"Mysteriously."
"Tragic accident involving dough."
He considers. "Acceptable."
We film for three hours. Korgan demonstrates traditional orc feast bread while I make cranberry cinnamon rolls. The chemistry's natural now, banter and teamwork and the occasional flour fight that's only half-staged.
During a break, Korgan samples my latest experiment.
"Too sweet."
"It's adessert."
"Still too sweet."
"Your feedback is noted and ignored."
He grins, steals another bite. "Make it anyway. It'll sell."
"How do you know?"
"Because you made it." He says it like it's obvious. "People trust your work."
The compliment lands warm and certain.
"We make a good team," I say.
"We do."
The director calls us back. Korgan reaches for the Santa hat with resignation.
I catch his hand. "Thank you."
"For wearing ridiculous hats?"
"For this. The bakery, the show, the—" I gesture at the kitchen we've built together. "—life."
He kisses me, quick and sure. "Best deal I ever made."
Late that night, we're back in our apartment.
Flour-dusted, exhausted, ridiculously happy.
I'm mixing dough for tomorrow's early batch. Korgan's cleaning equipment with methodical precision.
The playlist shuffles to some pop song with overwrought lyrics.
Korgan stops. "What is this?"
"Music."
"It's offensive."
"It's Taylor Swift."
"It's chaos." He glares at the speaker. "How do you work to this?"
"Some of us enjoy fun."
