Page 21 of Mane Brew

“I don’t hover.” He takes out his pen again. Clicks it. Once. Twice. “I assess.”

“That’s a new one.”

“It’s accurate.”

The magic in my tanks bubbles. I ignore it.

The thing about developing an uncomfortable partnership with Rhodes is that it’s becoming less uncomfortable.

And that’s the most uncomfortable thing of all.

The investigation should have wrapped in a day—one contaminated batch, one supplier, one straightforward answer. But Marlowe’s shipping manifests connect to four other suppliers, three of whom are slow to respond, and every thread Rhodes pulls unravels into another thread. What should be simple keeps refusing to be simple.

We’ve fallen into a rhythm over the past week—a push and pull that’s somehow productive despite being absolutely infuriating. He provides organization, pattern recognition, that analytical mind that sees conspiracy connections across years of documented incidents. I provide magical insight, creative interpretation, and the particular brand of chaos that seems to uncover things his structured approach misses.

We still argue. Gods, do we argue. But the arguments have shifted. Less hostile. More... charged.

I’m pretending not to notice.

I’m failing spectacularly.

“This batch is ready for testing.” I pour a small sample of my latest experiment—a pale ale designed to enhance focus—into two glasses. One for me. One for him.

Rhodes eyes the glass with the wariness of a man who’s learned that my “experiments” don’t always end well. “What are the potential side effects?”

“Enhanced focus. Maybe some temporary synesthesia. Possibly the urge to alphabetize things.”

His jaw tightens. “That last one sounds targeted.”

“Would I do that?”

“Your ‘Repressed Feelings IPA’ sold out in two hours after our argument last year. So yes.” He picks up the glass anyway. Studies the contents with those sharp eyes. “You would absolutely do that.”

I hide my grin behind my own glass. “Drink up, lion boy.”

He drinks.

I watch his throat work as he swallows, then immediately wish I hadn’t. The way his jaw relaxes after the first sip—the slight widening of his eyes as the flavor registers—makes heat bloom low in my belly.

It’s just satisfaction that he likes my beer. Nothing else.

“Well?” I prompt when he doesn’t say anything.

He sets down the glass. Blinks. Then walks directly to my supply shelves and starts reorganizing my ingredient jars alphabetically.

Memories of the previous time he did this come dangerously close to the surface before I shove them down. I don’t want to think about that time in my life.

“Rhodes.”

No response. He’s moved on to the secondary shelf, sorting my essence vials by color and then by size within each color category.

“Rhodes!”

“These are completely out of order.” His voice is clipped. More clipped than usual, if that’s possible. “Your lunar dust extract is next to your sunburst powder. That’s basic elemental incompatibility.”

“They’ve been next to each other for three years and nothing’s exploded.”

“Yet.” He lines up my crystallized starlight bottles with military precision. “The yet is implied.”