Chapter 17: Echoes in the Sand

The desert morning was deceptively calm, the sun a steady blaze over dunes that stretched endless and silent. Zara sat in the dining area, a coffee cooling in her hands, her notebook open to a sketch of the oasis—starlight, sand, Rylan's silhouette. Last night's closeness on the terrace—his arms around her, no words, just heat—had settled some of her doubts, but not all. The oasis had been a surrender, a fire she'd leapt into, and now she was sifting through the ashes, wondering what held them together beyond the spark.

Footsteps broke her focus—Rylan, crossing the lobby with a staff member, his voice low, urgent. She watched him, the way his shoulders tensed, his hand rubbing his jaw, and felt a pull to follow, to bridge the gap she'd let widen since dawn. But before she could move, a man approached her table—older, weathered, his face etched with lines like the dunes outside. He carried a battered satchel, his clothes dusted with sand, and his eyes held a restless glint.

"You're the photographer," he said, not a question, and dropped into the chair across from her without asking. "Saw you with Voss yesterday."

"Yeah," she said, closing her notebook, wary. "Zara Kade. And you are?"

"Tom Grayson," he replied, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Been out here longer than this place has stood. Heard you caught something in your shots—something buried."

Her pulse ticked up, the memory of the structure flashing—metallic, half-swallowed by sand. "Maybe," she said, keeping it vague. "Why?"

He pulled a photo from his satchel—grainy, faded, showing a skeletal frame in the dunes, planes parked nearby. "Recognize it?" he asked, sliding it over, and she frowned, the shape echoing her own image.

"Looks familiar," she admitted, pushing it back. "What's it to you?"

"History," he said, voice rough. "That's Voss's old airstrip—his big plan before it crashed. I worked it, back when he thought he could tame this place. Storm hit hard, buried it, and he let it go. Thought it was gone for good till you dug it up."

She leaned back, processing—Rylan's failed hub, the one he'd brushed off in his office, now staring her in the face. "He mentioned it," she said, careful. "Didn't say much."

"Wouldn't." Tom snorted, tucking the photo away. "Lost more than money on that one—lost his nerve. Shame, too. Could've been something."

Her jaw tightened, protective instinct flaring, but before she could snap back, Rylan's voice cut through. "Grayson." He stood behind her, his tone clipped, eyes hard as he clocked the man. "What're you doing here?"

Tom stood, smirking faintly. "Catching up with your girl. She's got an eye—found your graveyard."

Rylan's gaze flicked to Zara, a flash of something—betrayal, maybe—before he masked it. "Lobby's not a history lesson," he said, nodding toward the door. "Let's talk outside."

Tom shrugged, slinging his satchel over his shoulder, and ambled out, leaving a tension that settled heavy. Rylan turned to her, his expression unreadable. "What'd he say?" he asked, voice low, controlled.

"Enough," she replied, standing, meeting his stare. "About the airstrip—your 'failed project.' Said you lost your nerve."

He flinched, barely, but she caught it, and he rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharp. "He's half-right," he said, stepping closer, the dining area fading around them. "Come with me."

She followed, curiosity outweighing the unease, through the Staff Only door to his lounge. He shut it behind them, leaning against it, and she crossed her arms, waiting. "Spill," she said, softer than she meant. "No more half-truths."

He nodded, slow, and sank onto the couch, gesturing for her to join. She did, keeping space, though the pull to close it was strong. "The airstrip—it was my shot," he started, voice rough. "After Jenna, after the airline tanked. Thought I could rebuild out here—small hub, charters, a lifeline. Had investors, a crew—Grayson was one. Then a storm hit, bigger than this last one. Wiped it out overnight—planes wrecked, funds gone. Couldn't recover."

She watched him, the weight in his words sinking in—another scar, deeper than she'd guessed. "Why hide it?" she asked, leaning forward. "It's not your fault the desert won."

"Didn't hide it," he said, meeting her eyes, steady but raw. "Just… buried it. Like the sand did. Investors bailed, crew scattered—Grayson stuck around, bitter as hell. I moved on, built this instead. Didn't think it mattered till you found it."

"It matters," she said, quieter now, shifting closer. "It's you—part of what got you here."

He laughed, dry and bitter. "A failure got me here?"

"No." She reached out, her hand finding his, fingers lacing tight. "Surviving it did."

He stilled, his grip tightening, and the air shifted—less tense, more fragile, like the night on this couch. "You keep doing that," he murmured, thumb brushing her knuckles. "Seeing more than I show."

"Someone's got to," she said, smirking faintly, but her chest ached, his vulnerability pulling at hers. "Why'd Grayson call it your nerve?"

Rylan sighed, leaning back, pulling her with him until she was tucked against his side. "He wanted to rebuild—push harder, take bigger risks. I didn't. Lost too much already—couldn't stomach it. He thinks I gave up. Maybe I did."

She tilted her head, resting it on his shoulder, feeling the steady rise of his breath. "Or maybe you chose something else," she said. "This place—it's not giving up."

He turned, his lips brushing her forehead, a soft, unguarded touch. "You sound sure."

"I am," she whispered, and he kissed her—slow, deep, a tether in the storm of his past. She melted into it, her hand on his chest, but the heat from the oasis didn't flare—not yet. This was different, a quiet need, and when he pulled back, his eyes held hers, searching.

"Stay tonight," he said, echoing last time, but there was more in it now—more weight, more want. "Not just… not like before. With me."

Her heart thudded, the intimacy of it—beyond the physical—catching her off guard. "Rylan—"

"No rush," he added, quick, his hand cupping her face. "Just you here. That's enough."

She nodded, the strain easing, and leaned into him, letting his warmth chase the doubts. They stayed like that, the lounge a cocoon, his arm around her, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his shirt. The airstrip, Grayson, the past—it pressed against them, but didn't break through, not yet. She felt the shift—their bond bending, stretching, and she wondered how much more it could take before it snapped.

By night, they moved to his quarters—a small room off the lounge, sparse but his, with a bed, a desk, a window to the dunes. He pulled her down beside him, fully clothed, and she curled into his side, the silence thick with unspoken things. His hand rested on her hip, steady, and she closed her eyes, the rhythm of his breathing lulling her. The oasis had been fire; this was embers, and she didn't know which scared her more.