Page 76 of First Echo

We stood that way for another heartbeat, another breath, before reality reasserted itself. We had a bus to catch. A return journey to face. A world beyond this room that wouldn't wait, no matter how much we might wish it would.

With visible reluctance, Madeline stepped back, her hands sliding from my face to my shoulders, down my arms, before finally releasing me. The loss of contact left me oddly bereft, though she was still standing right in front of me.

"We should change," she said, gesturing to our wet clothes. "Before we freeze."

I nodded, trying to gather my scattered thoughts, to remember the practical needs of the moment. "Right. Yes."

We moved in a strange dance then, gathering dry clothes from our bags, taking turns in the bathroom to change. The intimacy of last night had somehow not prepared me for this—this mundane, domestic sharing of space, this awareness of her presence even when she was out of sight. It felt more significant somehow, more real than the passionate moments we'd already shared.

When I emerged from the bathroom in dry jeans and a fresh hoodie, I found Madeline already changed, standing by the window, looking out at the mountain we'd come to know so well over the past few days. The late afternoon light caught in her hair, turning it to spun gold against the backdrop of snow-covered peaks.

She turned at the sound of the door, her eyes finding mine across the room, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. We didn't speak—didn't need to. Something had shifted between us, something fundamental and irreversible.

I moved to my suitcase, finishing the last of my packing with methodical efficiency. From the corner of my eye, I could see Madeline doing the same, occasionally stealing glances in my direction when she thought I wasn't looking.

Ten minutes later, I zipped up my duffel and turned to find her watching me from the mirror, her expression soft, contemplative, her lips still curved as if remembering our kiss against the wall.

For a moment, we just looked at each other, letting the weight of everything that had happened—everything that was still happening—settle between us. No words needed, no explanations or promises necessary. Just this quiet understanding, this shared secret that belonged only to us.

Then, with a small nod, I picked up my bag and snowboard. "Ready?"

"Ready," she said, grabbing her own luggage.

As we left the room that had witnessed so much change in such a short time, I felt a strange mixture of emotions—sadness at leaving this bubble where we'd discovered each other, but also anticipation for what might come next, for the possibility that stretched before us like an untracked slope.

The bus was chaos incarnate—too many voices, too many bodies, too many bags being shoved into overhead compartments. The noise level was nearly deafening as everyone scrambled to find seats, to secure their belongings, to share last-minute stories of their adventures on the mountain.

I climbed on first, making my way down the aisle toward the back where it might be quieter, where we might find a small pocket of privacy amid the commotion. I claimed a window seat, shoving my backpack under the seat in front of me, keeping my expression carefully neutral. Just another student heading home after a school trip, nothing remarkable, nothing worth noticing.

My heart was beating too fast though, my eyes constantly darting to the front of the bus, waiting. Would she sit with her friends? With Sam? Would our brief idyll on the mountain dissolve the moment we returned to the real world?

And then she appeared—Madeline Hayes, queen bee, golden girl, the person everyone expected to hold court in the center of the bus surrounded by her usual entourage. She stood in the aisle for a moment, her gaze sweeping the bus, passing over me without lingering, giving nothing away.

My stomach twisted with a sudden, irrational fear. Had she changed her mind already? Was this where it ended, before it had really begun?

But then, with a casualness that had to be practiced, she made her way down the aisle and slid into the seat beside me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if we'd been sitting together on buses our whole lives.

Our eyes met for half a second, a brief, electric moment of connection before we both looked away, conscious of the dozens of potential observers surrounding us.

"Hi," she said, her voice low, just for me.

"Hey," I replied softly, relief washing through me in a warm wave.

The bus lurched into motion, the noise level rising as everyone settled in for the long journey home. Conversations overlapped, laughter rang out, complaining about having to leave mingled with excited recounting of adventures had and slopes conquered.

In the midst of it all, Madeline reached into her coat pocket, pulled out her phone, and wordlessly offered me one earbud. The simple gesture felt strangely intimate, a small act of sharing that spoke volumes in its quiet normalcy.

I took the earbud, our fingers brushing in the exchange, sending a small jolt of awareness through me. She hit play, and the opening chords of "Every Breath You Take" by The Police slipped into my ear.

I turned my head slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

She smirked, looking out the window as if the song choice meant nothing, but the slight curve of her lips betrayed her. "You said you liked 80s hits. I'm just accommodating your taste."

"Right," I drawled, fighting a smile. "So it's not about the obsessive stalker lyrics at all?"

Her grin widened, a mischievous glint in her eye as she finally looked at me. "What can I say? I like dramatic metaphors."

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head at her audacity, but my heart was beating louder than the bassline, my skin hyperaware of every point where our bodies connected—shoulders touching, arms brushing, pinkies occasionally meeting on the seat between us.

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