Page 1 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

T here’s a reason I never came back here.

The damn highway sign says “Welcome to Lowtide Bluffs” like the place has been sitting with its arms wide open for fifteen years, just waiting for me to come crawling home.

I don’t crawl.

But the sea breeze punches through my open window anyway, smelling like salt and wet wood and something older. Something that knows exactly who I am.

The turnoff to the beach house comes too fast. My stomach does a lazy flip as I wrench the wheel left, tires crunching gravel. I kill the engine and stare through the cracked windshield at what’s left of the Bright family legacy.

The house perches on the bluff like a stubborn old woman refusing to topple. Two stories of chipped gray paint, a half-rotted porch swing listing to one side, and windows clouded with sea spray and time. I can hear the waves below, gnawing at the rocks like they always do.

I should turn around, maybe call the realtor. Let them deal with it.

Instead, I drag my overnight bag from the passenger seat, sling my camera bag over one shoulder, and march toward the front steps like I’m not terrified out of my goddamn mind.

The key sticks in the lock. Of course it does. I curse under my breath and jiggle it until the door groans open, the smell of old paper and salt hitting me like a memory I didn’t ask for.

“Home sweet hell,” I mutter, kicking the door shut behind me.

The place looks like my mother left in the middle of a thought. Half-packed boxes stacked against the wall. A faded afghan draped over the couch. One of her ridiculous ceramic mermaid lamps is still glowing weakly in the corner.

I drop my bags with a sigh and pull out my phone. One bar. Figures.

A text from Rowan pops up: When you’re ready. No pressure. Welcome home, Evie.

I snort. Rowan always did know how to weaponize kindness. I shove the phone in my pocket and head for the kitchen.

The fridge hums alive when I plug it back in. There’s a half-empty bottle of wine in the pantry, miraculously unbroken. I pop the cork, pour a generous glass, and lean against the counter, letting the wine burn a path through the tight knot in my chest.

I didn’t come back for closure. I came back to settle the estate, sign the papers, and get the hell out. One week, tops.

Then the floor creaks behind me.

I spin around, heart lurching—but it’s just the house settling. Or that’s what I tell myself.

I take another swallow of wine and head upstairs, each step groaning beneath my boots. The bedroom door sticks like always, and I have to shoulder it open.

The room’s a time capsule. Mom’s perfume still lingers faintly in the air. An old camera—the first one she ever gave me —sits on the dresser, dusty but intact. I trail my fingers over it, throat tightening.

“Don’t start,” I whisper to no one.

Before the grief can get a good grip, a loud knock rattles the front door downstairs.

I frown. Who the hell?—?

Another knock. Firm. Measured.

I grab the wine glass—because why not—and stomp down the stairs, yanking the door open with more force than necessary.

Aeron Thalen.

Tall as ever, lean muscle wrapped in a dark shirt and worn jeans. Sea-glass green eyes cool as the tide, silver hair tied low at the nape of his neck. There’s a Harbor Master badge clipped to his belt like some cosmic joke.

For one dumb second, I forget how to breathe.

“Evie.” His voice is deeper now, rough around the edges. Like driftwood polished by the sea.

“Aeron,” I say, lifting the wine glass in a mock toast. “Wow. Harbor Master. Fancy.”

His jaw tightens. “Welcome back.”

“I’d say it’s good to be here, but that’d be a lie.”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes—anger? Amusement? I can’t tell anymore.

“I heard you were in town.” He shifts his weight, gaze flicking past me to the house. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

I lean against the doorframe, all nonchalance and bravado. “Estate stuff. Just passing through.”

“Right.” He doesn’t believe me. Hell, I don’t believe me.

Silence stretches between us, taut and awkward. Once upon a time, we could’ve talked for hours without running out of words. Now it feels like trying to hold a conversation with the tide.

“Anything else?” I ask, arching a brow.

His lips press into a line. “Storm blew through last week. Some debris near the north dock. I’m checking properties on the bluff. Safety protocol.”

Of course he is. Always the responsible one.

“I’m not exactly planning a beach bonfire.”

He nods, gaze lingering on me like he’s searching for something. Maybe the girl who used to steal boats and photograph stars with him. She’s dead, Aeron. Long gone.

“Well.” He straightens. “If you need anything... The harbor office is open.”

“Sure. I’ll add it to my list.”

Another beat of silence. Then he nods once, sharp and controlled, and turns to leave.

Against my better judgment, I call after him. “Hey.”

He stops, looking over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about your grandmother.”

A flicker—real grief this time—softens his expression. “Thanks.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

I close the door slowly, heart pounding like I just sprinted a marathon. Leaning back against it, I drain the last of my wine.

“Well, shit,” I mutter.

The next morning, Rowan bangs on my door like she owns the place.

“Jesus, I’m coming,” I grumble, yanking it open.

She stands there in a red raincoat and combat boots, grinning like the damn Cheshire Cat. “You’re alive.”

“Debatable.” I rub my eyes. “You’re here why, exactly?”

She thrusts a crumpled flyer at me. Salt & Sea Festival: 50th Anniversary! in bright teal letters. “We’re short a photographer. You in?”

“I just got here.”

“Exactly why you should do it. Get out, get moving. You’re good with a lens.”

I cross my arms. “I didn’t come back to play town event paparazzi.”

Rowan gives me a look. The look. The one that says she knows me too well for my own damn good. “Evie... it’ll help. Trust me.”

“Rowan—”

“And Aeron’s helping run it.” She smirks, all innocent-like.

I scowl. “You’re evil.”

“You love me.” She grabs my arm and hauls me toward the door. “C’mon. Opening meeting’s at the boardwalk in an hour.”

“Fine.” I yank my camera bag off the hook. “But I’m charging overtime.”

“That’s the spirit.”

I follow her out into the salt-stained morning, wondering when exactly I lost the ability to say no to her. Probably around the same time I lost my heart to this damn town.