Chapter 9 Trinity #2
The comments start flooding in immediately. Some supportive, many not. I force myself to ignore them and focus on the camera.
"People have been saying a lot of things about us, about orcs, about human-orc relationships. So we thought we'd take a few minutes to show you who we really are, instead of letting other people tell you who they think we are."
I gesture to the ingredients spread across the counter. "We're going to make honey wheat bread. It's one of my favorites, and it's something I think most people can appreciate regardless of species."
Korgan clears his throat. "I should probably mention that I know nothing about baking."
"That's okay. I'm a good teacher." I catch his eye and smile. "And you're a good student."
The comment section explodes with reactions, some crude, some encouraging. I see Maya's username pop up with a stream of heart emojis, which helps steady my nerves.
"So, first things first." I hold up a bag of flour. "Korgan, want to measure out three cups of bread flour for me?"
He approaches the task with military precision, carefully leveling each cup with a knife. It takes him twice as long as it should, but his thoroughness makes me smile.
"Very good. Now we need to add that to our mixing bowl." I gesture toward the stand mixer, which he's been eyeing with suspicion since we started.
"How do I..." He pokes at the bowl attachment.
"Here, let me show you." I move closer, guiding his hands to position the bowl correctly. "You just twist it into place like this."
The casual contact sends warmth through me, and I catch him watching my face instead of my hands. For a moment, I forget about the hundreds of people watching us and just enjoy being close to him again.
"Got it," he says softly.
I clear my throat and step back. "Great. Now we need to add our yeast, honey, and warm water."
As we work, something magical happens. The comments start shifting. People notice how gentle Korgan is with the delicate measurements, how he listens carefully to my instructions, how he smiles when I tease him about his heavy-handed salt measurement.
"You're very precise," I observe as he carefully dissolves the yeast.
"Orc military training," he replies. "Attention to detail keeps people alive."
"Is that why you're so good at following directions?"
"Are you saying I'm obedient?" His tone is mock-serious, but his eyes twinkle.
"I'm saying you're a good listener. There's a difference."
The mixer whirs to life when Korgan figures out the speed settings, though he jumps slightly at the noise. I bite back a laugh.
"Bit different from hand-mixing, I imagine."
"Louder," he agrees. "But effective."
As the dough comes together, I notice the comment tone continuing to improve. People are asking about the recipe, commenting on our easy rapport, even defending us against the trolls who are still trying to stir up trouble.
"While that's mixing, want to tell everyone a little about yourself?" I suggest. "Beyond what they might have heard on the show."
Korgan considers this, watching the dough hook work. "I'm originally from the Thornback Mountains. I have two sisters who are both smarter than me. I enjoy reading, particularly military history and engineering texts. And apparently, I enjoy baking more than I understood to."
The simplicity of it, the normalcy, seems to catch viewers off guard. The comments start including questions about orc culture, about his family, about his hobbies.
"What about you?" he asks. "Beyond owning a bakery."
"Let's see. I have a degree in business I never use, I'm terrible at keeping plants alive, and I once ate an entire chocolate cake in one sitting after a bad breakup."
"The whole cake?"
"German chocolate. With extra coconut frosting."
He looks genuinely impressed. "That's... actually quite impressive."
"Thank you. I consider it one of my finest achievements."
The timer goes off, and I show him how to test the dough's consistency. His large hands are surprisingly gentle as he pokes at the elastic mass.
"It's alive," he says with wonder.
"In a way, yes. The yeast is doing its work."
"Incredible." He looks at me with new respect. "You do this every day?"
"Every day. Sometimes twice a day during busy seasons."
"No wonder your hands are so strong."
The comment about my hands makes my cheeks warm, especially when he catches my fingers to examine them more closely. The camera catches it all, and the comments go wild—but in a good way this time.
"Now we shape it and let it rise," I explain, showing him how to form the loaves. His first attempt looks more like abstract art than bread, which sends me into giggles.
"Don't laugh," he protests, but he's grinning too.
"I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing with you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Trust me. I'm an expert in the distinction."
By the time we slide the loaves into the oven, we have nearly five thousand viewers and the comment section has transformed into something almost entirely positive. People are sharing their own baking stories, asking for the recipe, and commenting on how natural we seem together.
"Well," I say to the camera as we clean up. "In about forty-five minutes, we'll have fresh bread. And hopefully, we've given you a better sense of who we actually are."
Korgan nods. "We're just two people who found something unexpected. Something worth defending."
His words hit me right in the chest, and I have to blink back sudden tears.
"Thank you for watching," I manage. "And remember—don't believe everything you read on the internet."
I end the stream and immediately check the metrics. Over six thousand viewers at peak, thousands of positive comments, and the harsh early criticism buried under an avalanche of support.
"We did it," I breathe.
Korgan pulls me into his arms, and this time, there are no cameras capturing it. Just us, flour-dusted and triumphant, holding each other in a kitchen that smells like rising bread and possibility.
"We did," he agrees, and when he kisses me, it tastes like hope.
The bread emerges from the oven golden and perfect, crackling as it cools. I post a quick photo to Instagram—From livestream to loaf, thanks for baking with us—and the notifications explode immediately.
Maya calls before I can even set the phone down.
"You brilliant, gorgeous genius." Her voice is pure adrenaline. "Do you know what you just did?"
"Made bread?"
"You made magic. Trinity, the bakery's Instagram gained three thousand followers in the last hour. People are asking if we ship nationwide. Someone in California wants to license your grandmother's recipe for a cookbook."
I lean against the counter, watching Korgan examine the cooling loaves with scientific intensity. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious. And the trolls? They're getting ratio'd into oblivion. People are defending you left and right." She pauses. "You turned a PR nightmare into a love story people actually want to root for."
Korgan glances up at me, one eyebrow raised in question. I mouth it's working and his shoulders drop with visible relief.
"I have to go," Maya continues. "Channel Seven wants an interview, and I need to draft talking points before they try to spin this into—"
"No interviews."
"What?"
"Not yet. Let the livestream speak for itself." I watch Korgan gently tap the bottom of a loaf, listening to the hollow sound. "We don't need to explain ourselves to anyone else right now."
Maya's calm for a beat. "You really care about him."
"Yeah. I really do."
"Then I'll keep the media vultures at bay. But Trinity? Eventually you're going to have to figure out what happens when the show ends."
She hangs up before I can respond, leaving me with that particular brand of anxiety only best friends can provoke. What does happen when the show ends? When there are no more cameras, no more challenges, no more manufactured romance?
"Everything alright?" Korgan's moved closer without me noticing.
"Fine. Great, actually. Maya says we're viral in a good way now."
"Viral." He tests the word. "Like a plague?"
"More like... wildfire. Spreading fast, hard to control, but warm."
He considers this while slicing into one of the loaves. Steam rises in lazy curls. "May I?"
"Of course. You helped make it."
He tears off a piece, chews thoughtfully. His eyes close.
"Good?" I ask.
"Extraordinary." He hands me a piece. "Taste."
The bread is everything I hoped with a crusty exterior giving way to soft, honeyed crumb. But watching Korgan watch me eat it adds something I can't quite name. Pride, maybe. Or satisfaction at sharing something he helped create.
"You're a natural," I tell him.
"I followed instructions."
"There's more to baking than that. You have to feel when the dough is right, trust your instincts about rising times, understand how ingredients work together." I take another piece. "You were gentle with it. Patient."
His ears darken, the orcish equivalent of a blush. "It seemed fragile. Worth handling carefully."
The metaphor isn't lost on either of us.
"I'm not fragile," I whisper.
"No. But you're worth being careful with anyway."
The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too warm. I busy myself wrapping the second loaf in a clean towel.
"What will you do with it?" he asks.
"Thought I'd save it. For later, when we need a reminder that today went well."
"Practical."
"Or sentimental. Depends on your perspective."
He helps me clean the kitchen in comfortable silence, our movements synchronized in a way that suggests we've done this a hundred times before instead of once.
He washes, I dry. He scrubs the mixer bowl, I wipe down the counters.
Somewhere in the middle, his hand finds mine under the running water, and we stand there like idiots, fingers tangled in soap bubbles.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. "For what I said earlier. About you being a distraction."
"You weren't wrong."