Page 76 of Mane Brew

But I want to be close to him. Want to see his face when we have this conversation. Want to watch his carefully maintained composure crack the way it does when I’m near him.

He doesn’t tell me to move.

His eyes drop to where my legs dangle against the desk’s edge. His hands curl against the desk, knuckles whitening.

“I’ve spent four years calling you a humorless bureaucrat.” The words come out softer than I intended. No exclamation points. No dramatic gestures. Just truth. “Four years of Humble Pie Ale and Repressed Feelings IPA and every insult I could think of.”

“I have documentation of every instance.” Controlled, but with a roughness underneath. “Color-coded by severity. Cross-referenced by date and context.”

“Of course you do.” A laugh escapes me—small, helpless. “That’s so... you.”

“If that’s a criticism⁠—”

“It’s not.” I take a breath. Force myself to hold his gaze. “That’s what I’m trying to say. I thought it was. I thought you were rigid and controlling and determined to contain everything, including me. But you’re not.”

His brow furrows. “I document everything. I create procedures for situations that have no procedures. I have files on files. How is that not⁠—”

“You’re steady.” The word stops him. “You’re reliable. You see things other people miss—including me. Including what I actually need.”

“The supply closet.” Rough now. Uncertain.

“The supply closet.” I feel tears threatening and blink them back. Not now. “The paperwork after the attack. The terrible coffee you drank without complaint because I brought it. The patrols at three in the morning.” My voice cracks despite my best efforts. “You’ve been taking care of me for years, Rhodes. I just didn’t want to see it.”

“I didn’t want you to see it.” He’s moved closer without me noticing—standing now, within arm’s reach, his hands opening and closing like he wants to touch me but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. “It seemed... presumptuous. You’d made your opinion of me very clear.”

“My opinion of you was wrong.”

His breath catches.

“I love you.”

Three words. Simple. Devastating. Filling the room like a living thing. The most chaotic thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve once made a batch of beer that achieved temporary sentience.

His expression shifts—shock, maybe. Or disbelief. Or the kind of hope that hurts because you’ve kept it buried so long you forgot it was there.

“You love me.” He repeats it like he’s testing the words for accuracy.

“I’m aware it’s unprecedented.”

The last wall crumbles. Everything he’s been holding back for years breaking into rawness and honesty and absolute wreckage.

“I’ve loved you for four years.” The words pour out of him—fast, desperate, nothing like his usual measured precision. “I have extensive documentation. Charts tracking my emotional compromise. Files on every interaction, every argument, every time you smiled at someone else and I wanted to—” He stops. Swallows. “I have been in love with you since the Humble Pie Ale, and I’ve been too afraid to tell you because there was no precedent for wanting someone this much and actually— somewhere along the way, documentation became devotion.”

I kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not coordinated. I basically launch myself off the desk and crash into him, my hands fisting in his shirt, my mouth finding his with more enthusiasm than technique.

He catches me. His arms wrap around my waist, steadying me, pulling me closer. And then he’s kissing me back—not the careful kiss from the Registry steps, not the restrained press of lips from a man still afraid of wanting.

This is the kiss he’s been holding back for years.

His mouth moves over mine with devastating thoroughness. Methodical. Intentional. Cataloging every response, memorizing every sound I make, learning the way I gasp when his teeth graze my lower lip.

“Rhodes.” His name comes out somewhere between a moan and a prayer.

“I have you.” His hands slide up my back, into my hair, tilting my head for better access. “I’ve got you.”

His lips find the corner of my mouth. My jaw. The spot below my ear that makes my magic spark so hard the nearest filing cabinet rattles. His teeth scrape against my pulse point, and I arch into him with a whimper that would be embarrassing if I had any capacity for embarrassment left.