"Jessica and Marcus! Jonathan and Valentina! And our final pair..."
I stop listening. Korgan is making his way through the group toward me, moving with that careful precision I've noticed before—like he's constantly aware of his size and strength in relation to everyone around him.
"Unexpected," he says when he reaches me, voice pitched low enough that the cameras might not catch it.
"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?"
He considers this seriously, as he seems to consider everything. "Unknown. But you smell like cinnamon and sugar, so perhaps good."
The observation is so matter-of-fact, so completely without artifice, that I laugh before I can stop myself. "I was baking. Made something for... later."
"Something edible?"
"That's the goal."
Something that might be amusement flickers across his features. "I look forward to judging your competence."
"My competence?"
"In baking. Your other competencies are already evident."
I feel heat rise in my cheeks and hope the cameras are too far away to catch it. There's something about the way Korgan gives compliments—direct and specific and completely without flourish. That makes them hit harder than any flowery romantic speech.
"Contestants!" the host calls. "Please move to your assigned cooking stations. You have one hour to prepare your midnight snack, then the tasting begins!"
Korgan and I are directed to a station equipped with basic cooking supplies and ingredients. The space feels smaller with him in it, not because he's crowding me but because I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes.
"What do humans typically prepare for midnight snacks?" he asks, surveying the available ingredients with tactical focus.
"Depends on the human. Some people go for comfort food—grilled cheese, cookies, leftover pizza. Others prefer lighter things. Fruit, yogurt, that kind of thing."
"And you?"
I study the ingredients, then him. "I usually bake when I can't sleep. Something simple but satisfying. What about orcs?"
"We eat what is available. Hunger does not follow human schedules."
"But if you could choose anything?"
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.
