Page 56 of Mane Brew

She trails off. Gestures vaguely at the carrier in her hand.

“I brought beer.”

Despite everything, a sound escapes me. Almost a laugh. “I don’t feel like getting tipsy.”

“It’s non-alcoholic. I made it for Sakura.” She settles onto the grass beside me—not touching, but present. “It’s the batch that’s been behaving. No magical effects. Just... comfort.”

She sets the carrier in front of us. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t fill the silence with questions or platitudes or the well-meaning noise that people offer when they don’t know what else to say.

She just sits. Watches the sunset. Lets me exist in my grief without trying to fix it.

Minutes pass. The light shifts from gold to orange to deep amber. The mist below catches the color, responding to the day’s end with gentle luminescence.

“You don’t have to talk.” The rare gentleness she saves for moments that matter. “I can just... be here.”

The words crack something in my chest. I’ve spent my entire life being useful. Being organized. Being the one who solves problems and files reports and maintains order so others don’t have to. I don’t know how to let someone simply be present without expecting anything in return.

But she’s doing it anyway. Offering her company without conditions. Without agenda. Without any of the careful calculations that usually govern my interactions.

She’s just... here.

The silence stretches. The sun sinks lower. I don’t talk. She doesn’t push.

After an hour—maybe more, maybe less; I’ve lost track of time in a way that would normally concern me—my hand moves without conscious decision.

Across the grass between us. Past the carrier of non-alcoholic beer. To where her fingers rest against the golden stems.

I take her hand.

Her breath catches. A soft sound, barely audible. But she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t do anything except turn her palm to meet mine, fingers interlacing with the ease of puzzle pieces finding their match.

Her fingers are calloused from brewery work, slightly rough against my palm. Magic sparks faintly where we touch—not chaotic, not unstable, just present. A quiet acknowledgment of potential that neither of us has named.

I hold on.

She holds on.

The sun sets over Mistvale. The mist turns golden in the fading light—not the deep amber of fated pairings, not yet, but close. A shift beginning. The start of change rather than the end of what was.

She chose to come here.

I chose to reach for her.

And for the first time since I discovered Izag’s betrayal, the grief in my chest loosens enough to let hope edge in.

Hope, maybe.

Or the beginning of it.

The stars appear one by one above Sunridge territory. The mist settles into its nighttime patterns. And two people who’ve spent years circling each other finally stop moving long enough to simply... stay.

Her thumb traces a small circle against my palm. Deliberate. Gentle.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” she says quietly, “you won’t face it alone.”

The words settle into me—not a promise of romance, not a declaration of love, just the simple truth of partnership offered without conditions.

My fingers tighten around hers.