Chapter 16: Afterglow and Ashes

Dawn broke over the desert with a quiet ferocity, the sky bleeding pink and gold, the dunes glowing like embers. Zara woke to the rustle of palms and the weight of Rylan's arm across her waist, his breath warm against her neck. They'd stayed at the oasis all night, tangled in each other, the sand their bed, their clothes a scattered map of where they'd been. Her body ached—deliciously sore, marked by him—and she shifted, feeling the grit against her skin, the memory of his hands, his mouth, igniting a flush that hadn't faded.

He stirred, his grip tightening briefly before his eyes opened, green and gold catching the light. "Morning," he murmured, voice rough with sleep, and his lips curved into a slow, lazy grin that made her stomach flip.

"Morning," she echoed, propping herself on an elbow, sand falling from her hair. She should've felt exposed—naked, sprawled in the open—but his gaze was soft, steady, and it wrapped around her like the blanket they'd left behind. "Sleep okay?"

"Better than I have in years," he said, sitting up, his hand sliding to her hip, thumb brushing the curve there. "You?"

"Fine," she said, too fast, and his grin widened, catching the dodge. She smirked, shoving his shoulder lightly. "Don't get smug."

"Too late." He leaned in, kissing her—soft, lingering, a contrast to last night's fire—and she melted into it, her hand curling against his chest. The tenderness caught her off guard, a quiet intimacy that felt bigger than the passion, and it stirred something uneasy in her gut—something she couldn't name yet.

They dressed in silence, the rustle of fabric loud in the stillness, and she felt his eyes on her, warm and possessive, as she tugged her tank top over her head. "What?" she asked, glancing back, brushing sand from her shorts.

"Nothing," he said, pulling his shirt on, but his grin said otherwise. "Just… you're a mess."

"Says the guy with sand in his hair." She flicked a grain at him, and he laughed, catching her wrist, pulling her close for another kiss—quick, playful, but it left her breathless.

The walk back to the resort was slow, their shoulders brushing, the oasis fading behind them. The air was crisp, the sun climbing higher, and she felt the shift—last night had changed something, cracked open a door she wasn't sure she'd meant to unlock. Rylan's hand found hers, fingers lacing tight, and she let it, the contact grounding her even as her mind spun. What was this now—lust, love, a reckless fling? She'd come here to reset, not to fall, but he was pulling her in, and she didn't know how to stop it.

The lobby was awake when they slipped in, guests stirring, staff bustling with brooms and trays. Rylan dropped her hand, a reluctant move, and she felt the loss, sharp and sudden. "Need a shower," he said, voice low, his eyes flicking to her lips. "You?"

"Yeah," she agreed, though the thought of washing him off—his touch, his scent—twisted something in her chest. "See you later?"

"Count on it." He brushed her arm, a promise in the touch, and headed for his quarters, leaving her in the lobby, sand still clinging to her skin.

Her suite was a haven—cool, quiet, the shower a scalding relief as she scrubbed the desert away. But it didn't erase him—his groans, his weight, the way he'd said her name like a prayer. She leaned against the tile, water streaming down her back, and closed her eyes, letting the memory flood her. It was good—too good—and that scared her. Ethan's betrayal had taught her to guard herself, to keep things simple, but Rylan wasn't simple. He was a storm of his own, and she was caught in it.

Dressed in fresh clothes—tank top, jeans, boots—she headed downstairs, needing coffee, needing to think. The dining area was open, the smell of toast and eggs pulling her in, and she grabbed a plate, piling it with fruit and a muffin, her mind still on him. She sat by a window, the dunes stretching endless outside, and picked at the food, her notebook open, pen tapping a restless rhythm. She wrote oasis, stars, Rylan, then scratched it out, the ink bleeding through the page.

"Miss Kade?" A voice jolted her—Mrs. Hargrove, the shrill guest from the storm, standing over her with a pinched frown. "You're the photographer, yes?"

"Yeah," Zara said, setting the pen down, bracing herself. "What's up?"

"The service here—it's atrocious," the woman snapped, arms crossed. "No hot water this morning, and my husband's breakfast was cold. I want to speak to Mr. Voss."

Zara sighed, glancing around, but Rylan wasn't in sight. "He's around," she said, keeping it vague. "I can pass it along."

"Do that," Mrs. Hargrove huffed, stalking off, and Zara rubbed her temples, the interruption a sharp pull back to reality. She finished her coffee, the muffin half-eaten, and headed for the Staff Only door, figuring Rylan owed her an explanation—or at least a distraction.

He was in the lounge, hair damp from his shower, a towel slung over his shoulder as he sorted papers on the table. He looked up, a grin breaking across his face, and her heart thudded, traitorously loud. "Hey," he said, voice warm. "Clean up nice."

"Speak for yourself," she shot back, leaning against the doorframe, and his grin widened, setting the papers down.

"Miss me already?" He crossed to her, close enough that she caught the cedar-and-soap scent of him, and her resolve wavered, heat creeping up her neck.

"Maybe," she admitted, and his hand brushed her hip, a casual touch that wasn't casual at all. "Hargrove's on the warpath—hot water's out, food's cold. Wants you."

He groaned, tipping his head back. "Perfect timing," he muttered, but his hand stayed, fingers curling against her. "Guess I'm on duty."

"Guess so," she said, smirking, and he leaned in, kissing her—slow, deliberate, a promise of later that made her knees weak. She kissed him back, her hands on his chest, and the world shrank, just them, until a sharp knock broke it—staff, probably, with more complaints.

"Duty calls," he said, pulling back, his forehead against hers, breath uneven. "Stay close?"

"Always," she murmured, and he grinned, heading out, leaving her in the lounge, flushed and unsteady.

She sank onto the couch, the papers scattered beside her, and picked one up—maintenance logs, nothing thrilling. But her mind wasn't on them; it was on him, on last night, on the closeness that felt too big, too fast. She wanted him—God, she did—but the afterglow was fading into questions. Was this real, or just the desert playing tricks? She'd fallen once, crashed hard, and Rylan… he was different, but the risk was the same.

The day dragged, her shots half-hearted, the dunes blurring through her lens. By dusk, she found him on the terrace, the sky bruising purple, and he pulled her into his arms, no words, just his warmth. She leaned into it, letting the tension ease, but the questions stayed, quiet embers waiting to flare.