Page 46 of Mane Brew

“There’s too much⁠—”

“There’s always too much. That’s why we have people. Teams. Resources.” He squeezes once, then releases. “Go home. Get some rest. Let your pride handle the preliminary sorting.”

“I want all the paperwork so I can research them and⁠—”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” Elio rolls his eyes. “After you wake up, it will all be ready for you to analyze your heart out.”

I want to argue. Every instinct screams that this is too important, too urgent, too critical for delegation.

But Elio’s right. I haven’t slept in thirty-two hours. My hands are starting to shake—barely visible, but present. Lions don’t function well without rest, and I’m pushing limits I shouldn’t push.

“Two hours.” I step back from the table. “I’ll take two hours, then I’m back.”

“Acceptable compromise.” Elio’s smile carries knowing warmth. “I’m sure you’ll find useful ways to spend that time.”

I don’t dignify that with a response.

She’s waiting outside the warehouse.

I spot her the moment I emerge into the night air—a figure leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed. The mist swirls around her ankles, pale and curious in the moonlight. Her magic hums quietly, restlessly, the way it always does when she’s trying to appear calmer than she feels.

Zeph.

“You didn’t have to come.” The words come out rougher than intended. Exhaustion fraying my control.

“You’re exhausted.” She pushes off the wall. Moves toward me with the easy confidence of someone who’s decided argument is futile. “Someone needed to make sure you actually stop working tonight.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.” She presses a travel mug into my hands—solid and steaming. “Drink. Then we’re both getting actual sleep.”

I look at the mug. Look at her. The mist has caught drops of moisture in her hair, the curls haloed faintly in the lamplight.

I drink.

The coffee is terrible. Too bitter, poorly balanced, clearly made by someone who treats brewing as an afterthought rather than an art.

It’s also hot. And she brought it for me. Stood outside a warehouse in the cold night air waiting for me to emerge, specifically so she could hand me a drink and tell me to rest.

“This is terrible coffee.”

“I know.” Her smile flashes in the darkness. “Coffee connoisseur is my middle name.”

She falls into step beside me as I start walking—automatically, on instinct. “Actually, that’s a lie. My middle name is Cordelia, which is unfortunate given recent events. My parents chose poorly.”

“Your parents chose accurately.” The words slip out before I can catch them. “Cordelia means ‘heart of a lion.’”

She stops. Her eyes widen.

I realize what I’ve just said and feel the flush rising before I can stop it.

“That’s...” She shakes her head. Laughs. “That’s extremely on-brand for you, Rhodes. Of course you know what my middle name means. You’ve researched my etymology.”

“I research everything.”

“You research me specifically.” But she’s smiling. Not mocking—warm. Understanding. “It’s okay. I’ve been known to research certain lion shifters myself. Purely for formal reasons.”

“Purely formal.”