Chapter 14: Words Unsent

The desert afternoon shimmered with heat, the sun high and unforgiving, baking the dunes into a golden haze. Zara stood on the rooftop terrace, camera in hand, framing shots of the resort's glass walls glinting against the sand. The storm's scars were fading—palms straightening, paths cleared—but the air still carried a restless edge, mirroring the churn in her chest. Rylan's confession in the hallway—I'm falling for you—had lodged itself under her ribs, a quiet ache she couldn't shake. Their second kiss, fierce and flour-free, had only tightened the knot, leaving her teetering between want and wariness.

She'd kept busy since, shooting the aftermath, editing in her suite, avoiding the lobby where he'd be. But avoidance didn't dull the pull—his voice, his touch, the way he'd pinned her wrists and promised soon. Her lens couldn't capture that, couldn't frame the chaos he'd stirred, and it left her restless, her fingers itching for more than a shutter. By evening, the heat drove her inside, the AC a cool relief as she descended to the lobby, camera bag slung over her shoulder.

It was quieter now, guests scattered, the staff winding down. Rylan wasn't there—probably in his office, fixing something, being the steady anchor he always was. She hesitated, then headed for the Staff Only door, drawn by a need she wouldn't name. The lounge was empty, the lantern off, but the office door stood ajar, a faint light spilling out. She nudged it open, expecting him, but found the room deserted—desk cluttered, chair pushed back, a half-empty water bottle sweating on a stack of papers.

She shouldn't have lingered. Should've turned back, grabbed a drink, and retreated. But her eyes caught on a notebook, spiral-bound and worn, peeking from under an invoice. Curiosity tugged, sharp and familiar, and she slid it free, flipping it open. The pages were a mess of sketches—runway lines, plane schematics, notes in Rylan's tight scrawl. Then, tucked loose between the sheets, a folded paper slipped out, yellowed at the edges, addressed in bold ink: Jenna.

Her stomach dropped, the name a cold jolt. She glanced at the door—still alone—and unfolded it, guilt warring with the need to know. The handwriting was his, messy and rushed, dated three years back:

Jenna—

I don't know why I'm writing this. You're gone, took everything—money, planes, Cole—and I'm still here, picking up the pieces. Should've seen it, should've known, but I trusted you. Loved you, even when you made it hard. I keep asking why—why him, why now, why me—but there's no answer, just this hole you left. I'm selling what's left, heading somewhere you can't touch. Maybe I'll build something again. Maybe I won't. Either way, you don't get to win. This isn't forgiveness—it's goodbye.

—Rylan

She exhaled, the words heavy, raw, a window into the man he'd been—broken, defiant, clinging to hope. It wasn't sealed, wasn't sent, just a relic he'd kept, and she wondered why—closure he couldn't find, or a reminder he couldn't let go? Her fingers trembled, folding it back, and she slid it into the notebook, guilt sinking deeper.

"Zara?" Rylan's voice snapped her head up, and he stood in the doorway, a toolbox in hand, his brow creasing as he clocked the notebook. "What're you doing?"

"I—" She froze, caught, and set it down, stepping back. "Was looking for you. Found this instead."

His eyes narrowed, flicking to the notebook, and he crossed to the desk, setting the toolbox down with a thud. "Found what?" he asked, voice tight, and she saw the shift—wariness hardening his jaw.

"A letter," she admitted, lifting her chin. "To Jenna. Didn't mean to snoop—I just… opened it."

He stilled, his hand pausing over the notebook, and for a moment, she thought he'd snap, like the fight over the photo. But he sighed, rubbing his face, and flipped it open, pulling the letter free. "Should've burned this," he muttered, more to himself, and unfolded it, scanning the words like they stung.

"You don't have to explain," she said, softer now, stepping closer. "I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's fine." He cut her off, voice rough but steady, and looked up, meeting her gaze. "You've already got half my mess. Might as well have this too."

She nodded, the air between them softening, and he leaned against the desk, the letter crumpling slightly in his grip. "Wrote it after she left," he said, low and even. "Night I decided to come here. Never sent it—didn't see the point. She was gone, and I was done."

"Why keep it?" she asked, leaning beside him, their shoulders brushing, a quiet anchor.

He shrugged, staring at the paper. "Reminder, maybe. What I walked away from—what I won't let happen again."

Her chest tightened, his words echoing her own scars—Ethan's lies, the trust she'd lost. "I get it," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "More than you know."

He turned, his eyes searching hers, and set the letter down, his hand finding hers instead. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She laced her fingers with his, the touch grounding, and let the truth spill. "Ethan—he didn't just cheat. He made me doubt everything. Myself, mostly. Took months to stop feeling like a fool."

Rylan's grip tightened, his thumb brushing her knuckles. "You're not," he said, fierce and sure. "He was the fool—letting you go."

She laughed, small and shaky, and leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder. "Smooth talker."

"Truth," he murmured, his arm sliding around her, pulling her closer. They stayed like that, the office quiet save for the hum of the AC, the letter a silent witness on the desk. His warmth seeped into her, steady and real, and she felt the walls she'd built—cracked by kisses, confessions—start to give.

"Stay," he said after a while, voice soft against her hair. "Here, tonight. Just… be with me."

Her heart thudded, a mix of want and caution, and she pulled back, meeting his eyes—open, vulnerable, no trace of the guard he'd worn. "Not like that," he added, quick, reading her hesitation. "Just us. No rush."

She nodded, the tenderness in him unraveling her more than the heat ever had. "Okay," she said, and he smiled—small, real, a crack of light in the dark.

They moved to the lounge, the couch worn but soft, and he pulled her down beside him, his arm around her shoulders. She curled into him, legs tucked under, and he grabbed a blanket from a shelf, draping it over them. The silence was easy, broken only by their breathing, the faint creak of the building settling. His hand traced lazy circles on her arm, and she let her fingers rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath.

"Tell me something," she said, voice muffled against him. "Something good."

He hummed, thinking, then said, "First plane I flew—old crop duster, barely held together. Took it up at sixteen, scared shitless, but the second we broke the clouds… nothing else mattered. Just sky."

She smiled, picturing it—a younger Rylan, wild and free. "Sounds like you."

"Was," he said, quieter. "Still chasing that, some days."

She tilted her head, kissing his jaw, soft and impulsive, and he stilled, then turned, catching her lips in a slow, gentle press. It wasn't the hallway's fire—just warmth, a tether—and when he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath mingling.

"Night, Zara," he whispered, and she closed her eyes, sinking into him, the letter's ghosts fading under the weight of now.