Chapter 12: Flour and Fire

The desert night stretched quiet outside, the stars sharp against a sky finally free of storm clouds. Zara sat on her suite's bed, laptop open, the glow of her screen casting shadows across the room. She'd spent the day editing—shots of the oasis, the buried structure, the dunes reclaiming their shape—but her focus kept slipping, dragged back to Rylan's voice in the lobby, next time, I won't stop. The possessive edge in his eyes had stuck with her, a heat she couldn't shake, and it left her restless, her stomach growling as the clock ticked past ten.

She'd missed dinner again, too deep in her work, and the granola bars were long gone. The dining area would be closed, the staff likely asleep, but the kitchen might still have something—bread, fruit, anything to quiet the ache. She grabbed her flashlight, more habit than necessity now with power mostly stable, and headed downstairs, the resort's halls dim and empty.

The lobby was a ghost of itself, the sand swept into neat piles, the lantern glow replaced by flickering overheads. She slipped behind the bar, through the unmarked door she'd explored before, and found the kitchen beyond—a wide, stainless-steel space, cold and quiet. The air smelled of yeast and spices, and she swung her flashlight over the counters, spotting a loaf of bread on a cutting board, a jar of olives nearby. Good enough.

She was slicing the bread, the knife's rasp loud in the silence, when the door swung open behind her. She turned, blade pausing, and Rylan stepped in, a bottle of water in one hand, a frown creasing his brow. "Kade," he said, voice rough with surprise. "What're you doing in here?"

"Starving," she said, lifting the bread as evidence. "Didn't feel like waking your chef."

He smirked, shutting the door. "Good call. He's grumpy after eight." He crossed to the counter, setting the water down, and leaned against it, watching her. "That all you're eating?"

"Unless you've got a better idea." She popped an olive in her mouth, the salt sharp on her tongue, and raised a brow, daring him.

He chuckled, low and warm, and pushed off the counter. "Move over," he said, nudging her aside with his hip. "I'll make you something worth the trespass."

She stepped back, amused, and watched him rummage through a fridge—eggs, a block of cheese, a handful of herbs she didn't recognize. "You cook?" she asked, leaning against the counter where he'd been, the steel cool under her palms.

"When I have to." He cracked the eggs into a bowl, his hands steady, practiced. "Grew up on a ranch—learned early or starved."

"Ranch boy, huh?" She smirked, filing that away. "Explains the grit."

"Explains a lot." He grinned, whisking the eggs with a fork, and grabbed a pan, setting it on a burner. The gas clicked, flaring blue, and he tossed in a pat of butter, the sizzle filling the space. "You just gonna stand there, or you helping?"

"Bossy," she muttered, but slid over, grabbing a knife to chop the herbs. They worked side by side, the kitchen warming with the stove's heat, the air thick with butter and thyme. Her elbow brushed his, accidental at first, then not, and he didn't pull away, his shoulder solid against hers.

"Pass the cheese," he said, voice low, and she handed it over, their fingers grazing. The touch lingered, a spark in the quiet, and she saw it hit him—his jaw tightening, his eyes flicking to hers.

"Careful," she teased, nodding to the pan. "Don't burn it."

"Got it under control," he said, but his grin was crooked, distracted, as he grated the cheese into the eggs. She sprinkled the herbs, her hand brushing his arm, and the space shrank, the counter a flimsy barrier between them.

He flipped the omelet, the motion smooth, and grabbed a bag of flour from a shelf, dusting the counter to roll out some dough he'd pulled from the fridge. "Bread's better fresh," he said, catching her look. "Trust me."

"Fancy," she said, stepping closer to watch, and he smirked, tossing a pinch of flour at her. It hit her cheek, a soft puff, and she laughed, sharp and startled, swiping it off.

"Payback," he said, eyes glinting, and she grabbed a handful, flicking it back. It dusted his shirt, his hair, and he lunged, catching her wrist before she could reload.

"Truce," she gasped, still laughing, but he didn't let go, pulling her in until she was pressed against him, flour smudging between them. The laughter faded, replaced by a heat that had nothing to do with the stove, and her hands flattened on his chest, feeling the thud of his heart.

"Zara," he murmured, her name a rough caress, and she tilted her head, flour-dusted and reckless, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, gold flecks burning, and his grip shifted, sliding to her waist, firm and warm through her tank top.

"Don't stop this time," she whispered, and that was all it took. His lips crashed into hers, messy and hungry, tasting of salt and heat. She kissed him back, hard, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. Flour puffed around them, a cloud of chaos, and he groaned, deep and low, lifting her onto the counter with a strength that stole her breath.

Her legs parted, bracketing his hips, and he stepped between them, his hands roaming—her back, her thighs, leaving trails of flour on her skin. She arched into him, fingers tangling in his hair, and his mouth moved to her neck, teeth grazing the pulse there. The pan sizzled behind them, forgotten, and she tugged at his shirt, wanting it off, wanting more, but he caught her hands, pinning them to the counter.

"Slow down," he rasped, his forehead against hers, breath ragged. "Not here—not like this."

"Then where?" She nipped his lip, defiant, and he groaned again, kissing her softer, slower, a promise in the slide of his tongue.

"Somewhere I can take my time," he said, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes, his hands still on hers, flour smudging their grip. "You deserve that."

She laughed, breathless, her body humming. "You're killing me, Voss."

"Good." He grinned, stepping back, and she slid off the counter, legs shaky, flour dusting her shorts. The omelet was a charred mess in the pan, and he cursed, flipping off the burner with a laugh. "Guess we're back to bread."

"Worth it," she said, brushing flour from his cheek, and his hand caught hers, holding it there, his thumb tracing her knuckles. The touch was gentle, but the heat in his eyes wasn't, and she knew they were teetering on an edge—one more push, and they'd fall.

They ate the bread in silence, the olives sharp against the soft dough, and she watched him across the counter, the flour still clinging to his hair, his shirt. The kiss hung between them, a live wire, and when she stood to leave, he followed her to the door, his hand brushing her back.

"Night, Zara," he said, voice low, and she smirked over her shoulder.

"Night, Rylan." She climbed the stairs, the taste of him lingering—flour, heat, him—and sank onto her bed, heart pounding. The kitchen had been a spark, and she knew the fire was coming, inevitable and close.