The soft golden light poured in from the large windows of Maxwell's bedroom, filtered through sheer curtains that swayed gently in the morning breeze. I blinked awake slowly, the warmth beside me instantly reminding me where I was-and with whom.

Maxwell.

His arm was draped lazily across my waist, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. His hair was a complete mess. A royal mess. And somehow, it made him even more annoyingly handsome.

I didn't move. I didn't want to ruin the moment. I just stared at him for a while, silently cataloging the way the sunlight kissed the curve of his jaw, the way his lips looked slightly parted, still flushed from last night's kisses.

And then, as if he could feel my eyes on him, his eyes fluttered open.

A sleepy, crooked grin appeared almost immediately. "Were you watching me sleep?" he rasped, voice deep and teasing.

"No," I lied way too quickly.

"You absolutely were."

I huffed. "I was making sure you weren't dead. That's a completely different thing."

"Right. Because I'm so at risk in my own bed." He stretched, shifting closer, his face hovering just above mine. "Tell me, doctor, how's my heartbeat?"

"Annoyingly steady," I muttered.

He chuckled, then kissed the tip of my nose. "That's because you're near."

I groaned. "You need to stop with the charming-in-the-morning thing. It's dangerous."

"Oh, I'm dangerous all right." He rolled slightly, now hovering over me with a lazy grin. "You look good in my shirt, by the way."

"You've mentioned," I said, trying to sound unaffected.

He kissed me again, this time longer-his lips soft but persistent, like he wasn't quite ready to start the day unless it began with me. My fingers curled instinctively into his hair, tugging slightly, which made him groan into the kiss.

And just like that, everything tilted a little hotter.

His hand slid along my side, trailing slowly under the edge of the shirt. My skin tingled where he touched, my pulse picking up pace as we moved closer-again and again, kisses deepening like we were slowly trying to map every inch of each other with just our mouths and fingertips.

"Maxwel," I whispered between kisses, breathless.

"Do you want me to stop?-"

"No," I murmured, as he quickly moved to kiss the corner of my jaw, my neck.

"You sure?"

"I am"

"Good."

I laughed, and he kissed me again like it was a dare.

And then-

"Syrup, you idiot! Pancakes are meant to have syrup!"

"Chocolate, you monster! Pancakes with chocolate! Who even eats syrup anymore?"

Maxwell froze against me.

I blinked.

"Amelia?" I whispered.

He groaned, collapsing face-first into the pillow beside me. "Of course. Of course this morning couldn't just be perfect."

"I'm telling Grams you have zero taste buds!" Amelia shrieked from the hallway.

"I'm telling the world your favorite song is a weird Beetlejuice duet!" Frederick shouted back.

I burst out laughing.

Maxwell rolled onto his back, covering his eyes. "This family. This freaking family."

I sat up, the oversized shirt falling off one shoulder. "Should we go stop them?"

"Absolutely not," he muttered. "Let them burn the kitchen down for all I care."

"But then we won't have pancakes."

He groaned again, then turned to me, a spark in his eyes. "Fine. But I want one more kiss first."

I leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips-and then another, and another, just because I could.

"You're addicted," I whispered against his mouth.

"Only to you."

--- edit

After the chaos outside died down (or more likely, moved into the kitchen to battle over syrup and chocolate), Maxwell tugged me back into the pillows, wrapping an arm around my waist like he wasn't letting me go.

"Can we not move?" he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep, his face buried in my shoulder. "Like... for the rest of the day?"

I laughed softly. "Are you suggesting we lock ourselves in your royal suite and disappear?"

He peeked up, that familiar smirk already forming. "I'm suggesting we cancel everything. Just you, me, pajamas... maybe more kissing... definitely more kissing."

I brushed his messy hair back, letting my fingers run slowly through it. "Tempting. But isn't the royal schedule booked solid with... I don't know, five-course breakfasts and political brunches?"

He rolled his eyes. "Let them have brunch without me. Plus it's Sunday it's okay, I need a break they'll understand. Edmund is the one doing the most appearances now. I want to be here with you maybe know more about you"

I paused, heart fluttering a little more than I'd admit. "You... want to know more about me?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I want to know all the things that make you you. Like... what was the first concert you went to? Your worst haircut. What made you start writing in the first place."

I blinked. No one ever asked me that. And much more, not like this. Not with this softness.

So I told him. I told him about the teacher who encouraged me to write when I was eleven. About how I used to stay up reading and scribbling stories on napkins, sometimes hiding under the blankets with a flashlight because I didn't want to sleep. I told him about my dad's old typewriter and how I used to think journalists were like heroes-truth-tellers in a world full of noise and drama.

He listened. Not just with his ears-but with his eyes, his hands, his steady breathing. Like my words were something sacred.

Then I asked him. "What about you?"

He was quiet for a moment, then sighed. "I didn't really have space to figure out who I was for a long time. I always had to be... something. A prince. A diplomat. The heir's grandson. You know?"

I nodded gently.

"I used to sneak into the stables when I was a kid," he said, his voice lower now. "Just to sit with the horses. They didn't care if I had a title. They didn't expect anything. I could just... exist."

There was a sadness in that, but also peace. Like he was sharing a scar that didn't hurt so much anymore.

"I wish I'd known you then," I whispered.

He smiled, then I spoke "I'd have been the girl who brought me a book and told me to shut up and read."

"Huh yeah." he laughed "definitely"

We laid there a little longer, tangled in warmth, the morning stretching around us like a soft blanket.

Then he said, casually, "I still want to take you to that place, you know."

"What place?"

"The one I mentioned. The important one."

"Is it a secret garden? A secret passage? Or-please say it's not-a royal archives room?"

He laughed. "It's not boring. It's not official. It's... something only I know. No one else. Not even Amelia."

That made me pause.

"I want to show it to you," he said softly. "Because it's important. And because you are."

My heart thudded at that.

"Okay," I whispered. "Take me there."

"Soon," he promised. "Next weekend. Just us?"

And I nodded in agreement.

We finally got up and got dressed-him in something still very princely, even when casual, and me in last night's outfit, though he gave me one of his soft pullovers to throw on. It smelled like him. I may or may not have inhaled it a little too deeply.

He caught me. Teased me. Kissed me.

And then we walked down the long hallway toward the kitchen, hand brushing against hand-close, but still careful in case anyone saw.

"You ready to face PancakeGate?" he asked, lips twitching with amusement.

"Only if there's coffee," I mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around me.

"Coming right up, Your Highness."

"Stop it."

"Never," he grinned, leaning in to press a soft kiss to my cheek before heading to the counter. He started fiddling with the French press like he was prepping for a royal banquet instead of a chaotic morning.

"Ugh, please," Frederick groaned, already seated at the table by the window with a cup of tea and the morning journal in hand. "Too much affection before sunrise. Have some decency."

"It's 9:30," Amelia said, without looking up from her phone. Her thumbs flew across the screen with practiced speed.

"Good morning to you too, Fred," Maxwell called over his shoulder, unfazed.

Frederick rolled his eyes and finally looked up-right at me. His brow furrowed.

"Morning, Cherry Tops. Wait... why are you here?" His eyes narrowed.

"Oh my god, you slept together?" Annie squealed as she bounced into the kitchen, nearly knocking over a cereal box.

"Shut it," Maxwell said, without missing a beat. He chucked a box of cookies at her. She caught it with impressive reflexes and grinned wickedly.

"You are elevating your relationship. Congratulations," Frederick added, his voice dripping with dry formality, like he was toasting us at a royal banquet.

"It's not-" I started, but Maxwell cut in smoothly.

"Thanks, Fred. That means a lot coming from someone who once broke up with a girl via monogrammed stationery."

"It was tasteful," Frederick replied defensively, flipping a page of the journal. "And honest."

"Still brutal," Amelia muttered.

Maxwell handed me a steaming mug of coffee, his hand lingering just a second too long on mine.

"So," I said, settling in beside him on the counter stool, "what exactly is PancakeGate?"

"Oh," Annie said, already pulling up a video on her phone, "you're gonna love this."

"Love is a strong word," Frederick said.

"Not for them, apparently," Amelia quipped, still not looking up.

Maxwell grinned and sat beside me, sipping his own mug.

"Let the chaos begin," he said.

Maxwell smirked into his coffee while Frederick sighed like I'd just opened an ancient scroll he thought was long buried. Amelia looked up from her phone finally, her face lit with a nostalgic grin.

"It's a thing," she said, like that explained everything.

"No, seriously," I said, setting my mug down. "You all keep saying it like it's some national scandal."

Maxwell leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a warm glint in his eyes. "It kind of was. In our world, anyway."

"So," Amelia started, hopping up to sit on the counter beside me, "when we were younger-like, maybe ten or eleven-we'd all spend summers together at our grandfather's country house. Every morning, it was the same miserable breakfast: orange juice, dry toast, and if you were lucky, a slice of avocado."

"Sometimes just butter," Frederick added with disgust, still holding his tea like it might protect him from the memory.

"And no sugar, obviously," Maxwell said, mock horror in his voice.

"It was like a Victorian health retreat," Amelia rolled her eyes. "The staff was under strict orders-no sweets, no pastries, no fun."

"Until we staged the Great Pancake Rebellion," Max said dramatically, raising his mug in toast.

"What did you do?" I asked, now totally invested.

"We figured out the kitchen staff came in around four-thirty in the morning to start prep," Maxwell explained. "So one summer, we decided to wake up at four, sneak into the kitchen, and make pancakes ourselves. Thought maybe if they were already cooked and on the table, no one would say no."

"And no one did," Amelia grinned.

I burst out laughing. "Wait, it worked?!"

"For a while," Frederick said, setting his journal down. "Until they caught on and tried to ban us from the kitchen entirely."

"But by then, it was too late," Maxwell said with a mock-evil grin. "We had created a legacy."

"It became a guessing game," Amelia said. "Because the thing was-only Max's pancakes were actually good. Edmund's were edible... usually. Mine were borderline dangerous. And Fred's..." she trailed off.

"Were artisanal," Frederick said primly.

"Burnt," Maxwell coughed into his hand.

"So every breakfast became a mystery," Amelia continued. "You'd take a bite and try to figure out who made them. And you were either delighted... or deeply betrayed."

I was laughing so hard, I had to wipe tears from my eyes. "That is-unhinged. I love it."

"We still call any breakfast prank PancakeGate," Max said, shrugging like this was all perfectly normal behavior.

"Anyway," Frederick said, setting down his tea and finally smiling a little, "since we're all here and it's technically a summer morning, I vote we revive the tradition."

"Oh god," Amelia groaned, but she was already sliding off the counter and heading toward the pantry. "Please don't let Fred near the stove."

"Unhand the spatula, cousin," Maxwell warned, stepping in front of Frederick dramatically. "This is for the safety of everyone here."

"You're insufferable," Frederick muttered.

"Just better," Max replied smoothly.

Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the smell of sizzling batter, warm cinnamon, and soft laughter. Maxwell was flipping pancakes like he was born to do it, while I set the table with plates and fruit, trying not to smile too obviously every time he looked at me.

Amelia was on juice duty, grumbling about it being "too responsible" a task for her, while Frederick-shockingly-was actually cutting strawberries without setting something on fire.

We sat down together at the table by the window, morning sun streaming in, warm and golden. Amelia passed me a plate stacked high with perfectly golden pancakes, and I drizzled syrup over them like it was the most sacred moment of my life.

"You know," I said, looking around at the four of them, "if this is what PancakeGate feels like, I'm all in."

"You say that now," Frederick said darkly. "Wait until Amelia decides to try cooking again."

"I'm right here!" she snapped, throwing a strawberry at his head.

He caught it midair. "Thank you."

And for a second, between the syrup, the sunlight, and the snark, it felt like I'd stumbled into a real family moment-chaotic, weird, full of old inside jokes-but warm. Honest. Mine.

I smiled at Maxwell, who slid a fresh pancake onto my plate without even asking.

"Welcome to the scandal," he whispered.

"Proud to be part of it," I whispered back.