Page 27 of Mane Brew

I abandon tank two and emerge into the main room just as Sakura herds the last stragglers toward the door. She’s glowing—literally, a soft luminescence that weather witches develop during pregnancy. Her bump is visible, stretching the fabric of her flowing dress. The first witch-shifter baby in two hundred fifty years, growing steadily while the magical world watches and whispers.

“We brought wine.” Anouk sets three bottles on the bar with the precision of someone who alphabetizes her spice rack. “And intention.”

“I brought sparkling cider.” Sakura pats her belly. “Little Bean objects to alcohol. Apparently developing neural pathways is more important than girls’ night solidarity.”

“I brought questions.” Leire drops into her favorite stool—the one with the wobbly leg that she claims has character. “So many questions.”

I cross my arms. “I’m sensing an ambush.”

“It’s not an ambush.” Sakura’s smile is pure sunshine. “It’s an intervention.”

“That’s worse. That’s definitely worse.”

Leire uncorks the first bottle with her teeth—a party trick she picked up from Aslan and refuses to abandon despite Anouk’s visible distaste. “We’ve been patient. We’ve given you space. We’ve watched you and the lion circle each other for literal years without saying anything.”

“Much,” Sakura amends.

“Without saying much,” Leire agrees. “But the patience has run out.”

“We’re intervening.” She slides a glass toward me. “Drink. You’re going to need it.”

I take the glass because refusing would only delay the inevitable. The wine is good—one of the expensive bottles from Anouk’s private collection, the kind she only breaks out for special occasions or emotional emergencies.

The fact that she considers this an emotional emergency is not reassuring.

“So.” Leire props her chin on her hand. “The lion.”

“There is no ‘the lion.’” I gulp wine. “There’s an irritating investigator who won’t leave my brewery alone.”

“An irritating investigator who is demonstrably obsessed.” Leire’s eyes are sharp. The sharp of a woman who recognizes the symptoms. “You let him drink your experimental batches.”

“One batch. Once.”

“You don’t let anyone drink those.” She leans forward. “Remember when I asked for a taste of your Dreamweaver Stout? You nearly hexed me.”

“That was different. Dreamweaver had unstable hallucinogenic properties.”

“And your focusing ale didn’t?”

I think about Rhodes organizing my entire storage system with manic precision. About the way his sentences got shorter and clippier the longer he worked. About how I’d touched his arm to break the spell and felt his pulse jump under my fingers.

“It was... stable enough.”

“It was trust.” Leire’s tone softens. “You trusted him with your experimental magic. That’s not nothing, Zeph.”

The fermentation tanks bubble behind me. Agreeing. Traitorous.

“When did you start trusting him?” Sakura asks. “Was it recent, or...”

The question hits somewhere tender. I stare into my wine. When did I start trusting Rhodes? When did the irritation shift into this complicated mess?

“I don’t know,” I admit. “It snuck up on me.”

“It does that.” Anouk speaks quietly. Understanding. “One day you’re certain about exactly how you feel. The next, everything you thought you knew is obsolete.”

She would know.

The second bottle opens. Sakura holds up a hand before I can deflect again.