Page 75 of Mane Brew

“You’re counting?”

“It’s contagious.” She shrugs. “He’s cataloged every member of this pride so thoroughly we’ve all picked up habits. I have a spreadsheet tracking my own combat improvements now. It’s mildly disturbing.”

“Thanks.” I head toward the building in question—a stone structure with more windows than seems structurally advisable, all of them offering views of organized shelves and file cabinets. True to Kira’s word, I catch movement at one window as I approach. A familiar silhouette, looking toward town.

Looking for me.

My heart kicks against my ribs.

The door is unlocked.

Inside, the Archive Building smells like paper and ink and the faint hint of lion musk that I’ve come to associate with Rhodes specifically. Shelves line every wall, color-coded and labeled with meticulous precision. Cross-references. Indexes. A filing system so elaborate it probably requires a master’s degree to navigate.

And at the center of it all, surrounded by paperwork: Rhodes.

He’s bent over a desk, pen moving across forms with mechanical efficiency.

He hasn’t noticed me yet.

For a moment, I just... look. Let myself see him without the antagonism we’ve used as armor for so long. Without the arguments and the insults and the carefully maintained distance.

He’s beautiful. Not in any conventional way—not flashy or dramatic. But steady. Solid. The kind of man who’s exactly who he appears to be, no pretense, no performance.

The kind of beautiful I’ve been pretending not to notice for four years.

“You’re recording the victory.”

His pen stops. His head lifts. When his eyes find mine, the professional neutrality cracks into warmth. Relief.

“Someone has to maintain records.” He sets down the pen but doesn’t move from behind the desk. “The ritual alone generated twenty separate incident reports. The Preserver capture requires⁠—”

“The celebration is happening without you.” I step farther into the room. Close the door behind me. The click of the latch is very loud in the sudden silence. “Half of Mistvale is drunk on Severing’s End Ale. Ember’s been on fire for six hours. Berry’s bookshop is shooting sparks. And you’re in here... filing.”

“Celebrations are...” He trails off as I move closer. His eyes track my approach with an intensity that makes my magic bubble. “They’re...”

“Chaotic?” I offer.

“Undocumented.”

I stop at the edge of his desk. Close enough to see the faint circles under his eyes—he didn’t sleep last night either. Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands have curled into fists against the paperwork.

Close enough to see his pulse jump in his throat.

“Rhodes.”

“Zeph.”

“You said we’d have a conversation. About possibilities.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Just looks at me with those tawny eyes that miss nothing, that see everything, that have been watching me for longer than either of us wanted to admit.

Then he sets down his pen. Pushes back from the desk. Gives me his full attention in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

“I did.”

I sit on the edge of his desk.

Bold move. Probably inappropriate. Definitely chaotic—there are forms under my thigh that are probably important, and I just put a crease in “Incident Report: Magical Alignment, Temporal.”