Page 27 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

T he final night of the festival creeps up slow and golden, stretching itself across Lumera like a promise it’s not sure it can keep.

There’s that soft kind of light hanging in the air—amber, almost syrupy—the kind that makes everything look like it’s been dipped in honey and nostalgia.

I wander down the boardwalk with my camera swinging lazily at my hip, stopping every few minutes to snap a frame of tangled kids in monster masks, hand-painted signs, or the crooked ship sculpture now proudly upright and glowing with string lights.

I haven’t been alone much lately.

Not in a way that feels uncomfortable, just… new.

Aeron’s become a constant, like breath, like tide. We orbit around each other so naturally now—coffee at dawn, quiet conversations on porch steps, his hand finding mine when he thinks no one’s watching—that I forget sometimes that this isn’t how it’s always been.

We’ve stopped pretending, and it feels terrifyingly good.

So of course, right when I’m starting to believe I could stay without falling apart, the universe decides to test that theory.

The call comes just past noon, while I’m crouched behind a pile of sea crates photographing the docks through a fishnet veil for some artsy layered effect that probably only makes sense to me and exactly three gallery nerds in the Pacific Northwest. I almost don’t answer, thinking it’s Rowan or Goff calling to beg for more help with the lantern setups.

But it’s not.

It’s Madison St. James—editor of Verdigris , one of the most brutally selective culture magazines still in print. Her voice is crisp, like she drinks exclusively from fluted glasses and hasn't tripped over a sidewalk crack in a decade.

“Evie,” she says, like the name alone tastes expensive. “We’ve seen your coastal series—the raw textures, the contrast work, the grit. You’ve got an eye. And we want to feature it.”

The world tilts a little. My spine goes stiff.

She keeps talking. About a full spread. An upcoming print issue. A commission. They want to fly me out next week for a sit-down. She throws out numbers. Mentions exclusivity. My name in print again.

I manage to thank her—twice—and promise to email tonight.

Then I hang up and sit in the sand behind the crates, like a fish dumped on shore, gasping around too much air.

Because this—this is the dream. Or it was. The kind of offer that people like me aren’t supposed to get more than once, and certainly not after they’ve ghosted the industry for months with nothing to show for it but weathered boots and photographs of washed-up driftwood.

But all I can think about is Aeron.

And the teal curtains.

Jamie’s monster map that’s still taped to my fridge.

By the time I get home, my chest feels like it’s been hollowed out with a spoon.

Rowan’s on the porch, stringing up old paper lanterns with one foot braced against the railing.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” she says without looking up.

“Magazine called,” I say, tossing my keys in the bowl near the door.

She stills. “ The magazine?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, just lets the silence stretch until it starts to ache.

“Big deal,” she says finally.

“Massive.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.” I sink into the porch swing. “It’s everything I wanted.”

Rowan sits beside me, hands wrapped around her knees. “Is it still?”

That’s the question: is it?

Because once, I would’ve burned whole cities for that call.

I would’ve sold my spine to the nearest gallery, just to feel wanted by something sharp and shiny and cold.

And now, here I am, sitting in a sun-drenched town with my heart tied up in sea breeze and a man who builds things with his hands instead of breaking them—and I don’t know if that old want fits anymore.

Aeron finds me later near the bluff, camera forgotten in my lap, my legs pulled up like I’m trying to make myself smaller.

“Hey,” he says, low, rough. “Heard you got a call.”

I don’t answer right away. Just nod.

He crouches in front of me, arms resting on his knees, those storm-gray eyes locked on mine.

“You gonna take it?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

He doesn’t press.

Just waits.

And something in that—his stillness, his silence, the lack of panic in his eyes—makes me want to cry.

“You’re not mad?” I ask.

He huffs out a breath that sounds more like a laugh. “I want you here. That hasn’t changed. But I want you happy more.”

“I don’t even know what that looks like anymore,” I admit.

He reaches up, brushes his thumb against my cheek. “Then maybe you let yourself figure it out. And if that means going for a while, I’ll still be here.”

That breaks me.

Not because it’s what I expected, but because it’s what I didn’t.

I nod, trying to hold it together.

“Okay,” I say.

But even as I say it, my fingers itch to reach for his.

Because maybe I don’t want to go, I just need to know I could .

And right now, that might be enough.

Later, when the festival lights have dimmed to a warm flicker and the last of the vendors are sweeping up popcorn and bottle caps, I find Jamie curled up on a bench near the ship sculpture, his head resting against a rolled-up hoodie and one shoe missing.

“Hey,” I whisper, crouching beside him. “Your mom’s looking for you.”

He blinks up at me, eyes glassy but awake. “I was just resting.”

“You asleep?”

“No,” he says, then yawns like a traitor. “Maybe.”

I sit down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with leftover sugar and ocean cold.

For a while, we just sit.

Then he says, quietly, “Why do stories have to end?”

I look at him, and he’s watching the sky like maybe the stars will answer first.

“Because... if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be stories,” I say carefully.

“But what if it’s a good one?” he asks, frowning. “What if it’s the kind you wanna keep reading forever?”

My chest tightens.

“I think,” I say slowly, “good stories don’t end. Not really. They just... change chapters.”

He mulls that over. “Like... they grow up?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Exactly like that.”

He turns to me, lips quirking. “So are you in a new chapter now?”

I feel it then—that strange, warm clarity that sneaks in through the cracks when your guard is down. The kind that doesn’t arrive in grand gestures or phone calls from New York, but in quiet benches and questions from kids who haven’t learned how to be scared of the answers yet.

“I think I am,” I say.

Jamie nods solemnly, then leans into my arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Good. I like this one better.”

And just like that, something inside me lets go.

Not everything.

Just enough to make room for what comes next.