her eye—a shape, half-buried, protruding from the sand like a forgotten relic. It was angular, metallic, glinting faintly in the breaking light. Not natural. Not random.

She zoomed in, heart ticking faster. It looked like a structure—part of a wall, maybe, or a roof, swallowed by the dunes. The storm must've shifted the sand, uncovering it, and she'd caught it by chance. Her mind raced—old outpost? Abandoned project? It didn't fit the resort's sleek design, and Rylan hadn't mentioned anything beyond the oasis. She saved the file, grabbed her laptop, and headed downstairs, curiosity burning hotter than the coffee in her hand.

He was in the lobby, directing a staff member with a broom, his voice calm but firm. "Focus on the entrances first—keep the sand out where we can." He looked up as she approached, his eyes catching hers, and a flicker of something—wariness, warmth—crossed his face.

"Got a minute?" she asked, lifting the laptop. "Found something in the shots."

He nodded, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Yeah. Office okay?"

"Perfect." She followed him through the Staff Only door, past the lounge to the cluttered back room where they'd fought. The photo frame was gone—drawer shut, desk tidier—and she ignored the pang it sparked, setting her laptop on the cleared space. He leaned in beside her, close enough that she felt his heat, and she opened the image, pointing to the shape.

"Caught this yesterday," she said, zooming in. "Out past the oasis. What is it?"

He frowned, squinting at the screen, and his jaw tightened—a quick, subtle shift she might've missed if she hadn't been watching. "Huh," he said, voice flat. "Storm must've dug it up."

"Dug what up?" She turned to him, crossing her arms. "Don't dodge, Rylan. It's not a rock."

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, and leaned back against the desk, his weight creaking the wood. "It's… part of the old site," he said finally. "Before the resort. Failed project from when I first got here."

She raised a brow, sensing the half-truth. "Failed how?"

He hesitated, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the desk, and she waited, letting the silence press him. "Was supposed to be a hub," he said at last, voice low. "Small airstrip, fueling station—something to tie into the airline before it tanked. Had investors, plans, the works. Then Jenna pulled her stunt, money dried up, and it all went to hell. Left it to rot."

Zara nodded, piecing it together—his past bleeding into the sand, literally. "So you buried it?"

"Didn't have to." He smirked, bitter. "Desert did that for me. Storm's just stirring up ghosts."

She studied him, the weariness in his eyes, the way he held himself like he was braced for judgment. "Why keep it quiet?" she asked, softer now. "Not like it's a secret worth hiding."

"Didn't see the point in talking about it." He shrugged, but his gaze flicked to hers, searching. "Failure's not exactly a selling point for a luxury retreat."

"Fair." She closed the laptop, leaning against the desk beside him, their shoulders inches apart. "Still, it's a hell of a shot. Adds some mystery."

He chuckled, a dry sound that warmed the room. "You'd turn my mess into art, huh?"

"Someone's got to." She nudged him with her elbow, a peace offering of her own, and he nudged back, the tension from their fight easing into something softer, more fragile.

"Guess I should thank you," he said, turning to face her, his voice dropping. "For seeing it."

Her breath hitched, caught by the weight in his words, the way his eyes held hers—steady, unguarded. "Don't get sappy on me, Voss," she said, but it came out quiet, teasing, and she didn't move away as he shifted closer.

"Not sappy," he murmured, his hand brushing her arm, a deliberate echo of the oasis. "Just… honest."

The air thickened, the hum of the AC fading against the thud of her pulse. She tilted her head, lips parting, and he leaned in, slow and careful, like he was giving her time to pull back. She didn't. His fingers slid to her elbow, warm and rough, and her hand found his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath her palm. His breath brushed her lips, close enough to taste, and she closed her eyes, ready—

A knock rattled the door, sharp and insistent, and they sprang apart, her hand dropping, his falling to his side. "Boss?" a voice called—young, male, one of the staff. "Generator's acting up again."

Rylan cursed under his breath, stepping back. "Yeah, coming," he called, his voice tight. He glanced at Zara, regret flashing in his eyes. "Duty calls."

"Always does," she said, forcing a smirk to hide the flush creeping up her neck. She grabbed her laptop, brushing past him as she headed for the door. "Go fix your mess."

He caught her wrist, just for a second, his grip light but firm. "We're not done," he said, low enough that the staff wouldn't hear, and the promise in it sent a shiver down her spine.

"We'll see," she shot back, pulling free and slipping into the hall. The staff member—a kid with a mop of red hair—nodded at her, oblivious, and she kept moving, her heart hammering as she climbed the stairs.

In her suite, she sank onto the bed, laptop open, the photo staring back at her. The structure was more than a relic now—it was a crack in Rylan's armor, a piece of him he'd let her see. She traced it on the screen, her fingers lingering, and thought of his hand on her arm, his voice saying we're not done. The desert had uncovered more than sand, and she was starting to wonder just how deep she'd let it pull her.