Page 26 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

T he ship sculpture looks worse than I remember.

I stand there, hands on my hips, staring at it like it personally offended me.

Which, maybe, it has. The thing’s half collapsed from winter storms, its masts listing like old bones, and someone’s wrapped caution tape around the keel like that’s gonna stop it from giving up and crumbling into driftwood.

“This is what they want rebuilt by tomorrow?” I mutter.

Drokhaz grunts beside me, dragging out a bucket of replacement bolts. “Festival finale. Council says it’s tradition.”

“Tradition’s gonna need a tetanus shot.”

Still, I roll up my sleeves.

The thing was originally carved by Theo Garren in the '70s—old woodworker, no kids, eyes like drift ice. He built it for his wife, who died before she ever saw it finished. A replica of the schooner they met on. Every line of it’s a love letter written in pine and patience.

I don’t believe in fairy tales, but I respect a man who carves his grief into art and nails it to the ground.

We start hauling fresh lumber up from the shed behind the museum. The gulls scream overhead, indignant, and the sun’s got that sharp edge—bright, but not warm yet. I work in silence, letting the rhythm of tools and breath and old wood take the edge off the noise in my chest.

By noon, we’ve braced the bow and re-rigged the mainline. Sweat’s drying on my neck, and my shoulder’s starting to bark, but it feels good. Real. Like putting your hands on something broken and doing more than just hoping it holds.

I’m tightening the final lashing when I feel her.

Not see. Not hear.

Feel.

Like the air changes weight.

I glance up.

Evie stands just beyond the rope fence, camera in hand, hair braided back but wild at the edges like the wind can’t help itself. She’s got that grin—the one that says she knows exactly what she walked into and she’s not sorry about it.

“You planning to flex your way through the whole repair, or should I come back when it’s decent?” she calls.

My mouth twitches. “You’re the one holding the camera. Feels like a trap.”

She steps closer, already snapping a few wide shots. “You work well with old wood.”

“It listens better than people.”

“Doesn’t talk back, either.”

I glance at her, one brow raised. “You calling yourself difficult?”

“I’m calling myself impossible,” she says. “But you knew that.”

I chuckle. “Wouldn’t want you any other way.”

The words come easier now. Still low. Still slow. But without the barbed wire behind them. She walks around the bow, circling, and I keep my hands busy just to keep from reaching out.

She stops just shy of the stern, lowering the camera. “You always this good at fixing things?”

I grab a rag. “Only the ones worth fixing.”

Our eyes lock. Long enough that something quiet and hot curls in my gut.

She’s close now. Not quite touching. Just… near.

“You sweat pretty,” she says, and the smirk on her lips is pure trouble.

I lean against the railing. “You flirtin’ with me, Eves?”

She pretends to think about it. “I mean, the view’s decent.”

“Decent?”

“Fine,” she says, stepping closer. “Better than decent. Top tier. Possibly swoon-worthy.”

I tilt my head. “You don’t strike me as the swooning type.”

“I’m not,” she says, her voice low now. “But I make exceptions.”

The air goes still between us. Not tense. Just… charged. Like the moment before thunder.

I watch her eyes flick to my hands, to the line of my jaw, then back.

“You came for pictures,” I say, because it’s the only thing I trust myself to say right now.

She lifts the camera. “I came for you.”

That one lands.

Hard.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Just… feel it.

Let it settle in a part of me I’ve kept bricked up too long.

She lowers the camera again, softer now. “I like this version of you. The one that doesn’t run from being seen.”

“You’re the only one I ever wanted to see me.”

Silence again, but it’s warm this time.

Full.

“Show me the deck,” she says suddenly, playful again.

I blink. “What?”

“I wanna photograph the railing,” she says, brushing past me. “From up top. Dramatic angles. Sexy lumber.”

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, climbing up behind her.

“You said that already.”

And God help me, I think I said it because it’s the only way to explain why I’m smiling like a fool and not bothering to stop.

Drokhaz returns just as Evie’s heading off toward the tide line, claiming “better light,” but throwing a wink over her shoulder that leaves heat crawling up the back of my neck.

He watches her go, then looks at me.

Then he smirks. “You look lighter these days.”

I raise an eyebrow, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Lighter?”

He gestures vaguely. “You used to walk around like the whole damn dock owed you money. Now you’ve got that soft-eyed look. Like someone fed you hope for breakfast.”

I grunt, but the smile’s already tugging at the corner of my mouth. I don’t bother fighting it.

“Maybe I do feel lighter,” I admit, voice low.

“Doesn’t look bad on you,” Drokhaz says, grabbing a wrench and tightening the rig on the stern post like we didn’t just say something real.

I watch him for a second, then look out toward the water.

The sun’s burning off the last of the fog, lighting up the old ship sculpture like it was never broken. Wind catches the newly hung flags. Laughter echoes from the vendor booths. Somewhere, a bell chimes.

And there’s Evie, standing on a slope of wet sand, camera at her hip, wind tugging at her braid, laughing at something Jamie shouts from behind a crab trap.

Yeah, I feel it.

Lighter.

Like maybe I’ve finally stopped carrying the version of myself that expected everything to go wrong.

I nod to Drokhaz, quieter this time.

“Feels good.”

He claps me on the shoulder, nods once.

“Don’t lose it.”

I don’t plan to.