Chapter 5
TRINITY
The confessional booth feels like a sauna under the studio lights, but at least it's private. Well, private except for the three cameras recording my every facial expression and the production assistant who keeps adjusting my microphone like it's personally offended her.
"Just talk naturally," the producer behind the camera encourages. "Tell us what you're thinking about the competition so far."
What I'm thinking is that this whole setup is designed to make people say stupid things they'll regret later. But what comes out of my mouth is somehow worse.
"I keep thinking about Korgan."
Smooth, Trinity. Really smooth.
The producer's eyes light up like I've just handed her a winning lottery ticket. "Oh? In what way?"
I fidget with the hem of my sweater, already regretting this honesty.
"It's just... he's not what I expected. Like, yesterday during the challenge, he kept doing these small things.
Making sure people didn't get hurt, giving quiet advice.
And when that contestant Jonathan started spreading rumors about orc tactics, Korgan looked genuinely upset. Not angry-upset, but hurt-upset."
"And how does that make you feel?"
The standard therapy question every reality show loves. I should give them something safe, something that won't make me look like a complete fool when this airs.
Instead, I find myself saying, "Protective, I guess?
Which is ridiculous because he's literally twice my size and could probably bench press my entire kitchen.
But there's something about the way he tries so hard to fit in with human customs, even when they don't make sense to him.
Like he's performing being acceptable instead of just being. "
The camera zooms in slightly. I can practically hear the editors already cutting this into a dramatic romance montage.
"Have you thought about pursuing something with him?"
Every waking moment since the flour incident, my brain supplies helpfully. And a few sleeping moments too.
"I don't know," I lie. "It's complicated. He's here to date everyone, not just me. And I'm here for the bakery, not romance."
Another lie. At this point, I'm basically running a small deception industry.
The truth is that I've thought about Korgan constantly since yesterday.
The way his amber orbs had softened when he'd helped me with the oven rack.
How his voice had dropped to something almost gentle when he'd said my bread smelled honest. The ginger way he'd steadied the ladder, like he was afraid his strength might accidentally hurt someone.
Someone being me, specifically.
"Any plans for connecting with him further?"
I gaze at the camera, then away. "Maybe. I was thinking about making him something. A small thank-you for yesterday."
"What kind of something?"
"Cinnamon rolls." The words come out before I can stop them. "I have this recipe that's special. My grandmother's, but I've adapted it over the years. They're kind of my signature comfort food."
The producer nods encouragingly, probably already envisioning the romantic montage possibilities.
"It's a human thing," I continue, surprising myself with how much I want to explain this.
"Baking for people you care about. It's how we show affection, how we say things that are hard to put into words.
I figure if Korgan's trying to understand human customs, maybe he should experience one of the good ones. "
Care about.
Did I just admit on camera that I care about Korgan? The heat in my cheeks suggests yes, I absolutely did.
"That sounds lovely," the producer says. "Very romantic."
"It's not—" I start, then stop. Because maybe it is romantic. Maybe that's exactly what it is, and trying to pretend otherwise is just me being scared of putting myself out there.
"It's thoughtful," I settle on. "Whether it's romantic or not depends on how he receives it."
The interview continues for another twenty minutes, but my mind keeps drifting to the kitchen downstairs and the bag of flour I'd noticed in the pantry.
Cinnamon rolls are simple in theory, flour, butter, sugar, spice, but getting them perfect requires attention and patience.
The dough needs to be handled just right, not overworked but kneaded enough to develop the proper texture.
The cinnamon filling has to be the perfect balance of sweet and spice, and the baking time needs to be precise to achieve that golden-brown exterior with a soft, pillowy interior.
It's meditative work, the kind of baking that requires you to be present and focused. Exactly what I need right now.
When they finally release me from the confessional, I head straight for the kitchen.
Most of the other contestants are either in their rooms or gathered in the main living area, probably strategizing or forming alliances.
I should be doing the same thing, networking, building relationships, playing the game.
Instead, I'm measuring flour and hoping the residential kitchen has decent vanilla extract.
The space is well-equipped but sterile, all gleaming surfaces and professional-grade appliances.
Nothing like my cozy bakery back home with its temperamental oven and flour-dusted counters that tell the story of every recipe I've ever perfected.
But the basics are here, and the basics are all I need.
I work quietly, mixing the dough by hand instead of using the stand mixer.
There's something about the tactile process that helps me think, the rhythm of kneading that always settles my nerves.
As my hands work the dough, my mind wanders back to yesterday's challenge and the way Korgan had watched me work with something that looked almost like admiration.
He appreciates competence, I realize. Skill and effort and doing things well.
The thought makes me more careful with the cinnamon filling, more attentive to the texture of the dough. If I'm going to do this—and apparently I am—I want it to be perfect.
The rolls are just coming out of the oven, golden and fragrant, when a production assistant appears at my elbow like magic.
"Trinity? They need you in the main living area. Challenge announcement."
I peer at the cooling rolls, then at the assistant's expectant face. "Can I finish—"
"Now, please."
Of course.
I cover the rolls with a clean kitchen towel and follow the assistant to where the other contestants are gathering.
Korgan stands near the back of the group, arms crossed, wearing an expression of polite attention that doesn't quite hide his wariness.
Our eyes meet briefly, and something warm flutters in my stomach.
Get it together, Trinity. You're on camera.
The host, a perfectly coiffed woman whose smile never seems to reach her eyes, claps her hands for attention.
"Contestants! Tonight we have a special challenge designed to test connection and communication. We call it 'Taste and Tell.'"
Groans from several contestants. Korgan's expression doesn't change, but I see his jaw tighten slightly.
"You'll be paired with another contestant for a midnight snack experience. But here's the twist, you'll be cooking together, then feeding each other while blindfolded. The goal is to learn about your partner through taste, texture, and conversation."
More groans. Someone mutters something about "forced intimacy." I find myself looking at Korgan again, wondering what he thinks about being fed by a stranger while cameras record every reaction.
"The pairs have been randomly selected," the host continues, though her tone suggests nothing about this process was random. "Trinity and Korgan!"
My heart does something complicated involving skipping beats and sudden acceleration. Korgan's amber eyes find mine across the room, and this time he doesn't look away immediately.
"Jessica and Marcus! Jonathan and Valentina! And our final pair..."
I stop listening. Korgan is making his way through the group toward me, moving with that careful precision I've noticed before—like he's constantly aware of his size and strength in relation to everyone around him.
"Unexpected," he says when he reaches me, voice pitched low enough that the cameras might not catch it.
"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?"
He considers this seriously, as he seems to consider everything. "Unknown. But you smell like cinnamon and sugar, so perhaps good."
The observation is so matter-of-fact, so completely without artifice, that I laugh before I can stop myself. "I was baking. Made something for... later."
"Something edible?"
"That's the goal."
Something that might be amusement flickers across his features. "I look forward to judging your competence."
"My competence?"
"In baking. Your other competencies are already evident."
I feel heat rise in my cheeks and hope the cameras are too far away to catch it. There's something about the way Korgan gives compliments—direct and specific and completely without flourish. That makes them hit harder than any flowery romantic speech.
"Contestants!" the host calls. "Please move to your assigned cooking stations. You have one hour to prepare your midnight snack, then the tasting begins!"
Korgan and I are directed to a station equipped with basic cooking supplies and ingredients. The space feels smaller with him in it, not because he's crowding me but because I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes.
"What do humans typically prepare for midnight snacks?" he asks, surveying the available ingredients with tactical focus.
"Depends on the human. Some people go for comfort food—grilled cheese, cookies, leftover pizza. Others prefer lighter things. Fruit, yogurt, that kind of thing."
"And you?"
I study the ingredients, then him. "I usually bake when I can't sleep. Something simple but satisfying. What about orcs?"
"We eat what is available. Hunger does not follow human schedules."
"But if you could choose anything?"