Page 30 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

M orning light spills slow and golden across the floorboards of her mother’s old beach house, curling through the gauzy curtains like it’s got nowhere else to be.

There’s a hush here I don’t get anywhere else, not even on the docks at dawn or in the belly of the trawler when the engine’s off and the tide’s right.

This hush feels like truth—like something sacred and too fragile to name out loud.

She’s pressed into my side, warm and still and real in that unguarded way that only comes in the seconds before the day officially begins.

And me? I’m just lying here, arm tucked around her, heart beating steady for maybe the first damn time in years.

I don’t breathe heavy. I don’t move. I just let it be.

Because this is the part no one tells you about—the morning after clarity that doesn’t come like lightning or fireworks, but like this quiet bloom of peace where nothing’s perfect but everything’s exactly right.

She stirs a little, lets out a sound that’s half sigh, half growl.

“You awake?” I ask, voice low, gravel-rough.

She shifts, nose brushing against my collarbone. “Unfortunately.”

I chuckle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Could’ve used another hour,” she mumbles, then tilts her head just enough to meet my gaze. “But you’re warm, so I’ll forgive it.”

We lie there a while longer, saying nothing, just listening to the creak of the rafters and the gulls outside doing their usual bitching over who owns what piece of shoreline.

The ocean’s a steady hush in the background, like it’s trying to lull us back to sleep.

Her fingers tap against my chest, slow and rhythmic, like she’s tracing invisible lines only she can see.

Eventually, she slides out from under the blanket, tugging my flannel shirt over her tank top and padding barefoot into the kitchen. I sit up slow, rubbing the sleep from my face, and follow the smell of coffee like a moth to flame.

She’s leaning against the counter when I walk in, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug, her hair a mess, her eyes soft in a way that floors me. Not just sleepy—unguarded. Like all the fight’s been replaced with something quieter.

“Do you ever think about what this looks like,” she says, not as a question but as a nudge, “I mean... after?”

I take the other mug, sip slow. “After what?”

She shrugs. “After the festival. After the lanterns and the late-night porch talks and the convenient excuses to stay.”

I set the cup down. “Yeah. I do.”

“And?” she asks, voice careful now.

“And it looks like this,” I say. “You. Me. Mornings that start in beds that aren’t borrowed.

Coffee made just the way you like it, even if you change it every other week.

You running out at dumb hours to catch weird fog light on a pier.

Me hauling crab lines or patching docks and still getting back in time to eat with you. ”

She watches me, jaw tense, but there’s something else behind it—hope, maybe.

“That simple?”

I nod. “If we let it be.”

She leans in, nudges my foot with hers. “You really think we can blend it?”

“I don’t think we blend it,” I say. “I think we build it. New. From scratch. With all our messy edges showing.”

Her mouth twitches into a crooked smile. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

“Worth it,” I say without hesitation.

She looks down into her mug, then up again. “You sure? I come with cameras and mood swings and occasional flights of irrational rage.”

I grin. “I come with boats, barnacles, and a deeply repressed emotional spectrum.”

She laughs—loud, full, unfiltered. It echoes off the beams and settles somewhere in my chest like a promise.

“Okay,” she says after a beat. “Then I guess we build it.”

I cross the kitchen, press a hand against the curve of her back, and kiss her like it’s an agreement.

Not an ending, but a beginning.

She pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against mine. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt and her breath is warm against my cheek. “You think Jamie’ll approve of us shacking up?”

I snort. “Jamie thinks I’m part pirate and part sea monster. Pretty sure I’ve already won his heart.”

She smirks. “True. He did draw you with tentacles.”

“High praise.” I press a kiss to her temple. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever this is. Whatever it becomes.”

“Even if it gets messy?”

“Especially then.”

The kettle whistles low and she shifts to pour the rest of the water into the French press. Steam curls up between us, and for a second I just stand there watching her. This woman who’s turned my world inside out without trying. Who’s stayed. Who chose this.

And damn, if that doesn’t wreck me in the best way possible.

Outside, the town is waking. Boats creaking against their moorings. Shop signs being flipped. Life rolling forward like it always does. But inside this old, imperfect kitchen, everything feels new.

Everything feels like ours.

The boardwalk feels different now. Not just newer, not just repaired. It’s deeper than fresh planks and sturdy bolts. It feels lived in again—earned. The kind of place where things start and restart, slow and sure. The kind of place that remembers.

The lanterns sway low above us, their light golden and gentle, catching on the curve of her cheek as we walk side by side.

Her hand is warm in mine, fingers laced like she’s always known how to fit there.

There’s no crowd now, just a few stragglers folding up tables, someone humming off-key near the coffee stall, and the sea whispering in that familiar rhythm only Lumera really understands.

She slows near the old mural by the docks—now repainted with bold blues and messy sea monsters Jamie swears he designed all by himself—and tilts her head, taking in the glow of the paper lights above it.

I catch her profile in the lantern glow, her lashes shadowing the soft curve of her cheek, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so still.

Not because she’s hesitating.

But because she doesn’t need to rush anymore.

We keep walking, no need for words for a while, just the sound of our boots on wood and the distant hush of water brushing against the pylons below.

Then, quiet, like she’s saying something sacred, she murmurs, “This is our sequel.”

It hits me harder than anything else has all week.

Not a new chapter. Not an ending. Not even a beginning. A sequel.

Something that comes after the hard stuff, after the fight, after the part where most people would’ve stopped.

I squeeze her hand. “And we’ll write it slow.”

She smiles then—not wide, not performative, but soft and real, the kind of smile you don’t give unless it’s earned—and leans her head against my shoulder.

We keep walking, past the tide wall, past the last few flickering lanterns, until it’s just the sound of our footsteps and the sea and this breath between us that feels more like a promise than anything else.

No rush, no fear.

Just us.

Writing slow.