Chapter 13: Unspoken and Undone

Morning crept into the desert with a soft, golden glow, the dunes outside Zara's window bathed in light that felt too gentle after days of storm and shadow. She woke tangled in sheets, her body heavy with the memory of Rylan's lips—flour-dusted, fierce, pressed against hers in the kitchen's chaos. The kiss had followed her into sleep, a restless echo that left her skin too warm, her pulse too quick. She rolled over, groaning into the pillow, and tried to shove it down, but it clung like sand, gritty and inescapable.

She dressed slow—tank top, shorts, boots—avoiding her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her lips were still sensitive, a faint bruise from his teeth, and she pressed her fingers there, feeling the ghost of him. Last night had been reckless, a line crossed, and she didn't know where they stood now—teetering between something real and something she'd regret. Her camera bag stayed on the desk; she wasn't ready to face the world through a lens, not when her head was this muddled.

The lobby was alive when she descended, the power humming steady, guests milling with renewed energy. The sand was mostly gone, swept into corners, and the air smelled of coffee and hope. She grabbed a mug from the bar, scanning the room, and spotted Rylan near the reception desk, talking to a staff member. His back was to her, shirt stretched tight across his shoulders, and her stomach flipped—sharp, unwanted. She turned away, sipping the coffee, but his voice carried, low and steady, pulling her back.

"Zara." He'd seen her, damn it, and she froze, mug halfway to her lips, as he crossed the lobby, his boots a quiet thud on the stone. "Morning."

"Morning," she echoed, her voice too tight, and she hated it—hated the awkwardness creeping in, the way her eyes flicked to his mouth and away. "Sleep okay?"

"Could've been better." His smirk was there, but it was softer, strained, and his gaze held hers, searching. "You?"

"Fine," she lied, setting the mug down, needing her hands free. "Busy day ahead?"

"Always." He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Can we talk?"

Her pulse kicked up, a warning bell, but she nodded, following him to the side hall, away from the guests' chatter. The Staff Only door loomed, but he stopped short, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. She mirrored him, keeping space, though the air between them felt charged, heavy with last night's heat.

"About the kitchen—" he started, rubbing his jaw, and she cut him off, defensive.

"Don't apologize," she said, sharper than she meant. "I'm not sorry."

His brows lifted, surprise flashing, then a grin—slow, dangerous. "Good. Neither am I." He straightened, closing the gap, and her breath hitched, caught by the intensity in his eyes. "But I need to say something."

"Then say it," she challenged, chin up, and he exhaled, rough and unsteady, like he was bracing himself.

"I'm falling for you, Zara." The words landed hard, raw, stripping the air from her lungs. "Been fighting it since you walked in—prickly, stubborn, too damn good with that camera. Last night… it's not just a kiss for me. It's you."

She stared, her heart slamming against her ribs, and the hallway shrank, the world narrowing to him—his flushed face, his hands flexing like he wanted to reach for her. "Rylan—" she started, but her voice cracked, and he stepped closer, his heat brushing her skin.

"Don't say anything yet," he said, low and urgent. "Just… hear me out. I've been burned before—bad—and I swore I wouldn't do this again. But you're in my head, under my skin, and I can't shake it. I don't want to."

Her throat tightened, his confession peeling back layers she hadn't touched—hers or his. "You're not the only one burned," she said, quieter now, meeting his gaze. "Ethan—my ex—he wrecked me. Trust's not easy."

"I know." His hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, and she didn't flinch, letting it settle, warm and rough against her skin. "Doesn't mean I'm walking away."

"Good," she whispered, and that was it—the dam broke. She surged forward, crashing into him, and his arms caught her, pulling her tight as their lips met. It was different from the kitchen—less messy, more desperate, a collision of need and truth. He tasted of coffee and him, his mouth hot and insistent, and she pressed herself closer, hands fisting in his shirt.

He spun them, pinning her to the wall, and she gasped into the kiss, his body hard against hers. His hands roamed—her waist, her hips, sliding under her tank top to graze bare skin—and she arched, heat pooling low, urgent. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, tugging him down, and he groaned, deep and ragged, his lips trailing to her jaw, her neck, teeth scraping the pulse there.

"Zara," he rasped, his breath hot against her ear, and she shivered, legs trembling as his thigh pressed between hers. She yanked at his shirt, wanting it off, wanting him, and he caught her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, the other cupping her face.

"Slow," he murmured, kissing her again, softer but no less fierce, and she whimpered, caught between frustration and the fire he was stoking. "Not here."

"Then where?" she demanded, breathless, nipping his lip, and he laughed, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through her.

"Soon," he promised, releasing her wrists, and she slid her hands to his chest, feeling the thud of his heart. He pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead against hers, and they stood there, tangled, the hallway a cocoon of heat and want.

"Falling, huh?" she said finally, voice shaky, and his grin was crooked, tender.

"Hard," he admitted, brushing her hair back, flour-free now but no less messy in her mind. "You?"

She swallowed, the truth clawing up her throat. "Maybe," she said, and it was enough—for now, it was enough.

He kissed her again, slow and deep, sealing it, and then stepped back, his hands lingering on her hips. "Got work," he said, voice rough. "But we're not done."

"Never said we were," she shot back, smirking, and he chuckled, heading for the lobby, leaving her against the wall, flushed and reeling.

She climbed to her suite, legs unsteady, and sank onto the bed, her lips tingling, her body alive with him. The hallway had been a confession, a collision, and she knew they were hurtling toward something bigger—something she couldn't dodge anymore. Her notebook lay open, Rylan's name scrawled across it, and this time, she circled it, a quiet surrender to the fall.