Page 24 of Mane Brew

“It’s a mating dance.” Aslan gestures expansively. “I’ve seen this before. In fact, I’ve done this before. Leire and I circled each other for⁠—”

“Aslan.” Caius’s warning carries the unmistakable tone of an alpha who’s been exactly where Rhodes is and remembers how annoying it was. “Perhaps focus on the actual crisis.”

“I am focusing on it. Denial is part of the crisis. Trust me.” Aslan spreads his hands. “I watched Torin spend months pretending he wasn’t obsessed with Sakura. I watched you spend eight years ignoring what was right in front of your face. The pattern is familiar.”

“There is no pattern.” Rhodes’s sentences are getting shorter. Clipped. A tell I’ve learned to recognize. “There is an investigation. There is documentation. That’s all.”

“Documentation.” Aslan draws out the word. “Really?”

“I will file a formal complaint about this meeting,” Rhodes says flatly.

“You’ll file a formal complaint about everything. That’s your love language.” Aslan grins. “Which, coincidentally, is exactly my point.”

Caius catches my eye across the table. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s understanding in his gaze. Recognition.

Denial is comfortable until it isn’t.

I look away.

The brewery is quiet at midnight.

I prefer it this way sometimes—the gentle bubble of fermentation tanks, the creak of old beams settling, the glow of fairy lights casting shadows across copper and stone. During the day, Duskfire is chaos and conversation, laughter and arguments. At night, it’s just me and my magic and the living brews that develop their own personalities in the dark.

The loft above creaks softly. My apartment, such as it is—a nest of blankets and scattered brewing notes and too many memories of Havoc curled up on the windowsill. Two years, and I still expect to see him there when I wake up. Two years, and the silence where his chaos used to be still echoes.

Stop. Focus on the now.

I’m checking on tank three—a new experimental batch I’m calling “Clarity Pale”—when the door opens.

I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I’ve learned his footsteps. Measured. Precise. The rhythm of a man who never wastes a movement.

“Checking perimeter security again?”

“The wards flagged unusual activity.” Rhodes closes the door behind him. “I came to investigate.”

“The wards flagged a raccoon three hours ago. That’s not unusual activity, that’s Mistvale.”

“I was being thorough.”

I finally turn. He’s silhouetted in the doorway, all broad shoulders and careful posture. His tie is loosened—the first time I’ve seen him less than perfectly composed. There’s a tired slump to his shoulders that makes concern curl through me.

Somewhere along the line, I’ve started caring whether he sleeps. That’s probably a problem I should address. Later. When I have the energy for denial.

“You should be sleeping.”

“So should you.”

“I’m monitoring a batch.”

“I’m monitoring a witch.” He pauses. Seems to realize how that sounds. “For the investigation.”

“Obviously.” I gesture toward the bar. “Since you’re here, you might as well sit. I have coffee.”

“Your coffee is terrible.”

“Yes, it is. Want some?”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. It’s becoming more frequent and more dangerous to my equilibrium.