Page 25 of Mane Brew

“Fine.”

He sits at the bar while I pour two cups of what might generously be called coffee. It’s mostly caffeine and spite, the way I make it. He drinks it anyway, which tells me exactly how tired he is.

The fermentation tanks hum in the background. Comforting. Familiar. I’ve spent seven years building this place from a shed behind my grandmother’s cottage into this. The chaos that lives in these walls isn’t random—it’s creative. Intentional.

I just wish more people could see it that way.

“The alpha meeting bothered you.” I lean my elbows on the bar. Close, but not too close. “The thing about Network-level access.”

His grip tightens on the mug. “It’s a concerning development.”

“It’s more than that.” I watch his profile in the low light. The tight set of his jaw. The furrow between his brows. “You’re worried the leak is in your pride.”

Silence. Then: “My documentation systems are the most comprehensive in the Network. If someone wanted to manipulate records, alter shipping routes without leaving a trace...” He doesn’t finish.

“They’d need someone with your level of data.”

“Yes.”

I let that sit. The fermentation tanks bubble softly in the background. Tank three is coming along nicely—I feel my magic settling into the brew, becoming part of it.

“Here.” I reach under the bar for the bottle I’ve been saving. “This batch is stable. I promise.”

He takes the glass I pour him. Studies it with that characteristic wariness. “You said that about the focusing ale.”

“And you organized my entire storage system, which frankly needed it.” I raise my own glass. “This one’s different. No side effects. Just... beer.”

He drinks.

The glass loosens in his hand. His breath comes easier. Something in him settles that I’ve never seen settle before.

“It’s good,” he admits.

“It’s the best batch I’ve made in two years.” I set down my glass. “I’ve been saving it for the right occasion. Wasn’t sure what.”

“And now?”

“Now seemed right.” I shrug, going for casual even though my heart is pounding. “Consider it a peace offering. Or a bribe. Or whatever makes you more comfortable.”

“Bribing an investigator is technically⁠—”

“Shut up and drink your beer, Rhodes.”

He does.

We sit in comfortable silence as the brewery hums around us. No arguments. No snapping. Just two people who maybe don’t hate each other as much as they’ve been pretending. The fairy lights cast patterns across his face, softening the severe angles.

Tank three bubbles contentedly. My magic responds to my mood—settling, calming, more stable with every minute he stays. I try not to think about what that means.

When he finally leaves—two hours and three glasses later—he pauses at the door. His hand rests on the frame, and I notice the calluses on his fingers. Documentation calluses. From all those years of holding pens and filling out forms and protecting things he’d never admit he cares about.

“Zeph.”

“Yeah?”

“The documentation.” His voice is rough. Careful. “Some patterns are worth tracking even when they don’t fit protocol.”

Before I can respond, he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him, and the brewery exhales—a soft settling of magic that feels almost satisfied.