Chapter 5 #2
He pauses for a moment, considering. "Meat. Well-prepared, simply seasoned. Bread if available. Orcs value substance over complexity."
I nod, already forming a plan. "I think I can work with that."
The next hour passes in a blur of chopping, seasoning, and surprisingly comfortable conversation.
Korgan moves around the kitchen with efficient grace, his large hands unexpectedly gentle with delicate tasks.
When I ask him to dice onions, he produces perfectly uniform pieces.
When I need help reaching something on a high shelf, he retrieves it without making me feel small or helpless.
We settle on a simple but elegant menu: herb-crusted bread with a selection of spreads I prepare from available ingredients, paired with perfectly grilled meat that Korgan handles with expert precision. Nothing fancy, but everything made with care and attention.
"Time!"
I look at our spread, rustic but appealing, the kind of food that invites you to sit and savor rather than rush through. Korgan nods approvingly.
"Competent," he says, and somehow it sounds like the highest praise possible.
"Contestants, it's time for the tasting portion of our challenge! Please join your partner at the designated area."
The "designated area" turns out to be a romantic setup that makes my teeth ache—candlelit tables, soft music, enough mood lighting to power a small nightclub. The cameras circle like sharks, ready to capture every potentially embarrassing moment.
Korgan and I settle at our assigned table, and I try to ignore the way the candlelight catches the brass stud in his nose, the way his glowing eyes seem to glow in the warm light.
"The blindfolds are on the table," the host announces. "Remember, the goal is connection through the senses. Trust your partner, and let them guide you through the experience."
Trust.
I look at Korgan as I tie the blindfold over my eyes, and the last thing I see is his steady gaze watching me with something that looks almost like concern.
Then the world goes dark, and I'm completely at the mercy of this fierce, gentle, utterly confusing man who somehow makes me feel safer than I have in months.
"Ready?" his voice asks from somewhere close by.
"Ready," I whisper, and mean it.
The darkness behind the blindfold heightens every other sense. The soft clink of a plate being set down. The rustle of fabric as Korgan moves. The faint sound of his breathing, steady and controlled.
"First taste," his voice comes from directly in front of me, closer than I realized. "Open."
Something warm touches my lips, bread, I think, with herbs and a hint of garlic.
The texture is perfect, crispy crust giving way to soft interior.
But what catches me off guard is the gentleness of his fingers as he feeds me, the neat way he waits for me to finish chewing before offering the next bite.
"Good?" he asks.
"Really good. Your turn."
I grab for what I hope is our plate, fumbling slightly until my fingers find the bread we prepared together. When I lean forward to feed him, I misjudge the distance and nearly brush his nose with the crust.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"No apology needed."
His lips are warm against my fingertips as he takes the bite, and I have to concentrate on not dropping the remaining bread. There's something intensely intimate about feeding someone you can't see, about having to rely entirely on touch and sound and trust.
"The herb blend," he says after swallowing. "Rosemary and thyme?"
"And a little sage. You have a good palate."
"Survival skill. Distinguishing safe plants from dangerous ones."
Even in the middle of this manufactured romantic moment, he's utterly practical. It should break the spell, but somehow it makes him more appealing. Real in a way that cuts through all the artificial staging.
We continue the tasting, taking turns feeding each other small bites of everything we prepared.
The grilled meat he made is perfectly seasoned, smoky and tender.
The spreads I improvised from available ingredients—a sharp herb butter, a sweet fruit compote, something approximating hummus—complement the bread beautifully.
"This is not what I expected," Korgan says during a pause.
"The food?"
"The experience. I anticipated awkwardness. Performance for cameras. Instead..."
He trails off, but I can hear something in his voice that wasn't there before. Something softer.
"Instead?"
"Instead it feels like sharing a meal. Something real."
The simple honesty in his words hits me harder than any romantic declaration could. This is what I've been missing in my dating life, someone who says what they mean, who doesn't hide behind games or pretense.
"I know what you mean. It's nice. Just... being with someone without having to perform."
"You perform often?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness. "More than I'd like. Small town, everyone knows everyone's business. Dating becomes this public spectacle where you're always wondering what people think, what they're saying about your choices."
"And here?"
I laugh softly. "Here the spectacle is literal. But somehow that makes it easier to ignore. The cameras become background noise after a while."
"For you, perhaps. I remain aware of their presence."
"Does it bother you?"
A pause. "Less than expected. Particularly now."
The warmth in his voice makes my stomach flutter. I fumble for another piece of bread and encounter his hand instead, both of us reaching for the same plate. Neither of us pulls away immediately.
His fingers are calloused but gentle, broader than mine, scarred in places. I trace one of the scars without thinking, a raised line across his knuckles.
"Old wound?" I ask.
"Training accident. Years ago."
"Does it hurt?"
"No longer. Most scars fade to memory."
There's weight in those words, like he's talking about more than just physical marks. Before I can ask what he means, the host's voice cuts through our quiet moment.
"Time! Please remove your blindfolds and rejoin the group."
I blink as the candlelit room comes back into focus, immediately missing the intimate darkness that had made everything feel more intense, more real. Korgan's amber eyes meet mine, and I see something there that wasn't present before—a warmth that makes my breath catch.
"Well done," the host announces to the group. "You've all successfully completed the first part of tonight's challenge. But we have one more surprise. Each pair will now have thirty minutes of private time to continue getting to know each other, away from the group."
Excited murmurs from some contestants, nervous laughter from others. I look at Korgan, who looks as surprised as I feel.
"Trinity and Korgan, you'll be in the garden pavilion. Follow your production assistant."
We're led outside to a small covered area strung with lights, comfortable seating arranged around a low table.
The space is clearly designed for romance, but it feels less artificial than the dining setup, maybe because we're alone now, or maybe because I'm starting to forget this is all being filmed.
"I have something for you," I say once the production assistant leaves. "Wait here."
I hurry back to the kitchen, hoping my cinnamon rolls haven't been claimed by other hungry contestants. They're still there under their towel, cooled to the perfect temperature, the sweet spice scent rising as I uncover them.
Please let this not be completely embarrassing.
When I return to the pavilion with a plate of rolls, Korgan is standing with his back to me, studying the garden beyond. The lights catch the brass stud in his nose, the lovely way his dark hair is braided down his back.
"I promised you cinnamon rolls," I say.
He turns, and something shifts in his expression when he sees the plate. Not surprise exactly, but something deeper. Appreciation, maybe, or recognition.
"You made these tonight?"
"Before the challenge. I wanted to thank you for yesterday, for helping during the cooking competition. And I thought..." I trail off, suddenly feeling ridiculous. "I thought maybe you'd like to try something that's important to me. In my family, baking for someone is how we show we care."
The words hang in the air between us. Show we care. God, could I be more obvious?
But Korgan doesn't seem put off by my transparency. If anything, he looks intrigued.
"This is human courtship ritual?"
"One of them. Though it's not always about courtship. My grandmother used to say that feeding people is the most basic form of love. Keeping them nourished, making sure they're taken care of."
"In orc culture, sharing food means alliance. Trust. You would not eat with an enemy."
"Then we're allies?"
"At minimum."
There's something in the way he says it that suggests alliance might not be all he's thinking about. I set the plate on the table between us, suddenly nervous about his reaction.
"They're still warm," I say unnecessarily.
Korgan picks up one of the rolls, examining it with the same careful attention he'd given our cooking challenge ingredients. The roll is perfectly golden, the cinnamon-sugar swirl visible in the tender layers, a light glaze catching the string lights overhead.
He takes a bite, and I watch his face change. His eyes widen slightly, then close as he chews slowly, deliberately.
"Still..." He opens his eyes, looking directly at me. "Extraordinary."
The word hits me like a physical touch. Not good, not delicious, but extraordinary. Something beyond ordinary experience.
"Really?"
"The sweetness is balanced. Complex. And the texture..." He takes another bite, more slowly this time. "How do you achieve this softness while maintaining structure?"