Page 7 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

T he sky’s been itching to break all day.

I can feel it in the walls—plaster hairline-cracked and humming with the weight of pressure. The kind of storm that doesn’t just wash things clean. The kind that digs in, claws at the edges of things you thought were long buried.

Perfect timing.

I’m pacing the living room like a caged thing, wine glass untouched on the table, when the lights flicker once... twice... then hold steady.

For now.

I eye the attic stairs. One box left. Personal—Private.

Of course.

Because if this house has taught me anything in the last few days, it’s that no ghost goes quietly.

I drag the box down, breath shallow, heart already tight. Dust billows out with a scent that hits sharp—salt and old roses and the faintest trace of sandalwood. My mother’s scent, long faded.

I sit cross-legged on the worn rug, fingers numb as I untie the brittle ribbon.

Photos. Jewelry. A silk scarf I remember tangling in my hair at six.

And some letters.

Bundled tight, ink faded to pale gray veins on soft paper.

The top one marked simply: To A.T.

The breath I suck in is sharp enough to cut.

A.T.

Not could be anyone . Not now.

The scrawl on the flap is unmistakable—my mother’s.

For you, when you miss me most.

My hands shake as I slide the letter free.

The words swim as I read:

Dearest A.,

Sometimes I think of that night on the cliffs and wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed. You made me believe in forever—no small feat. But forever is a cruel weight when you’re human. And so I ran.

Please forgive the cowardice. Some loves burn too bright to survive the daylight.

I hope, someday, you find someone brave enough to stay.

Yours, always—S.

I stare at it like it might combust in my fingers.

Of course. Of course .

History’s ugly little loop tightening its noose.

Aeron’s uncle. My mother. A human and an elf. One who stayed. One who ran.

Sound familiar?

My stomach knots, sour and sharp.

Because this is how it happens.

Want. Fear. Bolt.

I shove the letter back in the box like it burns.

The wind howls against the glass, the first fat drops spitting against the window panes.

I’m on my feet before I realize it, pacing hard. Breath coming too fast.

I won’t do it. Won’t be that. Won’t be her.

The lights flicker again.

And then die.

A crack of thunder so loud it rattles the house to its bones.

I curse, grab my phone—5% battery and no bars. Typical.

I fumble my way to the breaker box, flashlight app sputtering weakly.

“Come on,” I mutter, flipping switches. “Don’t you dare.”

The storm’s full tilt now—rain hammering the roof, wind shoving against the siding hard enough to make the whole place shiver.

I’m elbow-deep in stubborn old wiring when a sharp knock slices through the noise.

Then a voice, rough and steady through the downpour:

“Evie—it’s me.”

My pulse trips over itself.

I yank the door open, rain slamming sideways into the house.

Aeron stands there, soaked through, silver hair dark and slick, sea-glass eyes near glowing in the stormlight.

He fills the doorway like something summoned—too big, too steady, too close.

“Your power’s out,” he says, voice deep and rough-edged. “Saw the line spark. Thought you might need a hand.”

I cross my arms, heart hammering. “Didn’t think you made house calls.”

He arches a brow, water dripping from his jaw. “Storm’s nasty. Couldn’t walk by knowing you were sitting in the dark.”

Dammit.

I step back, chin tilted. “Breaker’s being a bastard. Be my guest.”

He brushes past me, heat rolling off him in waves.

And gods help me—I lean toward it, traitorous body and all.

He crouches by the breaker, long fingers moving sure and steady through the wires.

“Old system,” he mutters. “Storm probably knocked the main. Might need a full replacement.”

I pace behind him, arms tight across my chest.

Of all the nights.

His voice cuts through the air again, quieter this time.

“You okay?”

I bark a laugh—sharp and bitter. “Peachy.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I freeze. Then force the words out through clenched teeth.

“Maybe I have.”

He rises, turning slow, eyes scanning me like he can read every frayed edge.

“What happened?”

I hesitate, throat tight.

Then shove the box sideways with my foot.

“Found a letter,” I bite out. “From my mother. To your uncle.”

Shock flickers in his gaze. “What did it say?”

“That she ran,” I snap. “That she couldn’t stay. Sound familiar?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I’m not him.”

“And I’m not her.”

The words come fast, hot.

“But this? You and me? It’s the same damn pattern.”

“Is it?” he says, voice low and dark.

“Yeah,” I hiss. “You stay. I run. We break things that can’t be fixed.”

He steps closer—close enough that the air hums sharp between us.

“I don’t think that’s what this is.”

I snort. “Spare me the fairy tale.”

“Evie—” His tone roughens. “You gonna keep running?”

“I don’t know how to stay.”

There it is. Ugly and raw and too damn true.

His gaze softens, mouth a breath from mine.

“Then let me show you.”

The words burn through me—wild, reckless, terrifying.

And when he leans in, slow and sure, I don’t pull away.

Our mouths meet fierce, breathless—salt and want and years of ache crashing in a tidal wave.

My hands fist in his soaked shirt, his arms band around me hard enough to shake the storm from my bones.

The kiss isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. It’s all teeth and gasps and tangled need.

I taste the sea on him. Feel the heat of him pressed to every sharp angle of me.

And for a long, wild moment—I don’t care about history. Don’t care about patterns.

Just this. Him.

Too soon, reality claws back in.

The lights flicker once, then buzz back weakly to life.

I jerk back, breath ragged.

“Aeron—”

He lets me go slow, hands falling away with a rough exhale.

“No regrets,” he says, voice hoarse.

I nod, heart hammering. “No regrets.”

But some patterns don’t break easy.

And I’m not sure if this one will either.