Page 73 of Mane Brew

“The part where you threw yourself at an army of combat specialists to protect a woman you’ve been pretending not to love for years.” His smile carries too many teeth. “Very subtle. No one noticed.”

“Elio—”

He vanishes back into the crowd before I can respond.

Sunny appears from somewhere with a basket of pastries that she’s distributing to exhausted combatants. Biscuit sits on her shoulder, croaking what sounds suspiciously like approval.

“Biscuit says you did well,” Sunny informs me cheerfully. “He’s upgrading his assessment of your romantic potential from ‘adequate’ to ‘promising.’”

“I’m honored by the toad’s approval.”

“You should be. He’s very discerning.” She shoves a pastry into my free hand. “Eat. You look terrible.”

“He just saved the world,” Zeph protests.

“He can save the world and eat pastries. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” Sunny turns to Zeph with a second pastry. “You too. Ritual magic burns calories. It’s science.”

“Is it?”

“Biscuit says so. Biscuit is never wrong about metabolic requirements.”

The toad croaks.

We eat pastries.

It’s absurd. We’re standing in the aftermath of a battle, covered in blood and magical residue, having just broken a two-hundred-fifty-year curse—and we’re eating Sunny’s mood-enhancing scones while a toad judges our romantic progress.

It’s chaos.

It’s perfect.

“Rhodes.” Zeph’s voice is soft. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For choosing to come. For holding the line.” Her eyes meet mine, and I see exhaustion and gratitude and a depth of feeling that makes my chest ache. “For being my foundation.”

“You were worth holding the line for.” The words come out rough. Honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be. “You’ll always be worth it.”

“Under what category?”

“Unprecedented statements of romantic intent.” Her smile curves, sharp and certain. “Cross-referenced with evidence of emotional availability.”

“I’ll need to create new files.”

“Extensive files.”

“The most extensive.” I set down the pastry, turn to face her properly. “Zeph. Tomorrow⁠—”

“Tomorrow.” She places her finger over my lips, stopping whatever inadequate words I was about to offer. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Plan tomorrow. Figure it all out tomorrow.” Her hand slides to cup my jaw. “Tonight, we just... survived.”

“Surviving seems insufficient.”

“Surviving is everything.” Her forehead touches mine. “We’re alive. The Severing is broken. The world didn’t end.”

“A significant improvement over projected outcomes.”

She laughs again. I decide I want to hear that sound every day for the rest of my life.