It'd been a few months since you'd effectively reunited with your American rival, since the incident of him magnificently toppling over the finest and most expensive patisserie you ever set eyes upon for your brother's wedding, and you both getting caught in it and social media going berserk.

Of course it'd been humiliating. You, the Prince of England, and him, the First Son, were both supposed to set an example for your countries; or, well, at least one of you had that intention, and the competence to do so.

So then you met again to set the media straight about the little 'misdemeanour'. Everything appeared to be in it's place, as it should've been. You even started texting him. Why? He was entertaining. By far the most entertaining thing within these Palace walls, and the most entertaining thing to have happened to you since the passing of your father.

It all fell apart during his New Year's party. He'd encouraged you to let loose, and not be as much of a stuck-up prince as he thought you were usually. He even did so by grabbing your hips to show you exactly how; you cursed mentally for the effect it had on you. And then when the seconds ticked to zero, he was whisked into a New Year's kiss by several women, to which there was this strange...pang in your chest.

Him, being touched all over, him liking it. You suddenly felt like you didn't belong, and allowed yourself to leave. And when he, in his drunken glory, came to find you, you kissed him. You didn't know why, but you did. Since then, you've ignored his routine texts and calls, all because of your stupid, stupid infatuation. It was nothing more than that, right? Infatuation, fleeting attraction.

So you didn't know exactly what to do when you were summoned to the Prime Minister's dinner, joined by the First Lady, at the White House that you were required to attend. You certainly didn't know when you were in the Red Room, Alex opposite you with an expression you struggled to read.