Page 61 of Mane Brew

We’re alone in the filing hall. The candles burn low. The cabinets hum their quiet songs. And somehow, between one breath and the next, the space between us has shrunk to nothing.

“Rhodes.” My voice comes out rough.

“Zeph.”

“Your ancestor was mated to Grandmother Peach. Two hundred fifty years ago. That’s... that’s a lot.”

“It is.”

“Are you okay?”

He turns to face me fully. His hand hasn’t released mine—not since Peach’s revelation, not through everything that came after. His eyes search my face with an intensity that makes my magic spark and fizz.

“I don’t know.” The admission costs him. I can see it in his clenched fist, the tension locked through his frame. “I’ve spent my entire life categorizing things. Making sense of chaos. And now I learn that my existence is the result of ancient magic and tragic love and two hundred fifty years of waiting.”

“That’s a lot to file.”

The joke falls flat. I wince.

“Extensive filing will be required.”

“Rhodes—”

“I don’t want to face what’s coming without—” He swallows. Tries again. “When the Preservers attack, everything changes. The ritual. The fight. The possibility that we might—that we could⁠—”

“Die?” I finish for him. “Is that what you’re trying to say? That we could die and you don’t want to leave things unsaid?”

“Yes.” The word comes out strangled. “No. That’s not—” He makes a sound of frustration. “I don’t have a precedent for this. No proper procedure for telling someone that you⁠—”

He breaks off. Runs his free hand through his hair—the first time I’ve ever seen him disrupt his careful grooming. The gesture is so human, so vulnerable, that my heart clenches.

“We’re not mated.” I say it gently. Testing. “We can’t help with the ritual.”

“Not yet.”

The words hang in the air between us. Two small words that contain a universe of possibility.

Not yet.

Not never. Not impossible. Not a closed door.

Yet.

“I’m not suggesting—” He takes a breath. Steadies himself in the way of a man who’s spent thirty-eight years controlling every aspect of his existence and is about to let something loose. “I’m saying that if we survive. When we survive. I’d like to have a conversation. About possibilities.”

“Possibilities?”

“The possibility that what’s between us is more than antagonism. More than attraction. More than—” His jaw works. “I don’t have words for this, Zeph. I have files. I have color-coded charts tracking every interaction we’ve had for the past four years. But words⁠—”

“Have I seen the charts?”

“Extensive charts. Multiple categories.” His ears are going red. The tell I’ve come to recognize—the crack in his armor that means I’ve gotten past his defenses. “The point is that I want—I’d like—there are possibilities that I want to explore. After. If you⁠—”

I step closer. Close enough that our joined hands press between us. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the pulse jumping in his throat.

“Rhodes.”

“Yes?”