Page 14 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

J amie finds me where the harbor planks meet the gravel—boots deep in brine-streaked dust, arms buried in the guts of the sea float’s rudder system.

The morning sun’s already clawing its way up the sky, too bright, too cheerful, like it doesn’t know I’ve been awake since before dawn, too wired to sleep and too damn stubborn to call it grief.

“Uncle Ae-roooon!”

He’s all energy and squeaky boot soles, dressed like a walking tidepool: octopus shirt, mismatched socks, jellyfish beanie slipping sideways over his curls. There’s a seagull feather stuck behind one ear like he’s trying out for pirate captain.

I glance up, squinting. “You yelling, or calling the storm?”

He grins wide. “Mama says you gotta come to story hour.”

I wipe my hands on a rag. “Tell Mama I’m up to my elbows in marine engineering.”

“She said you’d say that.” Jamie skips closer, his boots squelching in a puddle left from last night’s high tide. “She also said you owe her for the popcorn machine fire.”

“That was not my fault,” I mutter.

He tilts his head like a suspicious crab. “She said you broke it on purpose so you could test your fire warding spell.”

“…Maybe a little bit my fault.”

“Come ooon,” he sings, grabbing my wrist with those sticky, determined fingers. “Please? It’s my favorite book today.”

The kid’s got a death grip and a pout that could guilt a kraken into tears. I give in.

“Fine,” I grumble. “But I’m not doing voices.”

Jamie’s smirk says he knows better.

The Gilded Page smells like warm paper, cinnamon from the scone tray near the register, and the faint mineral tang of old ink.

The store’s full of velvet shadows and gold dust dancing through the light shafts breaking in through the tall sea-glass windows.

Dust motes swirl like tiny ghosts every time someone passes between the shelves.

There’s already a crowd of kids in the reading nook, which Liara’s padded out with every beanbag and quilt the store owns. Sea creature plushies are tossed around like someone hosted a kraken-themed brawl. A mermaid doll dangles from a curtain rod like she’s seen too much.

Liara leans against the endcap beside the register, sipping something in a reusable cup that probably contains three kinds of espresso and poor choices.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up.

“I’m here.”

She gives me a smug half-smile. “Jamie picked The Kraken’s Lonely Song . Try not to get emotional again.”

I raise a brow. “I had sand in my eye.”

“You had feelings, sailor. It’s okay. We allow those now.”

Before I can fire back, Jamie tugs me down the aisle, dodging a toddler in a shark hoodie. He plants me in the big overstuffed reading chair like he’s the captain and I’m just the ride.

The book is already waiting on the armrest. Worn cover. Gold-foil title flaking off like it’s been read a hundred times. Probably has. I pick it up. The room settles. Even the scone- stealing seagull that keeps showing up outside the bay window seems to pause.

And then I see her.

Evie.

She’s standing behind the poetry display, half in shadow, half in sun, camera hanging loose against her hip like it doesn’t belong there anymore. Her eyes are fixed on me, wide and unreadable. Her lips part slightly, just enough to let out a breath she doesn’t realize she’s holding.

The room blurs around the edges.

I don’t blink.

Jamie climbs into my lap, snuggling in like he’s built of heat and purpose. I open the book. My voice is lower than usual. Slower. Every word heavy.

“The kraken lived alone beneath the tide, where sunlight could not reach…”

It’s a story about longing, dressed in whimsy. And a creature too big, too strange, too full of music to be understood. How it sings to ships it will never meet, and how the sea always swallows its voice before anyone truly hears.

The kids lean in. Jamie clutches my arm. And across the room, Evie flinches at a line about loneliness—just a twitch, just a heartbeat, but I see it.

Because I know it.

She’s the one who taught me what lonely sounds like.

By the time I close the book, the air feels like it’s holding its breath. The tide’s crept up behind the store; I can hear it, restless and rhythmic, brushing against the jetty stones with a sound like slow applause.

The kids cheer. Jamie shouts something about an encore. I ruffle his hair, gently ease him off my lap, and stand.

Evie’s gone.

I find her outside, pacing the edge of the weather-worn deck that runs along the side of the shop. Her boots creak against the boards. The wind tosses her hair. She’s staring hard at the sea like it might give her answers if she glares long enough.

“Evie.”

She stiffens, doesn’t look at me. “Don’t.”

“I’m not here to argue.”

“Good.”

“I just want to talk.”

“That’s worse.”

I move closer, careful, like she’s a bird about to take off. “Why’d you leave this morning?”

Her arms fold tight across her chest. “You know why.”

“I want you to say it.”

She turns then, fast. Her eyes flash with something raw. “Because every time I get close to you, I forget where I end and you begin. That’s why.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It is when I know how this ends,” she snaps.

“You don’t know anything,” I growl, voice low and cutting. “You think you’re the only one scared?”

She glares at me, but it’s trembling now. “I’m not built for forever. I don’t do white picket fences and grocery lists and… hope.”

I step forward, one slow stride, enough that she can feel the heat off me. “I’m not asking for a fairytale, Evie. I’m asking for a shot. At real. At us. ”

Her breath shudders. But she doesn’t lean in.

She pulls back.

“I can’t promise I won’t hurt you,” she whispers.

“And I can’t promise I won’t fall apart if you walk away again.”

We’re eye to eye now. Inches. Breaths.

But she breaks first.

“I need space.”

I nod once, jaw tight.

“Then take it.”

And I watch her walk away.

Again.

And the wind howls a little louder, like the tide’s trying to say all the things we can’t.