Page 18 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

T he drawer fights me.

Wood swollen from years of salt air and second thoughts, it scrapes open like it’s warning me. I kneel in front of it anyway, fingertips dragging along the edges like I’m handling something alive. Which, in a way, I am.

Inside, the past.

Not metaphorical—literal. Torn corners of letters never sent.

Ticket stubs from that lighthouse concert series Evie used to drag me to.

A lock of baby-fine hair wrapped in thread.

Photos, warped from time and humidity. Her handwriting, too casual to be careless, sprawled on the back of a coaster I once carried in my wallet until the ink bled clean off.

And tonight, something new.

A photograph.

Unframed. No note. Just left quietly in the pocket of my coat like a dare she didn’t want to voice.

It’s of me—unaware, profile half-shadowed, the docks behind me a blur of grays and soft light. I’m not looking at the camera. I’m not looking at anything, really. Caught mid-thought. There’s tension in my shoulders. Lines near my eyes I hadn’t noticed before. I look older. Harder. Still.

But also… rooted. Present.

Like someone who hasn’t run in a long time.

I trace the edge with my thumb. Then, without hesitation, I set it on top of the pile.

The drawer could close. I could let it. But instead I just sit there, heels planted on the old hardwood floor, listening to the storm brewing inside my own ribs.

There was a time I thought I’d burn all of it.

Build a fire behind the shed, toss it all in—every scribbled note and ghost-smudged picture—and watch the past go up like driftwood and dry pine.

But now…

I don’t want to forget.

Even if it hurts.

Because loving her was never about safety.

It was about staying.

And maybe that’s enough.

The town’s wearing her best tonight.

Festival lights stretch from the bell tower to the edge of the harbor, woven like vines through every pole and post. Lanterns in soft ocean hues swing overhead, casting moving shadows on the brick walkways and worn driftwood benches.

There’s laughter—deep and real and everywhere—spilling from cider stands and music tents, kids running barefoot with caramel on their cheeks and salt in their hair.

I move through it like a ghost who hasn’t quite left. Hands in my pockets. Eyes tracking everything and nothing. Smiling when someone nods. Not stopping.

Until I see her.

She’s near the west end of the square, standing beneath one of the old sycamores that frame the poetry tent. The wind teases the hem of her shirt, and her hair’s down—untamed, tangled in sunset and mischief.

She’s laughing.

Not a soft smile or a forced laugh— laughing —head thrown back, the sound bright and open and fucking real.

Rowan stands next to her, one arm around Evie’s waist, gesturing dramatically with a cider bottle. Whatever she said just landed like a punchline, and Evie’s half-folded over from it, peach juice dripping down her wrist from the fruit clutched in her other hand.

She wipes at her face, still grinning, camera strap slung loose over her shoulder like it belongs there. Like she belongs here.

And I just…

Stop.

Because I remember that look.

Not just the smile, the ease. The weightlessness.

It’s the version of her that existed before the leaving.

And all the silence.

And it’s that look— that one —that punches the air right out of my lungs.

She straightens slowly and spots me.

Not instantly. It takes a beat. But when her gaze locks on mine across the square, the world… tilts.

Her smile falters, but doesn’t vanish. Instead, it softens. Settles. Her hand stills over her mouth. Her eyes hold mine.

And just for a breath, everything else fades—the music, the crowd, the clatter of plastic swords and paper crowns.

It’s just her.

Me.

And that golden hour glow painting the edges of her face like a halo she’d deny she wore.

Jamie tugs at her elbow then, dragging her toward the carving table with a squeal about “monster pumpkins.” She glances back once before turning, and I watch her go like a man watching a wave roll out after almost drowning.

“I thought you’d be closer by now.”

Drokhaz’s voice breaks the silence beside me. I didn’t hear him come up.

I grunt. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“She looked happy.”

“She looked free. ”

He hands me a paper cup. Cider. Warm. Spiced. Something to hold that isn’t a mistake.

I take it.

“You gonna talk to her?” he asks.

“Eventually.”

“Before or after you grow roots into this sidewalk?”

I glance sideways. He’s not smiling. Just watching her with that same unreadable look.

“She’s still carrying it,” I murmur. “All of it. The guilt. The fear.”

“She’s carrying less tonight.”

I sip the cider. It burns. Sweet. Sharp.

“She gave me a photo,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“She didn’t say a word. Just left it.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Drokhaz says. “Not anymore. She’s showing you.”

I nod slowly.

Because he’s right.

Because love’s not always loud.

Sometimes it’s quiet.

Sometimes it’s the press of a camera into your hand, a shared silence on a cliff, or a glance across a lantern-lit street that says, Don’t give up on me yet.

I watch her again.

And this time, I let myself hope.