"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,ourbakery 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 saysKiss the Orc.
"This ismarketing."
"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."
