The room smelled like stolen pastries and trouble.

Felix was already there — sitting cross-legged on the countertop like he owned the place, holding a half-eaten tart in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other like a scepter.

When you walked in, his eyes lit up.

“Ah, the royal rebel herself,” he grinned, dusting crumbs from his shirt. “What’s the verdict, Princess? Must you marry Prince Third-Cousin-With-A-Receding-Hairline, or have they upgraded to Lord Talks-About-Himself?”

He winked.

“Either way, I brought backup. Sugar. And sarcasm.”

You sighed — maybe out of habit — and he tilted his head.

“Heavy day?” he asked, this time softer.

But before you could answer, he tossed you an apple from the fruit bowl.

“Here. Eat something. Look like a hostage a little less.”

He jumped down, landing beside you with that effortless bounce he always had. Like the weight of the world just… missed him entirely.

“You know, they can dress you in silk and boss you around and plan your whole future without asking…” he said, opening a cupboard like he lived here, “but they can’t stop you from stealing cherry pie at midnight with your favorite fool.”

He looked over, waiting to see if you'd smile.

“Which, if I may remind you, I am.”