Page 2 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

S he’s back.

Of all the damn things this week could’ve thrown at me—a half-sunken fishing boat, another stack of council paperwork, another rusted railing on the west dock—Evie Bright walking out of her mother’s house wasn’t on the list.

Fifteen years, and the first thing she does is throw up that wall of hers like no time’s passed at all. A glass of wine in her hand, that same stubborn tilt to her mouth.

And those eyes.

Still gold when she’s trying not to feel too much. Still sharp enough to cut through whatever calm I’ve built since she left.

I grip the edge of the harbor desk a little harder than necessary. The ledger creaks beneath my fingers. Rowan’s note sits nearby— Salt & Sea prep, final checks with Drokhaz today, see you there! —as if I’m not already drowning in this damn festival.

I roll my shoulders back, straighten the stack of shipping manifests, and shove the memory of her voice back where it belongs. Somewhere deep. Somewhere unreachable.

For fifteen years, I’ve made a home in that distance. One look at her and it cracks like thin ice.

“Morning, boss.”

I glance up. Caleb Marrow—one of the younger dockhands—leans in the doorway, windblown and grinning. Human kid, sharp and fast.

“Morning,” I say, voice low. “West dock status?”

“Cleared the driftwood. Ropes’re holding fine.” He hesitates, then adds, “Heard Evie Bright’s back.”

Of course he did. The town’s smaller than a fishing net.

“She is,” I say evenly.

He waits a beat for more. I give him nothing.

“Uh... right.” Caleb scratches the back of his neck. “See you at the boardwalk then.”

I nod once, and he vanishes like smoke.

With a sigh, I close the ledger and lock it away. The drawer beneath it holds something older—a battered metal tin. I tell myself not to open it. My hand moves anyway.

Inside: a worn compass with a cracked face. Two faded Polaroids—one of the two of us at the lighthouse stairs, one of her grinning, eyes alight, holding a starfish. And a torn corner of a map she’d sketched on the back of a napkin.

My fingers brush the edge of the photograph.

I meant to burn it more times than I can count.

But I can’t.

The clock strikes nine. Time to meet Drokhaz before the boardwalk committee eats itself alive. I snap the tin shut, lock it, and pocket the key.

The wind sharpens as I walk the docks toward the meeting spot—an old maintenance shack near the south end of the boardwalk.

Lowtide Bluffs smells like salt and cedar today, the sky crisp and cloudless.

Perfect weather for a storm beneath the surface.

When I reach the shack, Drokhaz is already there, broad-shouldered and looming in his tailored charcoal coat, arms crossed.

“Thalen,” he rumbles.

“Drokhaz.”

We shake once—firm, steady.

He peers down at me with a knowing look. Orc or not, he reads people better than most humans I’ve met.

“She’s back,” he says flatly.

“I know.”

He studies me a moment. “You look like someone gut-punched you and called it nostalgia.”

I grunt. “Not here to discuss that.”

“No, you’re here to discuss how the council wants us to run a festival without adequate security or structural checks.” His mouth twitches. “I’m an orc, not a miracle worker.”

“They’ve already cut two inspection windows. We’ll run what we can today.”

Drokhaz exhales hard through his nose. “Fine. Rowan’s supposed to rope in extra volunteers. You’ll handle the final load-in logistics?”

I nod. “Schedule’s tight, but manageable.”

He eyes me again. “You sure you’re focused enough for this?”

The steel in my voice surprises even me. “This festival’s getting done, Drokhaz. No matter who’s in town.”

“Good.” His gaze softens—barely. “And for what it’s worth... fifteen years or not, some stories don’t close clean.”

I don’t answer that.

Because he’s right.

By noon, the boardwalk’s alive with motion.

Vendors hammering up stalls. Ropes getting strung with lanterns. Children darting between paint-chipped benches, chasing the scent of fried dough that hasn’t even started cooking yet.

I keep my head down, moving through the crews, voice sharp where it needs to be.

“No, those supports go higher. A storm hit last week—don’t trust old beams.”

“Bundle the cables tighter, or we’re losing lights to the first wind gust.”

“Stack the extra sandbags behind the main tent.”

Efficiency. Precision. It’s how I hold my ground.

I’m halfway through checking the lighting rig when a familiar voice cuts through the clamor.

“—I don’t care if it’s last minute, you’re the best eye we’ve got. Besides, you need the distraction.”

Rowan.

I glance toward the central walkway and there they are—Rowan, boots planted like a damn general, and Evie standing beside her in worn jeans and a weather-beaten leather jacket.

Camera slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning the chaos like it’s a foreign country.

I catch her gaze for one breathless moment. She looks away first.

Smart.

I turn back to the rig, jaw tight.

“Thalen,” Rowan calls, striding over like she hasn’t just kicked a hornet’s nest. “We’re setting Evie up with coverage for the opening and vendor portraits. Clear?”

I meet her gaze. “Clear.”

Evie lingers a few paces behind, fingers adjusting the camera strap like it might choke her.

“You’ll have final run of the boardwalk,” I tell her coolly. “Stick to the perimeter this afternoon—the center rigging isn’t secure yet.”

“Understood,” she says, voice level.

Another flash of those gold-green eyes. Another slash across my carefully built walls.

Rowan smirks between us. “Play nice, boys and girls.”

She strolls off to wrangle another crew.

I face Evie fully then, tension humming beneath my skin.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I say low.

She lifts her chin. “Maybe I wanted to.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “Since when?”

“Since I needed something to point a lens at that wasn’t a box of my mother’s regrets.”

Blunt. That’s the Evie I remember.

I nod once. “Stay out of the rigging zones. And watch the east stairs—they’re warped.”

“Copy that, Harbor Master,” she says, with a bite of sarcasm that shouldn’t make my blood heat the way it does.

I watch her move off through the crowd, camera raised like a shield.

Damn her.

Distance, Thalen. You promised yourself.

But fate’s already circling like a hungry tide.

And I know better than anyone—when the tide wants you back, you don’t get to fight it.