Page 16 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

T he bonfire smoke snakes through the wind like it’s trying to hang on to something.

Salt clings to the inside of my throat, and the shore’s restless—waves slapping against the jetty like they’re pissed off or just drunk on the moon.

The stars are brighter tonight. Or maybe I’m just finally looking.

Drokhaz is already posted up on the split driftwood bench near the edge of the boardwalk, a bottle of dark liquor in one hand and a scowl on his face like someone dared him to feel anything and he didn’t take kindly to it.

His coat’s thrown over the armrest, tattoos catching the firelight beneath the sleeves of his shirt like faded warnings.

I settle down next to him, the wood groaning under our combined weight. The bench smells like mildew and ash and summer sweat. It fits the mood.

“You brought the good stuff,” I say.

He grunts. “You look like you needed it.”

I take the bottle. It’s heavy. Honest. No label—just glass and heat and bad decisions.

One swig. Then another.

It burns down my chest like penance.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks without looking at me.

“No.”

“Want to pretend I didn’t ask?”

“Definitely.”

He nods once, easy. We sit like that a while, the wind cutting sharp along the boardwalk. Seagulls scream like banshees further down the docks. Somewhere behind us, laughter bubbles from the tavern patio—muffled, rowdy, alive.

I feel none of it.

“She saw you at the poetry thing,” Drokhaz says after a beat.

“I know.”

“She stayed after.”

“I know that, too.”

He takes the bottle back and downs his own punishment. “Still didn’t say it, huh?”

“She doesn’t have to.”

“But you want her to.”

I stare at the ocean. It’s blacker than ink and twice as cruel. Lantern lights from the festival shimmer on the surface, like the sea’s trying on jewelry it knows it can’t keep.

“Doesn’t matter what I want,” I mutter.

“Sure it does. Just not as much as what you’re willing to fight for.”

I don’t answer.

He leans forward, elbows on knees. “You think loving her means fixing her. But it doesn’t. It just means staying. Even when it hurts. Especially then.”

My jaw tightens. “I’ve been staying.”

“You’ve been hovering,” he corrects. “Like a lighthouse with the light turned off.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Because he’s not wrong.

I finish the bottle’s last pull, hand it back without a word.

He corks it. Stands. “She’s not some puzzle to solve, Aeron. She’s a storm. You don’t conquer storms. You brace and wait it out. You survive.”

The wind shifts, sweeping his coat sleeve as he slings it over his shoulder. “She’s at the cliffs. Been there a while. Might still be there, if you hurry.”

I don’t say thank you.

But he knows.

The path to the lighthouse cliffs winds through the oldest part of town—the woods that smell like damp pine and memory.

The branches claw overhead like the forest doesn’t want to let the sky out of its grasp.

The moon breaks through in slivers, striping the path in pale silver like something out of a story that never ends well.

My boots crunch over broken shells and moss-slick gravel. The wind hisses through the trees like it’s warning me away.

But I keep going.

Always do.

The clearing opens up without fanfare. Just space and stars and the sound of the world breathing deep.

The cliff juts out like a fist into the ocean, jagged and stubborn.

Below, waves crash with slow, deliberate fury.

Each pull of the tide drags the rocks like it’s trying to pull the whole damn island under.

She’s there.

Back to me. Hood up. Camera on a tripod pointed skyward. The shutter clicks in timed intervals, like a heartbeat. Like she’s trying to catch something before it disappears.

Her breath plumes white in the dark. Her arms are wrapped around herself like the wind’s said too much and she doesn’t want to hear the rest.

She doesn’t turn when I step closer.

“You always were the night owl,” I say softly.

“I like the stars better than people,” she replies, not missing a beat.

“Stars don’t talk back.”

“Exactly.”

I move beside her, hands in my pockets. Close, but not touching. The air is electric—cold, yes, but more than that. Tense. Thick with things we haven’t said.

“What are you shooting?”

She nods toward the sky. “Andromeda’s out. I’ve been chasing her since Oregon.”

“Catch her yet?”

“Almost. Maybe.”

We’re quiet a long while.

The wind tangles her hair. Mine, too. The sea below moans like a wound.

“You scared?” she asks suddenly.

Her voice is softer than it’s been in weeks.

“Always,” I say. “Aren’t you?”

“Terrified.”

“Of what?”

She’s quiet for a beat.

“Of being enough. Of not being enough. Of staying. Of leaving. Take your pick.”

I nod.

“The usual.”

“Yeah.”

The shutter clicks again.

I hear her exhale. It’s shaky.

“I don’t know how to love like a normal person, Aeron.”

“Good.”

She blinks. “Good?”

“I don’t want normal. I want real. ”

She shakes her head, biting her lip. “I’m messy.”

“I know.”

“I run.”

“I’ve seen.”

“I can be selfish and cold and too much or not enough all at once.”

“I’ll take it.”

She turns, eyes shining in the low starlight.

“I don’t want to break you,” she whispers.

I step closer. Just enough.

“You can’t ,” I say.

She swallows hard. Her breath’s caught in her throat.

I don’t kiss her or try to touch her.

I just stay.

And in that stillness, something shifts.

We don’t talk about love or even name it.

But it’s there between us.

Like the stars she’s chasing, clear. Far.