The question is so direct, so without artifice, that I can't hide behind politeness or deflection. He deserves honesty.
"Because you were kind to me yesterday. Because you see competence and respect it. Because when you said my bread smelled honest, it was the most genuine compliment I'd received in months." I pause, gathering courage. "And because I wanted to know what you'd think of something I made just for you."
Something changes in his face. The careful control slips, revealing something warmer, hungrier.
"Trinity."
The way he says my name, low and rough, makes something flutter deep in my stomach. He reaches across the table, his large hand covering mine.
"I have not thanked you properly."
"For what?"
"For seeing more than the performance. For treating me as..." He searches for words. "As someone worth knowing."
His thumb traces across my knuckles, the touch gentle but electric. I should say something, but my brain has apparently decided that forming coherent thoughts is optional when Korgan Dongoran is touching me and looking at me like I'm something precious.
"I want to know you," I manage. "All of you, not just the version they want for cameras."
"That could be dangerous."
"How so?"
"Because the real version might disappoint. Or worse—might want things that complicate everything."
"What kinds of things?"
Instead of answering, he stands and moves around the table to sit beside me on the small bench. The space that had seemed comfortable for two suddenly feels intimate, his broad shoulders blocking out part of the garden, his warmth radiating against my side.
"This," he says quietly. "Wanting to be close enough to touch without reason. Wanting to taste more than your baking."
My breath catches. "Korgan..."
"I should not want these things. Not with cameras watching, not when both our futures depend on how this appears toothers. But I find myself caring less about appearance and more about..."
"About what?"
"About the way you laugh when you think no one is paying attention. The concentration on your face when you work. The kindness you show without expecting recognition."
Each word hits me like a small shock. This is not the careful, strategic conversation I expected. This is raw honesty that makes my heart race.
"I care about those things too," I whisper. "About how you try so hard to understand human customs even when they don't make sense. About the way you protect people without making them feel weak. About how your hands are so gentle despite being strong enough to..." I gesture helplessly.
"Strong enough to hurt."
"But you don't. Hurt people, I mean. You're careful."
"With you, I am careful."
The admission hangs between us, loaded with meaning. His hand moves from mine to trace the line of my jaw, fingers rough with calluses but impossibly tender.
"We should not do this," he says, even as he leans closer.
"Probably not."
"The cameras?—"
"I don't care about the cameras."
