Ryven’s uniform couldn’t disguise his restlessness. His black shirt was crisp, buttoned too high against the desert heat, sleeves rolled just enough to show the tension in his forearms as he checked names on the welcome tablet. His jaw was set, eyes shadowed with exhaustion he’d never admit. When Izelle strode across the sand, wind whipping her copper hair, he looked up—and she smirked like she already owned the place. Her jumpsuit—navy, half-zipped to her collarbone—hugged her hips with athletic boldness only she could pull off.

She stopped close, nearly touching. “You always this formal, or is it just with pretty guests?” Her voice was a dare, low and edged with humor.

Ryven’s throat bobbed as he struggled not to respond. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re late for orientation,” he replied, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the horizon, trying and failing not to glance at her lips. He could almost feel the heat rolling off her skin.

Izelle laughed, reckless and unbothered. “Time bends for me. I’m here now.” Her hand grazed his arm—deliberate, testing. His posture stiffened even as he didn’t pull away.

A loud shout broke the moment—Calder, tall and broad-shouldered in a sleeveless black tank, calling staff together for an activity brief. His energy crackled as he barked orders, his confidence magnetic. When his gaze met Izelle’s, he offered a slow, appraising smile. She raised a brow, returning the challenge.

Ryven watched their exchange, annoyance flickering behind his composed mask. He turned away, jaw tight, only to bump into Joryn—a wiry chef in flour-dusted shorts, arms full of citrus and a crooked grin. “Deep breaths, concierge. She’s a handful, huh?” Joryn teased, tilting his head, reading Ryven’s frustration.

Ryven’s lips parted, ready to deny everything, but Joryn nudged his shoulder, lightening the rigidity in his posture. “She’ll chew you up, you know. You’d probably like it.” The line drew a wry smirk from Ryven, but the humor faded as Izelle’s laughter echoed from further down the path—her hand now on Calder’s arm.

That look in Ryven’s eyes—vulnerable, almost hungry—only showed for a second.

Twilight brought candles and silk. Izelle slipped into his tent unannounced, barefoot, her shirt tied loose, eyes burning with impatience. “You’re hiding,” she whispered as if it were a secret between lovers. He tried to hide the tremor in his fingers, standing so close he could smell her skin.

“I’m working.” His voice was thin, but he didn’t move away. She pressed her palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat—fast, betraying him.

He captured her wrist, a silent plea to stop. But she turned her face up, inches from his lips, breath warm and quick. “Let go, Ryven. Just for once.” Her command was soft but absolute.

He gave in. Their mouths crashed together, hungry and gasping, his hands gripping her hips, drawing her closer. She pulled him down onto the bed of pillows, bodies tangling, her laugh muffled against his throat. The tent flickered with candlelight, desire sharp and molten, but a burst of footsteps broke through—the staff’s urgent call.

He wrenched back, eyes glazed, hair mussed, breathing hard. The spell shattered, frustration raw and bitter between them.

Izelle sat up, cheeks flushed, shirt askew. She glared at the interruption, then at Ryven. “Next time, don’t stop.”

He tried to speak but couldn’t. She left before he could catch his breath, the scent of her lingering on his skin. His hands trembled as he buttoned his shirt, haunted by the emptiness she left behind.

Later, he found himself alone in the guest office, rifling through dusty files. His fingers shook as he stopped on a name—his mother’s—scribbled in neat, careful letters. He was so lost in the page that he didn’t hear Izelle step in, barefoot, silent, watching him with guarded curiosity and the faintest edge of jealousy.

She cleared her throat. “Looking for ghosts?” Her voice was edged with suspicion and something softer, unspoken.

He froze, shame and longing colliding in his chest.

Outside, the wind howled. In the shadows, Calder watched from a distance, eyes narrow—calculating. There was a whisper of secrets unraveling, like silk torn in the dark.

To be continued...