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Without a word, she reached into her pocket and pulled out something, then tossed it across the room to me. I caught it reflexively with my injured hand, wincing at the flare of pain. It was a small instant ice pack.

"For your hand," she said simply.

I stared at the ice pack, then at her, surprise washing over me. After everything—our fight at the café, me punching her brother—this was the last thing I expected.

"Thanks," I managed, my voice raspier than I intended.

I activated the ice pack and pressed it against my swollen knuckles. The cold sent a shock through my system, but the relief was almost immediate.

Madeline was still in the same spot, as if she hadn't moved at all. I sat down on my own bed, facing her, the ice pack pressed to my hand.

"You left the bar," I said, stating the obvious because I didn't know where else to start.

She nodded. "Right after you did."

"Oh." I hadn't expected that. "I thought you'd stay with..."

"With who? Julian? After what he said to you?" She shook her head, a flash of anger crossing her face. "No way."

Madeline looked at me for a long moment, her blue eyes searching my face. "Why did you come looking for me at the bar?"

"Who said I was looking for you?" I said defensively, the response automatic. Old habits.

She raised an eyebrow, skepticism written across her face. "Please. Why else would you, of all people, voluntarily walk into a crowded bar? You hate people."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. She had a point.

"To apologize," I admitted with a sigh. "I felt bad about how we left things."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "So your plan was to find me and apologize, but instead you ended up punching my brother in the face?"

"Not exactly how I planned it, no." I couldn't help the tiny smile that mirrored hers. "I'm sorry I hit Julian," I added, though the words lacked conviction.

"No, you're not," she replied instantly.

I met her eyes, the smile growing despite myself. "No, I'm not."

We shared a moment of surprising solidarity, a quiet understanding passing between us. Then her expression grew serious again.

"I know why you hit him," she said, leaning forward slightly. "But what exactly happened before you hit him? How did it start?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implications. I looked down at my injured hand, watching the ice pack slowly melt against my skin. The confrontation with Julian played through my mind again, a mixture of anger and hurt rising like a tide. Where would I even begin?

"Brooke," Madeline said softly, drawing my attention back to her. "Tell me everything."

CHAPTER TWENTY

MADELINE

Tell me everything," I said, watching Brooke carefully. She sat across from me, ice pack pressed against her swollen knuckles, shoulders tense like she was bracing for another hit—though this time, an emotional one.

Part of me couldn't believe what had just happened. Brooke Winters—quiet, bookish Brooke—had actually punched my brother. The scene kept replaying in my mind: her fist connecting with Julian's jaw, the stunned silence that followed, the way she'd fled the bar. There was something almost admirable about it, though I'd never admit that out loud.

"I went looking for you," she finally said, her voice soft. "After dinner. You weren't there, and I... I wanted to apologize for what I said at the café."

She looked at me, a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability—in her eyes. "I asked around, found out you might be at that bar. When I got there, Julian intercepted me before I could reach you."

"And then?"