Chapter 1

The Austin Food Festival is in full swing, and my booth is busier than I ever imagined it could be.

"These are incredible!" A woman in a Longhorns t-shirt holds up one of my gluten-free chocolate chip cookies. "My daughter has celiac disease, and she never gets to eat cookies this good."

I smile, adjusting my thin nitrile gloves as I arrange another tray of pastries. "That's exactly why I make them."

"Sensory Haven Bakery," she reads from my banner. "I'm definitely looking you up online."

Three hours into the festival and I've already sold more than I expected for the entire day. The "Allergy-Friendly" and "Sensory-Safe" signs draw parents like magnets, their faces lighting up when they realize their kids can actually eat something here.

"Excuse me, do these have nuts?" A father points to my lemon bars.

"Nothing on this table contains nuts, dairy, or gluten," I tell him. "And I make everything in a dedicated facility."

His six-year-old daughter bounces on her toes. "Can I really have one, Daddy?"

"Two," I say, wrapping them carefully. "The lemon curd is made with coconut cream. Just as good as the regular stuff."

She takes a bite and her eyes go wide. "It tastes normal!"

Normal. That word used to sting. Now it makes me proud.

I'm restocking my display when I see him.

Five years.

Five years since I last saw Roman Castellano, and he still makes my heart skip a beat like I'm twenty-two again.

He's standing there, taller than I remember, his dark hair catching the afternoon sun as he samples something from Maria's tamale stand. The same gentle way he holds food, like it's something precious.

I should leave. Pack up my booth and disappear before he sees me.

But then he turns.

Those brown eyes find mine across the crowd, and suddenly I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't do anything but stand here holding a tray of my award-winning lemon bars like they're the only things keeping me tethered to the ground.

He starts walking toward me.

Oh God. He's walking toward me.

"Sage?"

My name sounds different in his voice now. Deeper. More uncertain.

"Hi, Roman." I set the tray down, proud that my hands aren't shaking. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I volunteer every year," he says, then stops like he realizes how that sounds. "I mean, I help coordinate the restaurant participants."

Of course he does. Roman always was the responsible one.

"Your booth looks..." He glances around, taking in my setup. "Professional."

"It is professional." The words come out sharper than I intended. "This is my business."

"Right. Sorry." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I remember from a thousand study sessions. "I just meant... it's impressive. Really impressive."

We stand there for a moment, the noise of the festival swirling around us. A mariachi band starts up somewhere to our left. Kids shriek with laughter. The smell of barbacoa and funnel cake drifts past.

But all I can focus on is the way Roman's looking at me. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"What do you make?" he asks finally.

"Allergy-friendly baked goods. Everything's free from the top eight allergens, plus I do sensory-friendly textures for people with..." I stop myself. He doesn't need my whole pitch.

"People with what?"

"Sensory processing issues," I finish quietly.

His expression shifts, and I know he's remembering. My gloves. My panic attacks in culinary school. The way I couldn't touch raw meat or handle certain textures without breaking down.

"Can I try something?" he asks.

I want to say no. Want to tell him I'm closing up, that I have somewhere else to be. But the woman in the Longhorns shirt is watching us with obvious curiosity, and there's a line forming behind Roman.

"Sure." I grab one of my lemon bars. "This is one of my bestsellers."

His fingers brush mine as he takes it, and I'm grateful for the gloves. Even through the thin nitrile, the contact sends electricity up my arm.

He takes a bite, chews slowly. His eyes close.

"Oh."

"What?"

"This tastes like..." He opens his eyes, staring at me. "How did you do this? It tastes exactly like the ones you used to make when we studied together. But different. Better."

My chest tightens. "I've had time to perfect the recipe."

"Sage." His voice drops lower. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't."

"Please. Just five minutes."

I look at him, really look at him. The same brown eyes, but with lines around them now. The same hands that used to guide mine through knife techniques, now holding my pastry like it might break.

There's something in his expression that wasn't there five years ago. Something that looks like regret.

"There's nothing to talk about, Roman."

"There's everything to talk about."

The line behind him is getting longer. Mrs. Rodriguez from the pupusa stand is giving me meaningful looks, probably wondering why I'm not serving customers.

"I need to get back to work," I say.

"After the festival then. Please."

I look into those brown eyes, and for just a second, I see the boy who used to stay up until midnight helping me practice knife cuts. The one who never once made me feel broken.

But I also remember the silence in that alley behind his family's restaurant. The choice he made without saying a word.

"I can't," I whisper.

"Why not?"

"Because there's no point."

He's quiet for a moment, still holding my lemon bar. "Sage, what happened between us—"

"Happened five years ago." I start arranging pastries with unnecessary precision. "We're different people now."

"Maybe," he says softly. "But some things don't change."

I want to argue, but something in his voice stops me. The sincerity there. The way he's looking at me like I still matter.

"Please," he says again. "Just one conversation."

The customers behind him are getting restless. I can feel their impatience pressing against my back.

"I really do need to work," I say, but my voice comes out uncertain.

He nods, stepping back. "I understand."

But he doesn't leave. Just stands there, watching me serve the next customer, then the next. And somehow that's worse than if he'd just walked away.