Trinity
"Mom's going to cry. Just warning you now."
Korgan shifts the bags in the rental car trunk. "Why?"
"Because that's what she does. Happy tears, sad tears, Tuesday tears."
"Noted."
I watch him close the trunk with careful precision, still adjusting to human cars that don't require brute force. Three months since the show wrapped, and he's still adorably cautious with doorknobs.
"Dad will want to arm-wrestle."
"You mentioned."
"And Aunt Shelly will ask invasive questions about our sex life."
"Also mentioned."
"Just making sure you're prepared."
He turns, amber eyes warm. "Trinity. I negotiated peace talks with clan elders who threatened ritual combat. I can handle your family."
"Different kind of combat."
"I'm aware."
I grab his hand as we head toward the car. "For the record? You don't have to be on this weekend. No cameras, no performance. Just—be you."
"The grumpy version?"
"My favorite version."
He kisses my knuckles, casual and possessive. "Let's go meet your clan."
The town hasn't changed.
Same faded stoplight, same corner market with the crooked sign, same diner where I spent every Sunday morning before culinary school.
Korgan takes it in with tactical assessment. "Small."
"Told you."
"Defensible, though. Good sightlines."
"Please don't evaluate my hometown for military advantage."
"Too late."
I pull up to the bakery, Lewis & Daughter, the sign still hand-painted by my grandfather, and my chest tightens.
Home.
Mom bursts out before I've killed the engine.
"Trinity!"
Here come the tears.
I barely get the door open before she's crushing me in flour-scented arms, crying happy-Tuesday tears into my shoulder.
"Hi, Mom."
"You're here, you're really here, I made pot roast, your room's ready, oh my—" She spots Korgan unfolding from the passenger seat and stops mid-sentence.
He's trying to look non-threatening. Failing, because he's seven feet of scarred muscle in a flannel shirt we bought specifically for this trip.
"Mrs. Lewis." He offers a careful nod. "I'm Korgan."
Mom stares.
I hold my breath.
Then she beams. "You're taller in person!"
"I—yes?"
"Trinity said you were big, but goodness." She bustles forward, completely fearless. "Come here, let me look at you."
Korgan shoots me a panicked glance.
I shrug. You're on your own.
Mom circles him like she's inspecting produce. "Good shoulders. Strong hands. You eat enough?"
"I... believe so."
"We'll fix that. Pot roast tonight." She pats his arm. "Welcome to the family, sweetheart."
Korgan looks genuinely touched. "Thank you."
Dad appears in the doorway, wiping oil-stained hands on a rag. "This the orc?"
"Dad."
"What? Just asking." He crosses the yard, extends a hand. "Mike Lewis."
They shake. Dad winces slightly.
"Good grip," he says, impressed. "Heard you're handy with repairs."
"Some."
"Bakery oven's been temperamental. Think you can take a look?"
"Dad, he just got here—"
"I'd be happy to." Korgan's already moving toward the building, suddenly animated. "What's the issue?"
"Temperature spikes, uneven heating, ornery as hell."
"Show me."
They disappear inside, talking heat distribution and airflow.
Mom links her arm through mine. "I like him."
"You cried on him within ninety seconds."
"Happy tears. He handled it well." She squeezes. "You look good, baby. Really good."
"Yeah?"
"Loved-up good." Her eyes twinkle. "The kind of good that comes from excellent—"
"Mom."
"—partnership and emotional support."
"Sure. That."
She laughs, tugs me toward the house. "Come on. Shelly's inside with interrogation questions and wine."
Dinner is chaos.
Aunt Shelly asks if orc anatomy is proportional before appetizers hit the table. Dad challenges Korgan to arm-wrestling over dessert. Mom keeps trying to feed him thirds despite his protests.
Korgan handles it with patient bemusement.
"Your aunt is subtle," he murmurs when Shelly leaves to grab more wine.
"Shelly doesn't do subtle."
"Noted when she asked about our mating rituals."
"She asked what?"
"During the oven repair. Very detailed questions."
I drop my head into my hands. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." He sounds amused. "She's protective. Making sure you're cared for."
"By asking about—"
"She loves you." He touches my knee under the table. "I respect that."
Mom returns with pie. "Trinity, your room's got clean sheets. Korgan, we set up the guest room, but—" She pauses delicately. "—if you'd prefer other arrangements, we're modern people."
Dad chokes on his coffee.
"Guest room's perfect," Korgan says smoothly. "Thank you for the hospitality."
Mom looks disappointed.
"We're modern," she repeats.
"Mom."
"Just saying."
Later, after pie and too much wine, I find Korgan on the back porch.
He's studying the sky, stars clearer here than in the city, with that expression he gets when he's thinking hard about something.
"You okay?"
"Your family is loud."
"I warned you."
"I like it." He pulls me against his side. "It's warm. Chaotic, but warm."
"You survived Aunt Shelly. That's the real test."
"She reminds me of my sister."
"You have a sister?"
"Three. All terrifying." He kisses my hair. "Your mother cried again when I fixed the oven."
"Happy tears?"
"I think so. Hard to tell."
The oven. Right.
"What was wrong with it?"
"Heating element needed realignment, ventilation system was clogged, temperature gauge was miscalibrated." He sounds satisfied. "Simple fixes."
"You made Mom cry with oven repairs."
"She said it's been broken for two years."
"We're not great with maintenance."
"I noticed." He's quiet a moment. "I told her I'd come back. Help with other repairs."
My heart does something complicated. "Yeah?"
"If you're visiting regularly, I should make myself useful."
"You don't have to earn your place here."
"I know." He meets my eyes. "I want to. Your family—they're part of you. I want to know them."
I kiss him, slow and grateful.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Being you. Fixing ovens and tolerating invasive questions and—" I gesture at the warm house behind us. "—caring about this."
"Trinity." His voice drops, serious. "Anywhere you are is somewhere I want to be."
The next morning, Dad recruits Korgan for Additional Projects.
I find them in the bakery, dismantling the industrial mixer.
"What are you doing?"
"Preventative maintenance," Dad says cheerfully.
Korgan's elbow-deep in gears. "This hasn't been serviced in years."
"We've been busy."
"Busy breaking equipment."
Dad grins. "I like him, Trin. He's got opinions."
"Lucky me."
They work in comfortable silence, the kind men fall into when they've found common language through tools and mechanical problems.
Mom appears with coffee. "They've been at it since six."
"It's eight."
"Exactly." She hands me a mug. "Your father's in heaven. Someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Korgan emerges, grease-smeared and satisfied. "The mixer will run quieter now. Better torque distribution."
"My hero," I say dryly.
He catches the sarcasm, smirks. "You're welcome."
"How'd I get stuck with an orc who's useful?"
"Luck."
Dad claps him on the shoulder. "You're good people, Korgan."
It's the highest praise my father gives.
Korgan looks genuinely pleased.
We stay through the weekend.
I teach Korgan the walking route I used as a kid, past the elementary school, through the park, down to the river where teenagers used to jump off the old bridge.
"You jumped?"
"Once. Peer pressure."
"Dangerous."
"I was sixteen and stupid."
"You could have been hurt."
"Hence the stupid part." I bump his shoulder. "You never did anything reckless?"
"I led a war band at seventeen."
"Point taken."
We walk in easy quiet, his hand warm around mine.
"I understand you better now," he says eventually.
"Yeah?"
"Seeing where you're from. The people who shaped you." He looks back toward town. "You carry this place. The warmth, the care, the way you build community."
"Getting sentimental on me?"
"Observant."
"Sure."
He stops, turns me to face him. "I'm glad you brought me here."
"Even with Aunt Shelly's questions?"
"Especially those."
I laugh, and he kisses me there on the riverside path where I used to dream about leaving.
Now I'm dreaming about coming back.
Bringing him.
Building something that bridges both worlds.
Six months later, the bakery, our bakery now, the one in the city we opened together, is thriving.
The "Orc's Honor" pastry line is a viral hit. Dense, spiced rolls with honey glaze and a kick of pepper that Korgan designed based on traditional clan recipes.
We're filming a holiday special for the streaming network that picked up our post-show story.
"This is ridiculous," Korgan mutters, adjusting the apron that says Kiss the Orc.
"This is marketing."
"I'm not wearing the hat."
"It's a Santa hat. Very festive."
"No."
The crew laughs. We've got a good team—people who respect boundaries and understand we're real people, not just content.
"Compromise," I offer. "You wear the hat for the intro, then it mysteriously disappears."
"Mysteriously."
"Tragic accident involving dough."
He considers. "Acceptable."
We film for three hours. Korgan demonstrates traditional orc feast bread while I make cranberry cinnamon rolls. The chemistry's natural now, banter and teamwork and the occasional flour fight that's only half-staged.
During a break, Korgan samples my latest experiment.
"Too sweet."
"It's a dessert."
"Still too sweet."
"Your feedback is noted and ignored."
He grins, steals another bite. "Make it anyway. It'll sell."
"How do you know?"
"Because you made it." He says it like it's obvious. "People trust your work."
The compliment lands warm and certain.
"We make a good team," I say.
"We do."
The director calls us back. Korgan reaches for the Santa hat with resignation.
I catch his hand. "Thank you."
"For wearing ridiculous hats?"
"For this. The bakery, the show, the—" I gesture at the kitchen we've built together. "—life."
He kisses me, quick and sure. "Best deal I ever made."
Late that night, we're back in our apartment.
Flour-dusted, exhausted, ridiculously happy.
I'm mixing dough for tomorrow's early batch. Korgan's cleaning equipment with methodical precision.
The playlist shuffles to some pop song with overwrought lyrics.
Korgan stops. "What is this?"
"Music."
"It's offensive."
"It's Taylor Swift."
"It's chaos." He glares at the speaker. "How do you work to this?"
"Some of us enjoy fun."
"This isn't fun. This is auditory violence."
I laugh so hard I almost drop the whisk.
"Change it then."
He scrolls through options, settles on something with deep drums and rhythmic chanting.
"Better."
"That's orc battle music."
"Exactly. Motivating."
I'm about to argue when he moves behind me, hands settling on my hips.
"You're distracting me."
"You are wearing flour."
"Observant."
He kisses my neck, warm and deliberate. "Finish the dough."
"Bossy."
"You like it."
Can't argue with that.
I work while he watches, his presence solid and grounding. When the dough's set to rise, I turn in his arms.
"Hi."
"Hi."
We kiss, slow and deep, the kind that still makes my toes curl even after months of practice.
The battle music crescendos.
Korgan pulls back, listening. Then he roars, a deep, resonant sound that rattles the windows.
I jump. "What the hell?"
"Chorus. You're supposed to roar."
"It's eleven PM!"
"Music doesn't care about time."
The neighbor pounds on the wall.
Korgan ignores it, roars again.
I'm laughing too hard to stop him.
"You're insane."
"You love it."
"Debatable."
He grins, wild and completely himself, and I think, yeah. I really do.
The next morning, someone posts a video of "Mystery Orc Roaring at Midnight" that goes viral.
Our bakery gets fifty new orders.
Korgan's completely smug about it.
We're sitting at the kitchen counter, sharing coffee and fresh cinnamon rolls, when my phone buzzes.
Mom's calling.
"Hey—"
"I saw the video! Is that Korgan?"
"Probably."
"He sounds ferocious. Also, Aunt Shelly wants to know if he does requests."
Korgan raises an eyebrow.
I grin. "Tell Shelly he only roars for artistic purposes."
"She'll be disappointed."
"She'll survive."
Mom chatters about town gossip, the oven still running perfectly, when am I visiting next?
Korgan steals half my cinnamon roll.
I steal it back.
He mock-growls.
I kiss cinnamon sugar off his lips.
"Trinity? You there?"
"Yeah, Mom. Sorry."
"Bring that man home soon. Your father wants help with the truck."
"Will do."
We hang up.
Korgan's watching me with soft eyes. "Home?"
"Both of them," I say. "Here and there. Wherever we are."
"Good answer."
He pulls me into his lap, and I settle there like I was designed for it.
The morning stretches warm and easy—coffee cooling, rolls disappearing, battle music playing low because Korgan won the playlist argument through sheer roaring power.
"Think we'll always be this ridiculous?" I ask.
"Absolutely."
"Good."
I kiss him, tasting cinnamon and coffee and the future we're building.
One pastry, one roar, one perfectly imperfect day at a time.