Page 47 of First Echo

The realization settled over me like fresh snow, silent and transformative. I didn't have words for what I was feeling, didn't have a category to file it under. All I knew was that when Brooke looked at me—really looked at me—I felt seen. Not the version of me that existed in everyone else's eyes, but something deeper, truer. Something I was only just beginning to recognize myself.

"I'm pretty tired," I said suddenly, standing up. "I think I'm going to head to bed."

There were protests, of course, demands for more details, but I waved them off with practiced ease. "Another time. It's probably nothing anyway."

But it wasn't nothing. That was the problem.

I made my way through the quieting resort, avoiding the main corridors where I might run into anyone else. I found a secluded stairwell and sat on the bottom step, wrapping my arms around my knees like I used to do as a child when I needed to feel safe.

What was happening to me? I'd spent my entire life knowing exactly who I was, exactly where I fit. Madeline Hayes: popular, perfect, enviable. I dated the right boy, befriended the rightgirls, wore the right clothes, said the right things. I'd constructed my identity so carefully, each piece selected and placed with precision.

And now, in the space of a few days, it all felt like it was crumbling. Because of her. Because of the way she challenged me, the way she refused to be impressed by the version of myself I presented to the world. Because of the way she looked at me tonight—not with reverence or envy or disdain, but with something that looked uncomfortably like understanding.

The fact that she was a girl made it all the more confusing, all the more frightening. I'd never looked at a girl the way I'd looked at Brooke tonight. Never felt my breath catch at the sight of another girl's body, never found myself wondering what it would be like to trace my fingers along another girl's skin. These thoughts weren't supposed to be part of who I was, weren't included in the careful blueprint of Madeline Hayes' perfect life.

I wondered if she'd noticed how I'd looked at her. If she'd seen the confusion, the fascination, the way my eyes had lingered on the curves of her muscles. If she'd felt the same electric current that had passed between us when we stood so close, breath mingling in the small space between our bodies.

What if it had been someone else in that room with her? The thought rose unbidden, leaving an acrid taste in my mouth. What if it had been Sam, or Julian, or one of the other guys from school? Would she have looked at them with that same confident smirk, issued the same challenge with those dark eyes?

The idea made my stomach clench with something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy. Which was absurd. I had no claim on Brooke, no right to feel possessive about who saw her or how she looked at them.

So why did it bother me so much?

I sat in that stairwell for what felt like hours, my thoughts chasing each other in endless circles. Eventually, the fatigue ofthe day caught up with me, a bone-deep weariness that made my limbs feel heavy and my mind sluggish.

It was late when I finally made my way back to our room. I stood outside the door for a long moment, key in hand, gathering my courage like armor. Whatever had happened earlier, whatever I was feeling, I needed to push it down, lock it away where it couldn't cause any more confusion.

I slipped into the room as quietly as possible. The lights were off, but the soft glow from outside illuminated enough for me to see that Brooke was already in bed, her back to the door, blankets pulled up to her shoulders. Her breathing seemed too measured, too careful to be genuine sleep, but I was grateful for the pretense.

I changed quickly in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face as if it might wash away the tumult of my thoughts. When I emerged, Brooke hadn't moved, her form still and silent in the darkness.

I climbed into my own bed, settling under the covers and staring up at the ceiling. My phone lay next to me on the nightstand, probably full of texts from Sam that I should answer. But I couldn't bring myself to reach for it, couldn't summon the energy to pretend everything was normal when it felt like my entire world had shifted on its axis.

Instead, I lay awake in the darkness, listening to the soft sound of Brooke's breathing across the room, feeling the ghost of that strange connection that had passed between us earlier. My mind kept returning to her—to her unexpected smile, her challenging eyes, the confidence in her stance as she stood before me, unapologetically herself.

In the quiet darkness of our shared room, with nothing but the sound of our breathing and the distant hum of the resort's heating system, I admitted to myself what I'd been running from all night: I couldn't stop thinking about Brooke Winters.

And I had no idea what I was going to do about it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BROOKE

Morning light filtered through a gap in the curtains, drawing a sharp line across my face that finally pulled me from a fitful sleep. I blinked, disoriented, my body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes from a night spent more in thought than in dreams. The events of the previous evening clung to me like a shadow I couldn't shake—Madeline's hasty exit, her return, the moment frozen in time when her eyes had traveled over my skin with an intensity that still burned in my memory.

I rolled over, half-expecting to find her bed empty. But there she was, a tangle of blonde hair against the pillow, her breathing deep and even in the quiet room. She'd come back. Sometime in the night, she'd returned, slipping in while I was asleep.

The space between our beds might as well have been an ocean.

Nothing happened last night, but it felt like everything changed. At least to me. She still left. Even after that moment—her standing way too close, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t name. Even after staring at me like that. I told her during one of our tutoring sessions that I went to the gym and she didn’t believe me.I bet she believed me last night.

I dressed quickly in the bathroom, methodically preparing for another day on the mountain. Brush teeth. Wash face. Hair up in a messy bun. Base layers, then snow pants, a thermal shirt, and my favorite hoodie. The ritual was comforting in its familiarity, astark contrast to the unfamiliar territory I'd found myself in with Madeline.

When I emerged, she hadn't moved, her form still and peaceful beneath the covers. I allowed myself one brief moment to look at her—really look at her. The golden hair splayed across the pillow, the soft curve of her cheek, the slight parting of her lips. Something twisted in my chest, an ache I didn't want to name.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered to myself, so quietly the words barely existed. "None of this matters."

I gathered my gear and slipped out the door, closing it with barely a click behind me. The hallway stretched empty before me, the resort still quiet in these early hours. Perfect. Solitude was what I needed—what I'd always needed. What made today any different?

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