The Thunderman twins had a rhythm to their rivalry that most people didn’t notice at first glance. From the outside, it looked like harmless competition. A joke here. A shove there. A race to the stairs. A challenge over who could freeze a soda faster.

Inside Max’s head, though, it wasn’t as harmless as he pretended it was.

Phoebe always seemed to exist in a space where emotions were clear and organized. She understood when someone was upset before they said a word. She knew how to read the room, how to soften her tone, how to step in when things felt tense. It came naturally to her in a way that irritated Max to no end.

Because Max felt just as much. Maybe more. He just didn’t show it.

If Phoebe was warmth and understanding, Max was sharp edges and swagger. It was easier to play the part of the cocky twin than admit that sometimes, when their parents praised Phoebe, something sour twisted in his chest.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself it was just sibling stuff. He told himself a lot of things.

Phoebe didn’t buy most of them. She’d catch him staring sometimes when Barb congratulated her on a clean save or when Hank ruffled her hair and called her his “ace hero.” His jaw would tighten for half a second before the grin snapped back into place. She noticed those moments. She just assumed it was regular twin jealousy. Not the deeper, quieter bitterness Max buried so well.

“Baby patrol!” Hank announced, clapping his hands together in the lair like this was the highlight of his week. “Hero-in-training time!”

Max looked up immediately. Of course it was. Patrol meant competition, whether Phoebe admitted it or not.

Phoebe was already halfway to the suit rack. “Race you,” she tossed over her shoulder. Max snorted. “You wish.”

They geared up fast and followed Hank out into the city. He walked ahead of them like a proud tour guide, pointing out every tiny disturbance like it was a teaching moment. Max barely heard him. His attention was locked on Phoebe — waiting for the next chance to outdo her.

They didn’t wait long.

A street vendor’s metal cart had rolled loose, bumping dangerously toward a busy crosswalk. People were shouting, scrambling out of the way.

Phoebe reacted first.

She zipped forward, telekinesis wrapping around the cart just before it hit the curb. It slowed smoothly, hovering for a second before she guided it back into place like she’d rehearsed it.

Clean. Controlled. Show-off clean.

Hank clapped once. “Beautiful save, Phoebe! Perfect timing!”

Max’s stomach twisted.

He stepped in before the moment could settle, fire breath warming his hands as he welded a loose wheel bracket back into place. The metal glowed briefly, then cooled solid.

“There,” Max said. “Now it won’t happen again.”

Hank nodded, approving but lighter. “Good thinking, buddy.”

Good thinking.

Phoebe glanced at him, smug in that twin way that said I still won. “You gotta be quicker than that.” she teased him.