It hits fast. Too fast. Not just the spice, this sense ofbeing yanked into the spotlight with no warning, no protection. I’ve been caught in a moment I didn’t rehearse for and can’t escape.
Except this time, the spotlight’s replaced by townsfolk, and the soundtrack is laughter, not applause.
My brain lurches. Panic claws at the edge of my chest, old instincts flaring: don’t flinch, don’t falter, don’t give them anything they can use. That was always my trick: stay composed, stay vague. Never hand someone a vulnerable piece of yourself they can twist into something else. Disappear before someone sees too much. But that ship sailed the second my face turned the color of a ripe tomato.
I grip the edge of the table, steadying myself as I sputter and cough, nearly choking.
Maisie is next to me in an instant.
“Oh noooo,” she says, dragging out the word with enough volume to catch the attention of the crowd. “Did I grab the cayenne pepper instead of the chili powder? Beau, I amso sorry.”
She clutches my arm with mock horror, spinning it into a performance so smoothly I nearly forget I’m melting.
“This is why you don’t let a florist measure spice,” she stage-whispers as we stand in front of the judges’ table.”
A few nearby festival-goers, led by Team Let’s Go Viral, let out barks of laughter that drip with mockery. Someone snaps a photo.
Maisie slides a glass of milk into my hand gracefully, although I have no idea where it came from. “Here, drink this. You’ve officially survived Sweetpines’ most dangerous baked good.”
I drink. Gratefully. The burn eases slightly, and with it, the tremor I didn’t realize had spread through my limbs.
Maisie stays beside me, shielding me with her smile andthat wild, unstoppable energy that seems to rise when everything else is falling apart.
“Pretty sure we’re not getting points for heat level,” she whispers just for me.
“You’re a menace,” I manage, voice still rough.
She grins. “And you’re alive. You’re welcome.”
Then, as if cued on stage with the perfect timing of a sitcom director, Dr. Brooks ambles over. He takes one look at me, still dabbing my eyes with a napkin, and his nose wrinkles faintly, whether from the scent or my reaction, hard to say.
“Well now,” he says. “Hope it was just an accident that one of my patients is suddenly eating lava.”
Maisie gives a dramatic sigh. “Doctor, I fear I’ve broken him.”
“Good call on the milk,” Brooks replies. “If he starts hiccupping fire, give him some plain bread and call me in the morning.”
He says it just loudly enough for the rival couples, especially Team Let’s Go Viral, to hear. I catch Cassie narrowing her eyes from the corner of my vision. Nico, predictably, adjusts the ring light.
I try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace, bow, and move away from the judging table acting as if nothing happened.
But the damage? Controlled. Contained. Thanks to Maisie.
I’m quiet. Still recalibrating.
Our judging wraps up without further incident, and we’re waved off the stage with polite nods and a few scribbled notes. Maisie beams like we’ve just won the Super Bowl, even as she whispers under her breath, “Hey. You okay?”
I nod once then dunk my tongue into the glass of milk I’m still carrying.
“Thanks for having my six.”
She shrugs. “You’d have done the same for me.”
Maybe. But the truth is, I wouldn’t have thought that quickly. Not anymore. Not after shutting so much of myself down. Not after years of keeping every interaction at arm’s length, of measuring out trust like teaspoons of sugar—just enough to be polite, never enough to spill.
And there she is, this riot of color, confidence, and cheer, throwing herself between me and embarrassment like it’s second nature.
We pass Team Barbie’s World feeding each other meatballs and grinning like toothpaste models. Then, of course, Cassie and Nico—drift by us again, all leering smiles and matching aprons on their way to the judging panel. I’m positive I glimpse a thin smear of dark red powder on the pocket of Nico’s apron. It’s faint, but it’s there. Just a flash of something that doesn’t belong—too red, too dusty. Ghost pepper? Cajun spices or cayenne? I can’t be sure, but the second I clock it, Nico flicks something off his apron and adjusts his smile as if nothing’s happened.
