Maxwell had a strip of dough draped dramatically across his shoulder like a sash. "Not until Amy surrenders."

"Never!" I declared from my hiding spot behind the trash can.

"I'll throw an egg," he warned.

"DO IT, COWARD."

Amelia was somewhere on the floor, breathless from laughter and barely able to form full words between her wheezes. "Truce!" she squeaked, one hand raised in surrender as she hid behind the kitchen island. "Someone's texting me—this is diplomatic immunity, I swear!"

From the way she suddenly smoothed her hair and smiled down at her phone, I knew exactly who it was.

"Phillip?" I asked, eyebrows raised.

She didn't even look up. "None of your business."

Maxwell rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at the corner of his flour-smeared mouth. "This is the guy she couldn't stop talking about at fencing practice?"

"MAXWELL!" Amelia hissed, mortified. "TRUCE. SHUT UP."

I laughed, but the second I turned back to Maxwell, my smile froze.

He had an egg in his hand.

He held it between two fingers like it was an ancient weapon of war.

I glanced down.

I had one too.

Our eyes locked.

No words were spoken.

It was on.

I narrowed my eyes. "You wouldn't."

His lips curved into a smirk. "You don't think I will?"

"I know you won't," I said calmly, slowly taking one step back. "Because you're all rules and logic, and throwing this would be chaotic, immature, and—"

Before I could finish, he lunged forward.

I squealed and tried to dart to the side, but he was faster, grabbing me around the waist and gently pushing me against the side of the fridge. Not hard, just enough to block my escape.

"Caught," he said, quietly, holding the egg right above my head.

I looked up at it, then at him.

"You wouldn't dare," I whispered, heart hammering in my chest.

His eyes gleamed. "Try me."

So I raised my egg. "Try me, royal boy."

There was a breath — just one — that felt too long. And then—

SPLAT.

Simultaneously, we cracked the eggs down on each other's heads, the yolk oozing like golden paint over our hair, down our temples, onto our clothes. I gasped, laughing in horror as egg dripped over my eyebrow.

"Oh my god," I hissed, my whole face twisted into a grimace and a grin at the same time. "That is disgusting."

"You started it," Maxwell said, his voice quieter now, his eyes still fixed on mine.

We were both laughing, breathing too hard, our foreheads just a breath apart.

Then something shifted.

His smile faltered just slightly. His eyes dropped to my mouth — a flicker of something unreadable, uncertain — and then rose back to mine.

The kitchen disappeared for a second. It was just us, two idiots covered in egg and flour, looking at each other like... something had changed.

I blinked, not sure if I was imagining it.

But then—

"OH MY GOD, STOP FLIRTING AND LOOK AT THE PIZZA!" Amelia squealed from the floor, somewhere behind the counter.

We both jumped.

Maxwell took a full step back like he'd just been shocked by live wire.

I coughed and wiped yolk from my forehead, trying very hard not to look like I'd just considered kissing the most irritating prince in existence.

"I wasn't flirting," I muttered, reaching for a towel.

Maxwell cleared his throat. "Neither was I."

We both sounded like liars.

Amelia popped her head up over the island, face red from laughter. "You both suck at hiding it."

"Clean your face, Millie," Maxwell barked, tossing her a rag, clearly eager to change the subject.

As Amelia dove back down, giggling and texting, I looked over at him again.

He was wiping his hands on a dishtowel, back turned, hair still speckled with yolk and flour.

I shook my head.

Our pizzas were done.

I turned to look at the oven like it was some divine reminder of peace.

Maxwell, still catching his breath, glanced at me — his cheek smudged with marinara, a wild lock of hair hanging over one eye.

"You're insane," he said, not unkindly.

"Likewise," I shot back.

He gave me a look. The kind of look that was supposed to be annoyed but was barely hiding a smile — like he knew he should be scolding me, but he couldn't quite commit to it. His mouth opened like he was going to say something else, probably something sarcastic and pointed, when—

DING.

The oven let out the most glorious little chime.

"Pizzaaaaaa," Amelia sang, popping up like a gremlin finally released from her texting trance. "Real, messy, chaotic pizza made by war criminals and drama."

I snorted. "You're welcome."

Maxwell grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the pizzas out of the oven, one by one. The scent of melted cheese, roasted garlic, and triumph filled the kitchen. Amelia clapped like a seal.

"They actually look... good," she whispered, astonished.

"Excuse you?" I raised a brow, taking mine and dramatically slicing it down the middle with a butter knife. "Do you think I lose wars?"

"You lost the egg war," Maxwell said, taking a bite of his own slice, chewing smugly.

"You started the egg war!" I huffed.

He shrugged, sauce on the corner of his mouth. "History is written by the victors."

"Please," I rolled my eyes and dramatically wiped his face with a paper towel. "You have mozzarella in your eyebrow. You don't get to be victorious."

Amelia let out another fit of giggles. "Can you two at least flirt quietly while I text Phillip?"

"Tell Phillip he's late to this mess," Maxwell muttered.

"I will tell Phillip you're jealous," she snapped back, tongue out.

He groaned and looked at me, exasperated. "See what I live with?"

I bit back a laugh. "Honestly? I think you deserve each other."

We sat down at the marble island, chaos still splattered across every surface — flour footprints, bits of egg shell, tomato sauce smears — but it didn't matter. Somehow, between the bickering, the pizza, the flour war, and the accidental almost-kiss, the night had turned into something strangely perfect.

We ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Amelia was texting and humming Mamma Mia under her breath, her legs swinging. Maxwell sat beside her, quietly finishing off his second slice, still pretending to ignore the mess in his hair.

Then he reached over, out of nowhere, and tucked a strand of my egg-drenched hair behind my ear.

I froze.

So did Amelia, her gaze flicking up from her phone.

Maxwell looked like he immediately regretted it — like his hand had betrayed him and he'd just realized he'd done something wildly illegal.

He cleared his throat. "You had flour... uh. In your eye."

"You could've just let me go blind," I muttered, cheeks suddenly far too warm.

He didn't reply. He just smirked and went back to his pizza, smug as ever.

Amelia mouthed OH MY GOD behind him while waggling her eyebrows at me.

I looked at my pizza.

Then at the boy beside me.

Then at the chaos around us.

And for a girl who was supposed to stay quiet, keep her head down, and never get involved in royal drama—

...I was so screwed.

Amelia was practically melting into the table, the last bite of her pizza hanging from her fingers like it weighed twenty pounds.

"I'm... so full," she groaned, eyes already half-shut. "And so sleepy. I'm going to go collapse upstairs like a Victorian widow."

I laughed, stacking up the empty plates. "Go ahead, Millie. I'll clean up the battlefield."

Amelia raised a suspicious eyebrow at me, then flicked a glance between Maxwell and me.

"You sure?" she said slowly, lips twitching. "Because I'm not convinced leaving the flirt twins alone in a kitchen is the best idea."

Maxwell groaned like a man in agony. I rolled my eyes.

"Goodnight, Millie," I said, shooing her off with a dish towel.

She giggled her way to the stairs, muttering something about Jeremiah and Phillip as she disappeared. I waited until I heard her door close before I exhaled.

And just like that — it was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes the tiny clatter of a spoon in the sink feel unnecessarily loud.

Maxwell and I stood among the wreckage of flour, cracked eggs, marinara splotches, and shredded cheese like survivors of a very Italian war.

I glanced at him. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a wild lock of hair falling over one eye, flour still dusting his shoulders.

"Well," I said, flipping a sponge under the faucet, "guess it's just you and me, Prince Sunshine."

"Don't call me that," he grumbled.

"You flour-bombed me. The name stays."

He smirked. Not one of those sarcastic, tight-lipped smirks he usually wore like armor, but an actual smirk — real and crooked.

"You looked better with it."

My heart did a small, traitorous somersault.

I narrowed my eyes and flicked soapy water at him. "Are you flirting again, or just being a menace?"

He lifted a shoulder. "Can't I be both?"

Ugh. Unfortunately, yes.

Still... there was something different about him tonight. Less sharp edges, more smudged corners. Maybe it was the yolk still in his hair. Maybe it was the way he wasn't rushing to leave.

We worked in tandem. I scrubbed. He dried. Neither of us said much. And yet, somehow, the silence didn't feel awkward.

It felt like... a truce.

I scrubbed harder.

And then it just blurted out. "I never thought the angry, uptight, infuriatingly rigid guy could actually loosen up and have a halfway-decent time. And during a food fight, no less."

He looked up, eyebrow arched.

"I wasn't having fun," he said.

I scoffed. "You pelted me with flour like your life depended on it. You smiled."

"It was war."

"It was adorable."

A chuckle — real, low — slipped out of him before he could catch it.

"Fine," he said. "Maybe I cracked half a smile."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Next, you'll say you almost enjoyed my company."

He didn't answer that.

Just dried a plate.

And then... I stepped closer.

I don't even know why. Maybe because I was tired of pretending like I didn't notice the way he sometimes looked at me. Like I wasn't constantly bracing for the next round of witty insults that had started to sound suspiciously like banter.

Or maybe I just wanted to see if he'd flinch.

He didn't.

Now we were chest to chest, the air between us all spark and static. My breath hitched. He was right there. Close enough to smell the leftover oregano on his shirt.

His gaze flicked to my lips.

I saw it.

Felt it.

He's going to kiss me.

His hand lifted. Slowly. Deliberately. Then slid along the side of my neck, brushing that spot just under my jaw, above my pulse.

My knees nearly buckled.

He leaned in, like he couldn't help himself.

And I... I didn't stop him.

I wanted him to.

No. That was a lie.

I didn't want him to stop.

I could already feel the warmth of him, the way his hand was barely pressing, but still grounding me, like he didn't know what to do with the want swirling in his chest—

And then—

He pulled back.

Fast.

Like he'd been hit with cold water.

"I'm not doing this," he said hoarsely, stepping back like the fridge behind him would catch him.

I blinked. "Not doing what?"

He didn't meet my eyes.

"I'm not falling for it again."

I stared at him, stunned. Again?

"What do you mean 'again'?" I asked, quiet but sharp. "What does that even mean?"

Maxwell didn't answer.

Just grabbed a dishtowel and started wiping a completely clean part of the counter like it owed him money.

I stared at his profile — tense, drawn, the familiar frown etched into his brow — and felt my stomach twist.

Again.

What the hell happened to Maxwell?

And why did it feel like whatever it was had never really left him?