"Okay," I whisper. "Let's see where this goes."
His smile transforms his entire face, revealing glimpses of the man behind the warrior's facade. "Battle-honor and cinnamon rolls?"
"Battle-honor and cinnamon rolls."
And for the first time since arriving on this show, I feel like I might actually have a chance at winning something more valuable than money.
The tea leaves us both restless, or maybe it's the conversation that has my nerves humming. When Korgan suggests a walk, I don't hesitate to follow him out of the kitchen and into the maze of darkened set pieces that transform the studio into a fantastical backdrop during filming hours.
Without the blazing lights and constant camera presence, the place feels different. More intimate. Like we're exploring some abandoned theme park together.
"This way." Korgan navigates between fake castle walls and artificial trees with surprising confidence. "I mapped the layout my first night here."
"Of course you did." I duck under a low-hanging prop branch. "Military training?"
"Common sense. Never enter unfamiliar territory without understanding the exits."
The practical nature of his thinking makes me smile. Everything with Korgan comes back to strategy, preparation, survival. Even romance apparently requires tactical planning.
We emerge into a small clearing surrounded by painted backdrops depicting some fantasy forest. Fairy lights strung between the fake trees cast everything in warm amber glow, probably left on from earlier filming. It's accidentally romantic in a way that feels more genuine than any of the carefully orchestrated date locations production has designed.
"Better," Korgan says, settling onto a prop log that's probably made from reinforced foam. "No microphones."
I join him, our shoulders touching. "Are you sure? They might have hidden surveillance everywhere."
"Let them watch. After today, I doubt they will use footage that makes me appear thoughtful."
"Why not?"
"Thoughtful orcs do not generate the same ratings as savage ones."
The casual way he says it makes my chest tighten. "Is that what they want from you? Savage?"
"They want authenticity that confirms human expectations. Noble savage, dangerous but controllable, exotic but ultimately harmless." His voice has bitter amusement. "An orc who defends human women fits their narrative. An orc who thinks critically about human society does not."
"That's horrible."
"That's television."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the distant hum of air conditioning and the occasional footstep from crew members working late shifts.
"Can I ask you something personal?" I venture.
"More personal than my feelings about your financial situation?"
"Different personal." I turn to face him more directly. "What's your home like? Before all this?"
His expression shifts, becoming more guarded. "Which home?"
"The one you miss."
"Ah." He's quiet for so long I wonder if he'll answer. "I miss the forge most. My clan's territory included an old mining settlement, abandoned by humans decades ago. We converted the metalworking facilities, improved them. I spent most of my youth there, learning to shape iron."
"You're a blacksmith?"
"Was. Before politics required different skills." He examines his hands in the fairy lights. "Good hands for metalwork. Patient. Precise."
I think about those same hands steadying me during challenges, the sensitive way he handles delicate objects. "Do you miss it?"
