Applause still thundered in my ears as I shook hands with the judges.
Their smiles were genuine, their compliments flowing like wine. "Brilliant execution," one said.
"A natural chef," another added.
Cameras flashed with every step I took, capturing my victory.
Then came the fellow competitors.
Some offered warm, genuine handshakes.
"Congratulations," said the chef from Texas, his smile wide and easy.
Others squeezed my hand just a little too tight, their forced grins stiff, envy seeping through their fingers.
But I was too happy to care. Their bitterness couldn't touch me tonight.
I slipped away, freshened up, and stepped outside into the cool evening air. And there he was.
Davis.
My best friend. My brother from another mother. My anchor.
Before I could stop myself, I sprinted across the lot with the speed of lightning.
His arms opened wide, and I crashed into him, burying my face into his neck.
My fingers gripped his collar desperately, like I needed proof this moment was real.
He held me tightly, chin brushing my hair. His voice, low and warm, whispered against my ear.
"You made it, Liana. I'm proud of you."
That undid me. Tears spilled, hot and uncontrollable, and I clung to him harder.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to wipe my cheeks with his thumbs, his teasing smile breaking through.
"Look at you. America's Golden Spoon champion, bawling like a baby."
I laughed through my tears, shoving at his chest. "Shut up."
"Remember when you couldn't even balance a tray at Applebee's?" he teased.
"Don't start," I groaned, swatting at him, but the laughter bubbled out anyway.
This was us. Always.
We'd met years ago in high school, during a basketball tournament I had no business attending.
I'd tripped into a pile of basketballs, sending them scattering across the court mid-game.
The entire gym roared with laughter as I sat there frozen, humiliated, drowning in stares.
And then he was there. Davis. Walking through the sea of mocking faces, offering me his hand like I wasn't a walking disaster.
He had grinned down at me, eyes full of mischief, and asked, "So, what's your name?"
"Liana," I'd whispered, mortified.
"And your last name?"
"Davis."
He'd blinked, then laughed. "No way. Same here."
And just like that, the teasing crowd faded.
From that day forward, we were a pair. Davis and Davis. Inseparable.
Now, years later, standing outside a hall where my dreams had just been crowned with gold, he was still the one holding me together.
He brushed a stray curl from my face, his smile softening. "Paris, huh?"
I exhaled shakily, the word trembling in my chest.
"Paris."