Page 15 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

F estival week kicks off with the kind of overenthusiastic cheer that makes me want to crawl into a linen closet with a bottle of cheap wine and not come out until autumn.

Lowtide Bluffs has exploded into one giant, salty, glitter-covered fever dream.

Strings of sea-glass-colored flags whip in the wind over the town square, tangled in the bones of creaking booths still half-built.

There’s sawdust in the air and somewhere, someone’s burning kettle corn.

It’s too much. Bright and loud.

Exactly what I need.

I’ve been dodging Aeron like it’s my full-time job—which, considering I’ve ghosted every meaningful conversation since our night together, might as well be.

So I signed up for every volunteer slot they’d give me.

Trash duty. Banner hanging. Tent setup. Sea monster float decorating.

If there’s a clipboard and a high-vis vest involved, I’m your girl.

Right now, I’m ankle-deep in tangled netting behind the dunk tank station, which smells like hot metal and too many wet flip-flops.

There’s music playing from a busted speaker strapped to a lamppost—something vaguely folksy with fiddle twangs and a drumbeat like heartache.

The wind keeps throwing my hair in my eyes, and I’ve already stabbed my thumb on a rusted fishhook tangled in the rope.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

Everything’s fine.

“Need a hand?” a voice calls from above me.

I flinch, twisting awkwardly in the net. “Nope! Totally got it!”

But it’s too late. The net shifts, catches around my waist, and I topple backward into the stack of crate decorations with all the grace of a drunken seal.

My back hits something solid—canvas-wrapped foamboard, at least—and then I’m flat on my ass, tangled in fishing line and seaweed garland, staring up at a sky too blue to be trusted.

Aeron’s shadow falls over me a beat later.

I don’t look at him. I refuse.

But I can feel him—close, steady, radiating that quiet gravity he carries like armor. The scent of him cuts through the salt and sweat in the air—woodsmoke, clean pine, something darker underneath that makes my throat dry.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low.

“I’m good,” I lie. “Just communing with the local fish décor.”

“Uh-huh.”

I hear the crunch of gravel under his boots, the creak of old boards as he steps into the mess with me. He crouches, and suddenly his hands are on the net, fingers working knots loose with the kind of patience that makes my skin go tight.

“You always fall for me like this?” he mutters, almost teasing.

I snort. “Keep dreaming, Sea King.”

His hand brushes my knee as he untangles a particularly stubborn knot, and something hot and electric skitters up my spine. He pauses—just for a second—but doesn’t say anything.

The net falls away, and I’m free.

But I don’t move.

Neither does he.

We’re both crouched there, knees almost touching, his hands resting on the netting between us like he doesn’t trust himself to reach for me again. His eyes catch mine—dark, stormy, unreadable.

I hate that I want to lean into him. Or that I want him to stop being so careful.

“Thanks,” I say, pushing to my feet, brushing sand from my jeans like it matters.

He stands slower. Taller. Always so damn present.

I don’t wait for more.

I walk away like I haven’t just had my heart hijacked by a pair of callused hands and a voice that still lives in my bones.

By nightfall, the town square glows like a dream.

Lanterns sway overhead, casting golden halos on the cracked brick and driftwood benches.

The ocean’s just a whisper behind the laughter, soft waves curling against the dock pylons like the world’s most persistent lullaby.

The stage is set up beneath the old bell tower, and Rowan’s poetry tent is tucked nearby—fabric painted with ink-blot sea monsters and curling script in silver paint that catches the firelight.

The air smells like cider and funnel cake and salt.

Kids run past in paper kraken hats, their sticky fingers trailing glitter in their wake.

Somewhere, someone’s playing a steel drum, and every third note is off-key.

I’m standing near the cider booth with a paper cup going warm in my hand and a knot in my chest that I can’t swallow down.

Rowan steps up to the mic with that effortless command she carries like a second skin. She’s dressed in layered linen and storm-gray lipstick, her hair in a messy braid wrapped in seaweed ribbon, because of course it is.

“This one,” she says, her voice clear over the hush, “is for anyone who ran too soon. And anyone who’s still deciding whether to stay.”

My breath catches.

The crowd shifts. The wind picks up.

And she begins.

“I loved him like weather ? —

Unpredictable.

Necessary.

Lethal if you don’t respect the tides.”

The words are knives made of silk.

“He made silence a lighthouse,

Waited in shadows I never lit.

And still,

Still—

I dream of the salt in his skin

And the way my name sounded in his mouth.”

My fingers tighten around the paper cup. I don’t blink.

“Love doesn’t always knock.

Sometimes it waits at the shoreline

Building driftwood altars from all our wreckage.”

The crowd leans in.

I feel like I’m falling sideways.

“Sometimes,

Even when we break it,

It stays.”

Applause erupts.

I can’t move.

I want to scream. To run. To fall into Aeron’s arms and apologize and kiss him until all the regret burns away.

Instead, I walk. Fast.

Down the dock. Past the lantern-lit shops. Past the mural we painted as kids. Past the bakery that still smells like cinnamon and grief.

I find him sitting near the water, alone, just like always.

He doesn’t look surprised to see me.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, quiet.

“I didn’t plan to.”

We sit in silence, the tide lapping against the pylons like a heartbeat. A gull cries overhead. Somewhere down the dock, a string of lights flickers out with a soft pop.

I open my mouth.

Close it.

Try again.

“I…”

The words won’t come.

He turns to me slowly, something flickering in his eyes—hope, maybe. Or just the memory of it.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

But I can’t.

So I don’t.

And the waves keep whispering what I’m too scared to say.