"The blindfolds are on the table," the host announces. "Remember, the goal is connection through the senses. Trust your partner, and let them guide you through the experience."
Trust.
I look at Korgan as I tie the blindfold over my eyes, and the last thing I see is his steady gaze watching me with something that looks almost like concern.
Then the world goes dark, and I'm completely at the mercy of this fierce, gentle, utterly confusing man who somehow makes me feel safer than I have in months.
"Ready?" his voice asks from somewhere close by.
"Ready," I whisper, and mean it.
The darkness behind the blindfold heightens every other sense. The soft clink of a plate being set down. The rustle of fabric as Korgan moves. The faint sound of his breathing, steady and controlled.
"First taste," his voice comes from directly in front of me, closer than I realized. "Open."
Something warm touches my lips, bread, I think, with herbs and a hint of garlic. The texture is perfect, crispy crust giving way to soft interior. But what catches me off guard is the gentleness of his fingers as he feeds me, the neat way he waits for me to finish chewing before offering the next bite.
"Good?" he asks.
"Really good. Your turn."
I grab for what I hope is our plate, fumbling slightly until my fingers find the bread we prepared together. When I lean forward to feed him, I misjudge the distance and nearly brush his nose with the crust.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"No apology needed."
His lips are warm against my fingertips as he takes the bite, and I have to concentrate on not dropping the remaining bread. There's something intensely intimate about feeding someone you can't see, about having to rely entirely on touch and sound and trust.
"The herb blend," he says after swallowing. "Rosemary and thyme?"
"And a little sage. You have a good palate."
"Survival skill. Distinguishing safe plants from dangerous ones."
Even in the middle of this manufactured romantic moment, he's utterly practical. It should break the spell, but somehow it makes him more appealing. Real in a way that cuts through all the artificial staging.
We continue the tasting, taking turns feeding each other small bites of everything we prepared. The grilled meat he made is perfectly seasoned, smoky and tender. The spreads I improvised from available ingredients—a sharp herb butter, a sweet fruit compote, something approximating hummus—complement the bread beautifully.
"This is not what I expected," Korgan says during a pause.
"The food?"
"The experience. I anticipated awkwardness. Performance for cameras. Instead..."
He trails off, but I can hear something in his voice that wasn't there before. Something softer.
"Instead?"
"Instead it feels like sharing a meal. Something real."
The simple honesty in his words hits me harder than any romantic declaration could. This is what I've been missing in my dating life, someone who says what they mean, who doesn't hide behind games or pretense.
"I know what you mean. It's nice. Just... being with someone without having to perform."
"You perform often?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness. "More than I'd like. Small town, everyone knows everyone's business. Dating becomes this public spectacle where you're always wondering what people think, what they're saying about your choices."
