"I'm not asking for promises. I'm not asking you to choose me over your political obligations or your people's respect." I meet his gaze steadily. "I'm just saying that whatever happens with the bank, with the show, with the trolls and the media circus, I'm not walking away from this because it got complicated."
He kisses me then, deep and slow, tasting like honey and certainty. He rests his forehead against mine.
"My people have a tradition," he murmurs. "When an orc finds something worth keeping, they mark it. A scar, usually. Something permanent to show the world this matters."
"Are you offering to scar me? Because that seems like a hard sell."
His laugh rumbles through both of us. "No. But I want to give you something. A promise that I'm in this too, complications and all."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small brass bead,the same kind woven through his hair.
"It's not much," he says, almost shy. "But in orc culture, when you give someone a piece of yourself, you're claiming them. Protecting them. It means whatever fights come, we face them together."
I hold out my hand, watching as he places the bead in my palm. It's warm from his body heat, etched with tiny unknown symbols.
"What do they mean?"
"This one is for strength. This for loyalty. And this..." He traces the smallest symbol. "This means chosen. Not assigned by fate or duty, but selected. Wanted."
My throat tightens. "Chosen."
"By me. If you'll have it."
Instead of answering, I reach up and work the bead into a small section of my hair, weaving it tight the way I've seen in his braids. It sits just behind my ear, visible but not ostentatious.
"How's that?"
His expression does something that makes my stomach flip. "Perfect. You're perfect."
"Liar. I'm covered in flour and my hair's a disaster."
"You're covered in flour because you were brave enough to livestream our truth to thousands of strangers. Your hair's a disaster because you've been working hard all day, creating something beautiful." He cups my face in his hands. "That's not perfection. It's something better. It's real."
The kitchen door swings open, making us jump apart. A production assistant, the nervous one who always apologizes for existing, freezes when she sees us.
"Sorry! So sorry! I didn't mean to interrupt, I was just—Webb sent me to find you, Trinity. He wants to talk about tomorrow's filming schedule."
"Tell Webb I'm busy."
"But he said it's important?—"
"Then he can wait." I don't soften my tone. "I'll find him when I'm ready."
She flees, and Korgan grins. "That was satisfying to watch."
"I'm done letting him control the narrative." I start loading dirty towels into the laundry basket. "If he wants to talk scheduling, he can do it during normal business hours. Not when he's trying to catch me off-guard."
"You think he'll retaliate?"
"Probably. But I have three thousand new Instagram followers who just watched us make bread and be normal together. He pushes too hard, I'll livestream that too."
"You've gotten strategic."
"I learned from the best." I hip-check him gently. "You're not the only one who can think tactically."
We finish cleaning, and I'm surprised to find it's after midnight. The adrenaline from the livestream is wearing off, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
"I should let you sleep," Korgan says, but makes no move to leave.
