Page 6 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

I like fixing things.

Wood, rope, iron—when something’s broken, there’s a rhythm to putting it right again. A sequence, logic. You set your hands to the task, and the rest of the world slips quiet for a while.

Would that people were as simple.

“Damn weather’s got the shutters near falling off,” Old Man Cass grumbles beside me, gnarled fingers pointing to the crooked frame above his shack window.

The old dryad smells of seaweed and pipe smoke, skin rough as driftwood, eyes sharp as ever.

“It’ll hold,” I tell him. “I’ll reinforce it after I fix the hinge.”

Cass grunts. “Wasn’t asking, boy. You’re doin’ it.”

I huff a laugh and crouch beside the bin of tools. The morning air is thick with the promise of another storm—not that Cass minds. He’s been here longer than half the council combined, and no amount of weather scares him.

As I pull the rusted hinge free and fit a new one, he watches me from his rickety stool, pipe clamped between his teeth.

“You see her yet?” he asks after a beat.

I don’t need to ask who. Everyone is prying at me about her.

“I ran into her,” I say evenly.

Cass hums, eyes crinkling. “Bet that was a sight.”

I don’t answer.

He chuckles. “Storm comin’ in more ways than one.”

The hinge clicks into place with a satisfying snap. I straighten and test the shutter—it swings smoothly now.

“There,” I say. “Good as new.”

Cass leans back, pipe smoke curling around his head. “Ain’t no shame in wantin’ things fixed that don’t have hinges.”

I meet his gaze, voice low. “Some things break beyond fixing.”

He grins, slow and knowing. “Not if both sides bend a little.”

Before I can argue, a familiar voice cuts through the salt-heavy air.

“Cass? Aeron?”

I turn.

Evie stands a few paces off, camera bag slung across her back, wind teasing stray strands of hair across her face.

Something sharp twists in my chest.

“Rowan sent me,” she says. “They need someone to check the old lighthouse lock for the history tour tonight. Guess who pulled the short straw.”

Cass snorts. “And guess who’s the only one with the key,” he says, jerking his thumb at me.

I arch a brow. “You volunteering?”

Evie crosses her arms. “If by volunteering you mean ‘being guilt-tripped into it,’ sure.”

Cass wheezes a laugh. “You two can handle it. Storm’s not due ‘til after sundown.”

His gaze lingers on us both, eyes twinkling with mischief.

I sigh and fish the lighthouse key from my belt. “Come on.”

Evie hesitates, then falls into step beside me as we head down the weathered path toward the cliffs.

The lighthouse looms ahead—a skeletal sentinel against the gray sky, paint peeling, windows shuttered tight.

Most folks avoid it.

Too many ghosts and many old stories.

The wind picks up as we reach the door. I slot the key into the ancient lock, muscles tight against the familiar weight of her presence beside me.

“You sure you’re up for this?” I ask quietly.

Her mouth lifts—half a smirk, half defiance. “You afraid I’ll break?”

“No,” I say. “Afraid you’ll bolt.”

Her eyes flash, but she says nothing.

I push the door open with a groan of rusted hinges.

Inside, the air is cooler, damp with stone and old salt.

Dust motes swirl in thin shafts of light cutting through the grime-streaked windows. The spiral staircase coils upward, each iron step slick with age.

Evie moves ahead of me, camera out, snapping a few shots.

“You used to hate this place,” I murmur.

She glances back, smile brittle. “I used to hate a lot of things.”

I watch her ascend a few steps, hips swaying with unconscious grace.

Damn woman.

I follow, boots echoing in the narrow space. Halfway up, she pauses, breathless.

“Stairs suck more than I remember,” she mutters.

“Getting old?” I tease.

Her glare is pure fire. “Careful, Harbor Master.”

I smile—real and sharp. “Noted.”

We climb in silence for a stretch, the tension between us a living thing.

Near the top, the wind howls through a cracked pane, rattling loose glass.

Evie presses a palm to the rail, knuckles white.

“You okay?” I ask, voice low.

She exhales slowly. “Fine. Just... tight space.”

“You want out, say the word.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, guarded. “Since when do you worry about that?”

I take a step closer—close enough to feel her heat, the faint tremor in her breath.

“Since you walked back into town like a storm.”

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

Then her hand lifts—half-reaching, fingers brushing the seam of my jacket.

My pulse kicks hard. Her eyes darken—gold and green, fierce and vulnerable.

I lean in, slow, giving her every chance to pull away.

She doesn’t.

Our mouths hover—barely a breath apart.

A shiver rakes through me. Years of restraint, of buried want, strain like a taut rope ready to snap.

Suddenly, CRACK.

A thunderclap shatters the moment, rattling the tower.

Evie jerks back, breath sharp.

I curse under my breath.

“Storm’s moving faster,” I say, voice rough. “We should go.”

She nods—too fast. “Yeah. Good idea.”

We descend in tense silence, footfalls swallowed by the gathering wind.

Outside, the sky churns—thick with bruised clouds.

Without a word, I shrug off my coat and drape it over her shoulders.

She stiffens, then sighs. “Thanks.”

We walk the path back toward town side by side, not touching, not speaking.

But every step burns with what almost happened.

Or still could .

When we reach her street, I pause.

“You’ll be safe here,” I say quietly.

She meets my gaze, stormlight flickering in her eyes.

“I can take care of myself,” she says. But she doesn’t move, like she expects me to lead her anyway.

I nod once. “I know.”

Then I turn and walk away—before I do something neither of us is ready for.

Not yet.

But the tide is rising fast.

And some storms can’t be outrun.