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Brooke's gaze dropped to her injured hand. "He was being Julian. Making comments, blocking my path. I tried to ignore him, but then he..." She hesitated, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "He brought up my mom."

Something cold settled in my stomach. "What did he say?"

"That I've been a 'walking ghost' since my mom died. That I'm forgettable. That no one wants to be around me because I'm too busy feeling sorry for myself."

Each word felt like a slap. The casual cruelty of it, the deliberate targeting of what was clearly a deep wound—it was Julian at his worst. I'd seen him do it before, find someone's weak spot and dig in mercilessly, but this felt different. More personal. More vicious.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words inadequate but sincere. "Julian can be such an asshole."

"Runs in the family," she replied, but there was a small smile playing at her lips that took the sting out of her words.

I smiled back, acknowledging the jab. "Touché. Though I prefer to think I've been evolving beyond the asshole stage. Slightly."

"Jury's still out on that one."

We both laughed, a brief moment of lightness in the heavy atmosphere. When the laughter faded, I found myself studying her face—the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, the soft curve of her lips, the genuine warmth that transformed her face when she laughed without restraint.

"Your mom," I said carefully, not wanting to overstep but needing to know. "I heard she passed away a few years ago. I didn't realize until... well, until recently."

Brooke tensed, her body going still. For a moment, I thought she might shut down again, retreat behind that wall of sarcasm and deflection. But then she nodded slowly.

"Four years ago. Cancer." Her voice was steady, but I could hear the effort it took to keep it that way. "It was quick. Too quick, really. By the time they caught it, there wasn't much they could do."

The clinical way she described it couldn't mask the pain underneath. I thought about my own mom, who drove mecrazy with her high expectations and constant criticism, but who was very much alive. The idea of losing her, whatever our relationship might be...

"I'm sorry," I said again, because what else could I say? "That must have been incredibly hard."

She shrugged, a gesture meant to seem casual but came across as protective. "It was what it was."

A silence fell between us, not quite uncomfortable but charged with unspoken things. Outside, snow had begun to fall, fat flakes drifting past our window, illuminated by the resort's exterior lights. It made our little room feel isolated, cocooned from the rest of the world.

"That book," I said, suddenly remembering our argument from days ago. "The one I made fun of. It was special to you, wasn't it?"

Brooke glanced at the worn paperback on her nightstand, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, maybe at the fact that I'd remembered or cared enough to ask.

"My mom gave it to me," she said quietly. "It was one of her favorites. We used to read together all the time, fantasy especially. She loved escaping into other worlds." A soft, sad smile touched her lips. "After she died, reading those books felt like... like I could still connect with her somehow. Like we were still sharing something."

The weight of her words settled over me. I thought about how callously I'd dismissed her reading, how I'd mocked something that was clearly a lifeline for her.

"I'm sorry about what I said," I told her, the apology unfamiliar but necessary. "About your book being boring. I didn't know it was important to you, but that's not an excuse. I shouldn't have said it."

She looked at me for a long moment, as if trying to determine my sincerity. "Thanks," she said finally. "It's okay. You couldn't have known."

"Still. I feel bad about it."

"Well, now we're even," she said with a small smile. "You made fun of my book, I punched your brother. Call it square?"

I laughed, surprised by how easy it was to laugh with her. "Deal. Though I think you definitely got the better end of that trade. Julian's had that coming for years."

"Happy to oblige," she replied, her smile widening to reveal a glimpse of perfect teeth.

The ice pack on her hand had turned soft, its cooling effect worn off. She set it aside, flexing her fingers gingerly, wincing slightly at the movement. Her knuckles were red and swollen, likely to bruise spectacularly by morning.

"That looks painful," I observed.

"Worth it," she said firmly, then sighed. "Though I guess I'll be hearing from Mr. Sinclair tomorrow. Punching another student probably violates some trip guidelines."

"Probably," I agreed. "But Julian won't report it officially. His ego couldn't handle admitting a girl punched him in front of everyone."