"Are you saying I'm obedient?" His tone is mock-serious, but his eyes twinkle.
"I'm saying you're a good listener. There's a difference."
The mixer whirs to life when Korgan figures out the speed settings, though he jumps slightly at the noise. I bite back a laugh.
"Bit different from hand-mixing, I imagine."
"Louder," he agrees. "But effective."
As the dough comes together, I notice the comment tone continuing to improve. People are asking about the recipe, commenting on our easy rapport, even defending us against the trolls who are still trying to stir up trouble.
"While that's mixing, want to tell everyone a little about yourself?" I suggest. "Beyond what they might have heard on the show."
Korgan considers this, watching the dough hook work. "I'm originally from the Thornback Mountains. I have two sisters who are both smarter than me. I enjoy reading, particularly military history and engineering texts. And apparently, I enjoy baking more than I understood to."
The simplicity of it, the normalcy, seems to catch viewers off guard. The comments start including questions about orc culture, about his family, about his hobbies.
"What about you?" he asks. "Beyond owning a bakery."
"Let's see. I have a degree in business I never use, I'm terrible at keeping plants alive, and I once ate an entire chocolate cake in one sitting after a bad breakup."
"The whole cake?"
"German chocolate. With extra coconut frosting."
He looks genuinely impressed. "That's... actually quite impressive."
"Thank you. I consider it one of my finest achievements."
The timer goes off, and I show him how to test the dough's consistency. His large hands are surprisingly gentle as he pokes at the elastic mass.
"It's alive," he says with wonder.
"In a way, yes. The yeast is doing its work."
"Incredible." He looks at me with new respect. "You do this every day?"
"Every day. Sometimes twice a day during busy seasons."
"No wonder your hands are so strong."
The comment about my hands makes my cheeks warm, especially when he catches my fingers to examine them more closely. The camera catches it all, and the comments go wild—but in a good way this time.
"Now we shape it and let it rise," I explain, showing him how to form the loaves. His first attempt looks more like abstract art than bread, which sends me into giggles.
"Don't laugh," he protests, but he's grinning too.
"I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing with you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Trust me. I'm an expert in the distinction."
By the time we slide the loaves into the oven, we have nearly five thousand viewers and the comment section has transformed into something almost entirely positive. People are sharing theirown baking stories, asking for the recipe, and commenting on how natural we seem together.
"Well," I say to the camera as we clean up. "In about forty-five minutes, we'll have fresh bread. And hopefully, we've given you a better sense of who we actually are."
Korgan nods. "We're just two people who found something unexpected. Something worth defending."
