Chapter 14 Korgan
KORGAN
Three weeks post-finale, I stand in Trinity's bakery storage room, staring at a shelf full of decorative platters.
"This won't work."
Trinity appears in the doorway, flour dusting her temple. "What won't work?"
"Battle-axes require vertical storage. Wall-mounted, accessible. You have—" I gesture at the shelves. "Plates."
"Those are display platters for catering orders."
"They're fragile and inefficient."
"Korgan." She crosses her arms, fighting a smile. "We're not turning my bakery storage into an armory."
"I'm not suggesting an armory. Just practical weapon placement."
"You don't need weapons in a bakery."
"Tell that to the health inspector who tried to confiscate your thermometer."
She snorts. "He was doing his job."
"He was rude. A visible axe would've improved his manners."
Trinity laughs, full and bright. The sound still catches me off-guard sometimes. Makes my chest feel strange.
"How about a compromise?" She steps closer. "You get one wall-mounted axe. Ceremonial. In our apartment."
"Our apartment," I repeat.
We've been dancing around living arrangements since the show ended. Trinity's lease is tiny as a studio above the bakery, barely room for her mixing bowls. My temporary housing is clan-funded, conditional.
Neither is ours.
"I've been thinking," Trinity says carefully. "Maya's been wanting to move out of her parents' place. She could take my studio. And we could—" She pauses. "Find something. Together."
My throat tightens. "Together."
"Unless you want separate spaces. I know orc privacy customs are different, and I snore sometimes, and I basically live in the kitchen, so—"
Our lips meet. Quick, firm.
"Together," I say against her mouth. "I want together."
She exhales. "Okay. Good. Because I already started looking at listings."
"Of course you did."
"Two-bedroom. Space for your weapons and my recipe development." She grins. "Plus a bathroom big enough that we're not fighting over sink space."
"I don't fight over sinks."
"You use seventeen different beard oils."
"Maintenance is important."
"You alphabetize them."
"Organization is efficient."
She kisses me this time. "You're ridiculous."
"Practical."
"Ridiculous and practical." She pulls back. "But we need to talk about the bathroom thing. Because you squeeze toothpaste from the middle like a barbarian."
I blink. "That's the optimal distribution method."
"It's chaos. You squeeze from the bottom, push the paste up systematically—"
"That takes unnecessary time."
"It takes five seconds."
"I could sharpen a blade in five seconds."
"You don't need to sharpen blades while brushing your teeth!"
We're standing nose-to-nose now, both breathing hard. Then Trinity starts laughing.
"We're arguing about toothpaste."
"You started it."
"I'm ending it with a two-tube system. You get your chaos paste, I get my organized paste, nobody dies."
I consider this. "Acceptable."
"Good." She pats my chest. "See? Communication. We're naturals."
The bakery's been chaos since the finale aired. Lines around the block. Orders for custom cakes featuring orc-human fusion designs. Trinity hired two part-time staff just to keep up.
I help sometimes. Mostly heavy lifting, though Trinity's teaching me basic pastry work.
"Slower," she instructs now, watching me roll dough. "You're treating it like an enemy."
"Dough is adversarial."
"Dough is delicate." She covers my hands with hers, guiding. "Firm but gentle. Like—"
"Like handling you."
She flushes. "I was going to say like convincing stubborn clan elders, but sure, make it sexy."
I lean close. "Everything with you is sexy."
"Flirt later. Roll now."
I focus on the dough. Firm but gentle. It actually starts to cooperate.
"There!" Trinity beams. "You're getting it."
Pride swells, ridiculous and warm.
Maya pokes her head in from the front. "Trinity, Channel Seven's here for that follow-up interview."
Trinity groans. "Already? I thought we had another hour."
"They're early. Very eager." Maya's grinning. "Want me to stall?"
"No, I'll—" Trinity glances at me. "You okay here?"
"I can manage dough."
"Don't overwork it."
"I know."
She kisses my cheek and disappears.
I continue rolling. Firm. Gentle. The rhythm's meditative.
Maya wanders back in, studies me. "You're actually getting decent at that."
"Trinity's a good teacher."
"She's terrifying when you mess up her recipes."
"I'm aware."
Maya grabs a tray of cooling cookies. "So. You two really doing this? The whole domestic thing?"
"Yes."
"Apartment hunting? Joint bank accounts? Meeting her nightmare aunt?"
I pause. "I haven't met the aunt yet."
"Oh, you will. She has opinions about Trinity's life choices." Maya's eyes gleam. "Should be fun."
"I can handle opinions."
"These opinions come with passive-aggressive casserole."
I have no idea what that means, but it sounds ominous.
"Trinity's worth it," I say simply.
Maya softens. "Yeah. She is." She heads for the door, calls back: "For the record, I like you. Don't screw this up."
"Noted."
The hybrid ceremony happens on a cold Saturday.
Borgat arranged it on neutral ground, witnessed by select clan members and Trinity's closest people. A blending of traditions to formalize my standing.
No exile. No shame. But no full clan privileges either until I prove the partnership's strength over time.
It's compromise. Politics. Practical.
It's also terrifying.
Trinity stands beside me in the ceremonial space, a converted community hall, decorated with both orc banners and human flowers. She's wearing a deep green dress that makes her eyes sharp, hair loose.
Beautiful. Distracting.
"You okay?" she whispers.
"Fine."
"You're grinding your teeth."
I relax my jaw. "Nervous."
"You fought in actual wars."
"War's simpler. Clear objectives. This is—" I gesture vaguely.
"Symbolic bureaucracy?"
"Yes."
She squeezes my hand. "We've got this."
Borgat begins the rite. Ancient words, rhythmic and deep. I respond in kind, reciting the oaths I memorized.
Then the human portion. Trinity's friend officiated, someone legally certified, which apparently matters.
We exchange tokens. I give Trinity a carved bone bracelet, traditional orc craftsmanship. She gives me a copper ring stamped with her bakery's logo.
"So you remember where home is," she murmurs.
Home.
The word sits strange and solid in me.
We seal it with the forehead press, then a kiss. The witnesses approve with varied cultural expressions—orc chest-thumps, human applause.
It's done.
Hybrid title. Recognized bond. A future that's messy and uncertain and ours.
Later, in Trinity's tiny studio, we collapse on her bed.
"That was exhausting," she says.
"Agreed."
"But good?"
"Very good."
She rolls to face me. "So. Officially partnered. How's it feel?"
I consider. "Terrifying."
She laughs. "Romantic."
"Also romantic."
"Which part terrifies you? The commitment? The cultural blending? My aunt's casserole?"
"All of it." I trace her jaw. "Mostly losing you."
Her expression shifts. "Korgan—"
"I know it's irrational. We just formalized everything. But you're human. Your world is—" I search for words. "Bigger. Brighter. Full of opportunities I can't provide. What if you wake up one day and realize you've tied yourself to someone who doesn't fit?"
Trinity's silent for a moment.
Then she sits up, tugs me upright too.
"Okay. Let's make a deal."
"A deal."
"A bargain. Orc-style negotiation." She's completely serious now. "You're afraid I'll choose the human world over you. I'm afraid you'll decide I'm not worth the political headache and cultural compromise. So we make promises. Real ones."
"I'm listening."
"I promise to tell you when I'm frustrated or scared or feeling stuck. No hiding behind humor or deflection." She holds my gaze. "And I promise to build a life that includes both worlds—not choose one over the other."
"Trinity—"
"Your turn."
I breathe. "I promise to stay. Even when it's difficult. Even when clan politics make me want to walk away." I take her hands. "And I promise to trust you. Your choices, your strength. To stop assuming you'll leave."
"Good." She grins suddenly. "Now we seal it."
"We just had a ceremony."
"That was official. This is ours." She hops up, rummages through her tiny kitchen.
Returns with a marker.
"Give me your arm."
I extend it, confused.
Trinity uncaps the marker, writes carefully on my forearm.
Trinity's orc. No refunds.
"Permanent marker," she says solemnly. "Lasts like three days. Very binding."
"This is ridiculous."
"This is romantic." She offers me the marker. "Your turn."
I take it. Write on her forearm with deliberate strokes.
Korgan's human. No returns.
She reads it, eyes shining. "Perfect."
We sit there, inked promises drying, utterly absurd.
"We're idiots," Trinity says.
"Partnered idiots."
"The best kind."
I pull her close. She fits against me like she was designed for it.
"I want slow," I tell her. "Not the show's pace. Not media expectations. Just—us. Building something real."
"Slow sounds good." She tilts her head. "What does slow look like?"
"Finding an apartment. Learning to share space without killing each other over toothpaste."
"Very romantic."
"Meeting your family. Letting them judge me over casserole."
"They'll love you."
"You haven't seen me handle passive aggression."
"Oh, I have. You threaten people with historical battle references."
"It's effective."
She laughs. "What else?"
"Teaching you orc customs. Learning human ones. Figuring out holidays and traditions and—" I pause. "Maybe visiting your hometown. Seeing where you come from."
Trinity goes still. "You want to visit?"
"If you'll take me."
"It's tiny. Boring. Nothing like the city."
"You're from there. That makes it worth seeing."
Her eyes get suspiciously bright. "You're going to charm everyone with your blunt honesty and accidental compliments, aren't you?"
"I don't charm."
"You absolutely do. You just don't realize it."
I smooch her temple. "When do we go?"
"Maybe next month? After the spring rush." She nestles closer. "Warn you now—my mom will ask when we're having kids, my dad will want to arm-wrestle, and my aunt will critique everything."
"I can handle that."
"You say that now."
"I survived a reality show. I can survive your family."
"Famous last words."
We lie there, comfortable silence settling.
"Korgan?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Choosing this. Me. The messy, complicated, toothpaste-argument version of us."
I tighten my hold. "There's no other version I'd want."
She shifts, kisses me properly. Slow and deep and full of promise.
She smiles.
"So. Apartment hunting tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
"And maybe we start looking at recipes for fusion desserts? Orc-human collaboration?"
"Are you trying to make me your business partner?"
"I'm trying to make you my everything partner."
The word settles warm and certain.
Everything.
"Deal," I say.
"Sealed with ridiculous marker promises?"
"The most binding kind."
She laughs, and I memorize the sound.
This, her joy, our space, the future unfolding messy and slow and ours—
This is what I fought for.
And I'd do it again.
Every time.