Page 10 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

I can handle monsters.

Sea serpents, with their slick scales and haunted eyes, curling up too close to port pylons. The kelp wraith that used to hiss lullabies through Dock Nine until I shut it down with a rusted harpoon and a bucket of iron salt. Even Drokhaz when he’s full of caffeine and louder than legally allowed.

But this? I can’t handle it.

Rowan’s voice echoes across the open harbor pavilion just as I’m coming through the canvas flap, lantern fuel box clutched in my hands.

“Looks like she’s staying,” she says, loud enough to be casual, quiet enough to be cruel.

I drop the box harder than I mean to. Metal clinks. The clatter ricochets across the space like gunfire.

“Evie?” Drokhaz asks. His tail flicks out from behind the stack of coiled lights, a flicker of greenish blue against the splintered wood. “The human? Glares a lot. Smells like grief.”

“Yep,” Rowan says. “That one.”

I don’t look at either of them. Just haul the box open and start checking contents like it matters.

“She’s staying through the festival,” Rowan adds. “Thought you should know.”

The inside of the box smells like old diesel and aluminum.

I mutter, “Not my business.”

“You sure?”

The air inside the harbor tent is thick with brine and sun-heated canvas. Salt crusts the wooden posts, and the breeze coming in off the water makes the rigging sing—a hollow, high-pitched drone that always sounded too much like mourning to me.

I pull a lantern free, test the wick, ignore the ache tightening in my throat.

She’s staying.

After running out while I was still asleep, after curling up next to me with the weight of fifteen years pressing between our shoulders, after letting me speak out loud what I’ve never said to anyone—she’s still here.

I don’t know what that means.

And I don’t think I can stand what it might.

I grab the ladder leaning against one of the central poles, hoist it upright. The canvas overhead is flapping like it wants to fly off, and one of the main banner cords is still tangled.

Good. I need something to do.

I climb.

The metal rungs are slick with early mist. My grip is steady, though. Always is when I’m trying not to feel something.

Up here, the pavilion’s chaos stretches in all directions. Booths still half-assembled. Strings of lights coiled in messy nests. Tables overturned and labeled with mismatched chalk signs: GAMES, BAKE SALE, LIVE SQUID DEMO.

I glance toward the harbor edge. My boat’s moored just beyond the salt barrels. Evie’s house is invisible behind the dunes, but I feel it like a shadow under my ribs.

Below, Drokhaz is cursing in a half-dozen dialects while hauling a steel drum into place.

“Harbormaster broods worse than a tide shark in mating season,” he mutters.

“I heard that,” I call.

“You were meant to,” he says.

Rowan appears below me again. Hands on hips, ponytail swinging like a challenge. “You okay?”

“Busy,” I grunt.

“Not what I asked.”

“Don’t push, Rowan.”

“Don’t dodge, Aeron.”

I finish tying the last of the cord. Let my knuckles whiten around the knot.

She waits until I climb down before cornering me with that look—equal parts patience and blunt force.

“She didn’t leave town,” Rowan says. “Didn’t vanish. She walked into town this morning like she might stick around. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s not everything either.”

“You’re mad.”

I shake my head. “I’m... tired.”

Rowan softens. “You still love her.”

The words hang in the air between us, quiet and immovable.

Drokhaz grunts. “Three days till he admits it.”

Rowan crosses her arms. “Two. Unless he broods extra hard.”

I glare at both of them. “I’m right here.”

“And yet,” Rowan says, “miles away.”

Silence. Long and sharp like winter wind.

“She left without a word,” I finally say. “And I waited. For years. Not days. Not weeks. Years .”

“She was hurting.”

“So was I.”

Rowan tilts her head. “She’s not the only one who changed.”

I look out toward the water. The sea doesn’t answer.

“She’s different now,” I say. “Harder. Angrier.”

“So are you,” Rowan says gently. “But maybe that’s not the worst thing.”

I sigh. Run a hand through my hair. Salt and tension cling to my fingers.

“She’s not mine anymore.”

“Maybe she never was,” Rowan replies. “Doesn’t mean she can’t choose to be now.”

Drokhaz throws a net onto a table. “Love’s like bait. If it’s still fresh, something always bites.”

I grunt. “Thanks for the poetry, D.”

Rowan steps closer. “You left her the camera, didn’t you?”

I don’t answer.

She smiles. “Then you already made your move.”

I walk away before she can say anything else, footsteps echoing on the planks.

The wind picks up, and the rigging above hums like a warning.

And I wonder if this time, maybe the storm is ours to survive together.

—

The harbor’s quieter at dusk.

Most of the volunteers have filtered out, leaving half-finished booths and coils of extension cords snaking across the planks like lazy sea serpents.

I stand at the end of Dock C, wind sharp and briny against my face, watching the sun fold itself into the ocean. That same old ache rolls through me—like the tide, like her.

My fingers curl around the rail.

The sea’s always been my place to breathe. But right now, it presses in like a memory I can’t exhale.

I think of her—hair wild from salt wind, eyes sharp as broken glass, smile like the promise of summer.

And the way she looked curled up beside me last night, not afraid, just… guarded. But there.

Real. Present.

Not a ghost this time.

I drag a hand down my face.

“I never stopped loving her.”

The words come quiet. Cracked.

But saying them out loud—it hits like surf against the rocks.

Sudden. Inevitable.

True.

Fifteen years didn’t sand it down. Her leaving didn’t scrub it out.

All that space between us only gave the feeling more room to breathe.

And now she’s back.

Not for me.

But maybe... not just for closure either.

I grip the railing tighter. The wind roars. The sea answers.

It’s always been her.

Still is.