Page 30 of Mane Brew

“Her mate’s descendant.” Leire shakes her head. “That old woman has been playing the longest game in history.”

“That’s three mated pairs,” Sakura counts on her fingers. “Who’s the fourth?”

Silence.

Three pairs of eyes turn to me.

“Oh, no.” I hold up my hands. “No. We’re not—that’s not⁠—”

“You’ve been circling each other for four years,” Leire says. “Your magic is stabilizing around him. His ancestor was mated to the woman who’s been guiding all of us toward our own matings.” She gestures expansively with her empty glass. “At what point does coincidence become pattern?”

“There’s no pattern. There’s just... proximity. Investigation proximity.”

“You’re lying.” Sakura keeps her voice gentle. Relentless. “You’re lying, and you know you’re lying, and we know you’re lying, so maybe we should just skip to the part where you admit what’s actually happening.”

The charm burns against my palm. My magic flares through my fingertips.

A beat of silence. Then:

“He organized my supply closet when Havoc died.” The confession tumbles out before I can stop it. “I was a wreck—my magic was everywhere, I couldn’t focus, I was running the brewery on fumes and spite. And he just... showed up. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask for anything. Just fixed my closet and left.”

“He organized your closet.” Anouk keeps her tone carefully neutral. “While you were grieving.”

“The organization didn’t last long, obviously, but he worked for three hours. Alphabetized my ingredients. Fixed my labeling system, which I couldn’t keep up with. Found that box of Havoc’s things I’d shoved in the corner and couldn’t bring myself to deal with—he wrapped it in tissue paper and put it somewhere I could find it when I was ready.” My throat tightens. “And he left a card.”

“What did it say?”

“Proper documentation of grief is optional. Proper support is not.”

The silence stretches. Leire sets down her glass. Sakura blinks rapidly. Even Anouk’s composure cracks slightly.

“He never mentioned it.” I stare at the bar surface, unable to meet their eyes. “Never brought it up, never asked for acknowledgment. Just... did it. And left.”

“And you never thanked him?”

“I didn’t know how.” My laugh is bitter. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Thanks for seeing through my bullshit while I was falling apart’?”

“That’s... exactly what you could have said.” Sakura’s hand finds mine across the bar. Steady. Grounding. “He would have understood.”

“He noticed what no one else did,” Leire murmurs. “And then he acted on it.”

“Because that’s what he does.” The words come out raw. Honest. “He sees patterns. He notices details. He remembers everything.” I swallow hard. “Including me.”

“Have you told him any of this?”

“And say what?” I pull my hand back, wrapping my arms around myself. “I know I’ve called you a humorless bureaucrat for four years, but actually I think about your hands more than I should?”

Leire’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “His hands, specifically?”

Sakura is crying with laughter. Anouk has abandoned all pretense of composure and is actually giggling. The coven leader of Mistvale is giggling at my expense.

“Fine.” The word comes out amid the noise. Half-defeated, half-relieved. “There’s a thing. I have no idea what to call it or what to do about it, but it’s real and it’s been there for a while.”

This is rock bottom. This is the worst night of my life.

Except... I’m laughing too. Despite everything, despite the terror and confusion and overwhelming weight of what Grandmother Peach revealed, I’m laughing with my friends in my brewery while the fermentation tanks bubble contentedly in the background.

This is what I have. This found family of witches who fought their own battles with stubborn shifters and came out the other side mated and happy and still willing to drink too much wine and mock my romantic disasters.