Millie laughed again, shaking her head. "Okay, enough fighting. You two could bicker all day."

And that's quite true, I believe

As Maxwell and I exchanged yet another death-glare, Millie clapped her hands suddenly and grinned.

"All this bickering is making me famished," she said dramatically, her eyes full of mischief as she turned toward her brother with something like hope sparkling in them.

I narrowed my eyes slightly, trying to decode what was going on. She was clearly asking for something. Maxwell, however, instantly stiffened.

"No," he said flatly, his tone like a slammed door. "We're not doing that. Don't even say it. Especially not in front of her."

Her?

I blinked. "What's going on?"

Millie leaned closer to him, whispering loud enough for both of us to hear, "But please... pleaaaase. I'm craving one so badly. Bacon, cheese, extra fries—"

"Millie," Maxwell hissed, as if she were threatening to leak national secrets.

But I was already laughing. "Wait—are you seriously trying to convince him to sneak you a burger?"

Millie gave me a huge grin, completely unapologetic. "With cheese. And crispy bacon. And fries in the burger. The food for the royals is all steamed greens and flower petals."

Maxwell looked ready to collapse in irritation. "This is not happening. The kitchens in the West and South Wings are full of staff, especially at dinner. Every cook, every server, every maid is watching everything we do. I can't exactly waltz in and grill a burger under surveillance."

"But the student kitchen," Millie said slowly, "is almost closed for the night, right? Everyone's probably gone."

I saw where this was going.

"I mean..." I started casually, "if you really want your secret burger mission to happen, I could keep an eye out. When the kitchen's empty, I could text you or something. Make sure the coast is clear. I live in the East Wing dorms—it's basically right next door."

Millie lit up like a chandelier. "Oh my god, yes! Amy, you're a genius."

Maxwell, on the other hand, looked personally offended. "Absolutely not. You're involving her in this now?"

"You literally said she's everywhere," Millie pointed out. "Might as well make use of her."

I tried not to laugh at how done he looked.

"Plus I am sure it isn't your first time sneaking around" I said remembering our first encounter that he ignored

"I swear, this is a disaster waiting to happen," Maxwell muttered, running a hand through his hair. "If someone sees you two sneaking around the kitchens—"

"No one will," I said confidently. "The kitchen on our side is empty by ten. Give it fifteen more minutes and it's just cold tile and leftover smells."

"I'll owe you for life," Millie added dramatically.

Maxwell shot us both a death-glare. "This is treason."

"More like a midnight snack," I said sweetly.

He sighed so deeply I thought he might deflate. "Fine. But if this ends with me being written about in the scandal columns for 'Midnight Burger Smuggling,' I'm blaming both of you."

"Deal," Millie and I said in unison.

It was ridiculous, the lengths we were going to for a burger.

Not even my burger, mind you.

It was nearing 10:15 PM, and the mansion had gone quiet, except for the distant hum of soft classical music echoing from the South Wing and the occasional tap of heels against marble floors. Everyone was in their quarters—or pretending to be—which meant the student kitchen was officially... ours.

I tiptoed across the East Wing hallway like some kind of culinary spy, peeked through the glass panel of the common room, and saw the kitchen glowing like a beacon of forbidden comfort food. Empty. Perfect.

I dashed back to my room, opened the big double windows, and peeked down into the garden below.

There, under a massive weeping willow like they were in some dramatic Shakespearean tragedy, sat Millie and Maxwell. Both cloaked in dark coats like fugitives. Honestly, it was one trench coat and one hoodie, but they both looked very over-invested in this mission.

I waved both arms dramatically like a tired air traffic controller.

Millie popped up like a prairie dog. "She did the signal! Let's go!"

"No running," Maxwell muttered behind her as they crept toward the staff door I had left cracked open. "Every noise echoes here like a cathedral."

"You should teach an espionage class," I teased, holding the door for them.

Millie tiptoed inside like she was sneaking into Buckingham Palace.

"I feel so alive," she whispered, eyes shining.

"Oh god," Maxwell groaned, "I already regret everything."

Once inside, I locked the door behind us and led the way to the kitchen like we were entering Narnia. The giant kitchen was dim, the soft glow of one low light bouncing off polished silver countertops and a fridge the size of a small bus.

"Where's the stove?" Millie asked excitedly, spinning in place.

"Right there," Maxwell said, already pulling his sleeves up. "You two—don't touch anything."

"You don't trust us?" I asked, mock offended.

"I don't even trust me," he muttered, opening the fridge like a man about to commit a crime.

To be fair, he moved with the precision of someone who had definitely done this before. He grabbed ground beef, cheese slices, a brioche bun, lettuce, tomato, a jar of pickles, and—God bless him—three kinds of sauce.

Millie and I stood behind the counter like judges on a food network show, except instead of critique, we were mostly being annoying.

"Isn't that too much salt?" Millie asked, as Maxwell seasoned the patty.

"You think you're Gordon Ramsay now?" I added.

He didn't even blink. "Would Gordon Ramsay tolerate this level of nonsense? No. He'd scream and throw knives."

Millie grabbed a spatula. "Can I flip it?"

"Absolutely not," Maxwell said.

She tried anyway.

The burger flipped. It almost landed in the pan.

It didn't.

It landed on the counter with a greasy slap that made all three of us freeze in horror.

"Millie!" Maxwell barked.

"I was trying to help!"

I was wheezing with laughter. "Oh my god, that was tragic."

Maxwell picked up the patty like it had personally offended his family.

"New one," he muttered, opening the fridge again. "And this time—step back."

Eventually, after a lot of loud sizzling, clumsy lettuce chopping (Millie again), and me burning my hand lightly trying to toast the buns

"Why is it so hot??"

we had what could generously be described as a burger of destiny.

Cheese melted just right. Bacon crisp. Lettuce fresh. Fries jammed inside the bun like chaotic genius.

Millie's eyes watered. "I could cry."

Maxwell handed her the plate like a war-weary soldier handing over a peace treaty. "Please don't. That would make this weird."

And then Millie took the first bite.

And moaned.

Loudly.

"This is what freedom tastes like," she declared, mouth full, eyes closed in bliss.

"You're so dramatic," Maxwell muttered, but he was smiling. Just a little.

I leaned on the counter, watching the scene with amusement. "You know, for a midnight felony, this went surprisingly well."

"Shut up," Maxwell said. "No one can ever know."

"Too late," I said. "This is going in my future memoir: How I Survived the Royals and Learned to Love Burgers."

Millie held up a fry like a toast. "To burgers. To crimes. To Amy."

"To never doing this again," Maxwell added, biting into a leftover piece of bacon.

But he was still smiling.

And I think, somewhere deep down, he knew we were definitely doing this again.

The burger was a chaotic masterpiece, the kitchen still smelled like bacon sins, and Millie was licking the last of the ketchup off her fingers like she'd been lost in the desert for days and this was her salvation.

I was quietly nursing a fry, still half-laughing at the mess we made, when I noticed Maxwell squinting at my hand. My right hand—the traitorous one that had decided to challenge the laws of thermodynamics by grabbing a toaster with no warning.

"Are you okay?" he asked suddenly, voice low but direct. His eyes darted back to my hand.

"It's fine," I said quickly, instinctively hiding it behind the burger. "It's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing," he replied, already standing.

And before I could say literally anything else, he was on my side of the kitchen island, grabbing my wrist like I was a delinquent patient refusing treatment.

"Maxwell—!" I protested, half-annoyed, half-embarrassed, 100% caught off guard.

He gently turned my palm upward. The skin at the base of my fingers was pink and a bit wrinkled—nothing horrifying, but obvious enough that I hadn't been bluffing it that well.

"Hot surface?" he asked.

"I was trying to toast the bun," I muttered.

"Without tongs?" he deadpanned.

"It was a quick decision, okay?"

He didn't respond. Just gently pulled me toward the sink and turned on the tap.

"You don't have to do that," I tried again, though I didn't pull away.

"I'm aware."

And then my hand was under cool running water, and—yeah. It felt so much better.

Millie was sitting on the stool behind us, feet swinging, smirking like she had front-row seats to a scandal.

"Ohhh, this is adorable," she drawled. "Brother, you're being so soft. Does Frederick know you're treating his girlfriend like a little princess? Because he's gonna kill you."

My head whipped toward her. "We are not dating."

Maxwell froze, just for a second, and then turned off the tap like the entire conversation had nothing to do with him. Like he was above all of this.

"You sure?" Millie asked, now full-on grinning. "Because he gets this dumb face when you walk into a room."

Maxwell handed me a clean towel, still not saying anything. But he was absolutely wiping his hands more than necessary.

"And it's not just dumb," Millie continued. "It's like... full Disney prince who's lost in the woods and just saw a fairy for the first time."

"I'm leaving," Maxwell announced flatly, tossing the towel aside like he was dropping out of the scene.

"No you're not," Millie called after him. "We haven't even done dessert!"

"There is no dessert," he growled.

She turned back to me with the most satisfied little look on her face, like she was playing chess and we were still figuring out how to set the board.

"Anyway," she whispered conspiratorially. "Cousin Frederick totally likes you."

"He doesn't," I said firmly, finally patting my hand dry.

"He does." She leaned in. "He never tries. Ever. He doesn't flirt with purpose. He flirts like breathing. But with you? It's like he's... thinking. Like there's effort. It's weird."

"Or," I offered, raising an eyebrow, "he just likes to flirt with everyone, and I just happened to be standing in the way of his laser beam of attention."

"Nooo," she said in a sing-song voice. "Because when he flirts with other girls, he doesn't ask real questions. He's all, 'Where's my coat? Oh, I left it on your heart' or some stupid line. But you? He listens."

That made me pause.

Which I hated.

And Millie knew it.

"Don't make that face," she said, wiggling her fingers at me. "It's happening. You're gonna fall in love and I'll be the flower girl at your royal wedding."

"I'm twenty," I reminded her.

"And I'm sixteen and already emotionally more prepared than both of you." She hopped off the stool. "Now come on, let's get out of this kitchen before someone finds your burger prints on the crime scene."

Maxwell was leaning by the door, arms crossed, watching us bicker. He looked annoyed. Or resigned. Or like he was about to make a sarcastic comment and decided not to at the last second.

"You good now?" he asked, nodding at my hand.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "Thanks."

His eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary.

What was going on in his head?