Page 39 of Mane Brew

I flip through the stack. Every form is pristine. Every box checked. Every estimate meticulously calculated with supporting documentation attached.

“You did my paperwork.” The words come out wondering. Baffled. “You actually did my paperwork.”

“The structural assessment team arrives at ten.” He pulls out a separate sheet—a schedule, because, of course, it is. “I’ve coordinated with the insurance adjuster for a statement within forty-eight hours. The repair contractor has availability beginning next week, pending approval of⁠—”

“Rhodes.” I hold up a hand. He stops. “Why?”

“The forms have strict⁠—”

“You already said that.” I stand. Close the distance between us until I’m near enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curl at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach for me. “Why did you spend what I’m guessing was several hours doing paperwork for a brewery you hate?”

“I don’t hate your brewery.”

“You’ve called it a safety hazard approximately forty-seven times.”

“Forty-three.” His ears are going red. Actually red, at the tips, like a teenager caught staring at his crush. “And I said it was a safety hazard. I never said I hated it.”

“So you like my brewery?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“Then what would you say?” I’m teasing now. I can’t help it. The sight of Rhodes Blackthorn—composed, controlled, meticulous Rhodes Blackthorn—flushing over a question about his feelings toward my chaotic establishment is unreasonably satisfying.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough that Anouk stops pretending to work and watches openly.

“The brewery itself is...” He pauses. Searches for words. His expression is almost pained—a man faced with a form that has no applicable checkbox. “Adequate.”

I blink.

“Adequate.” The laugh escapes before I can stop it—genuine, surprised, bright enough to make the potion bottles on Anouk’s shelves rattle. “From you, that’s practically a love letter.”

I find this unreasonably, devastatingly, inappropriately satisfying.

Anouk rescues him by announcing that tea is ready.

We settle around her worktable—me in the chair nearest the window, Rhodes sitting stiffly across from me, Anouk at the head with a pot of chamomile that smells like it could calm a war. The folder of paperwork sits between us like a peace offering. Or maybe a declaration.

I’m still not sure which.

“The contamination in your ingredient stores matched the signatures from the dead zone incidents,” Anouk says, sliding into business mode with the ease of long practice. “Same magic. Same techniques. The Preservers have been targeting you specifically.”

“We established that when they blew up my fermentation tanks.” I accept the cup she offers. “The question is why me specifically. There are other businesses in Mistvale.”

“None with your particular magic.” Rhodes chooses each word with care. “According to Elio’s intelligence, the Preservers were possibly testing destabilization techniques—trying to understand how to disrupt magical processes that don’t follow predictable patterns.”

“How to break chaos.” I wrap my hands around the warm cup. “Charming.”

“Your magic resisted.” Anouk’s eyes are sharp. Assessing. “Despite the contamination, despite the attack, your shields held. Your brewing processes remained intact. They damaged the equipment, but they couldn’t touch the magic itself.”

“Lucky me.”

Rhodes clears his throat and straightens. Reaches back into his folder—there are more pages beneath the insurance forms. Maps, shift rotations, contact information for no fewer than twelve Network personnel. “I’ve assigned a rotating guard detail for the reconstruction period. Two wolves on night shift, two panthers for daylight coverage. Elio volunteered his people specifically—he says they have experience with ‘complicated situations.’”

I stare at the schedules. The careful handwriting. The evidence of hours spent planning for my safety.

“You organized a security detail for me.”

“For the apothecary. Anouk is also at risk.”