Page 8 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

I should leave.

But my boots are still by the door, and she hasn’t told me to go.

And the house around us hums low, like it remembers storms older than either of us.

The wind claws at the siding, rain slamming down in sheets. Every few seconds, lightning veins across the windows, throwing flickers of pale light over the worn floors and faded walls.

She lights another candle with shaking fingers, the small flame trembling almost as much as she does.

And when her eyes finally meet mine—wide, raw, something brittle in them—I know I’m not going anywhere.

Not tonight.

“You sure you want me here?” I ask, voice low.

She swallows hard. Nods. “Yeah.”

Good enough.

I help her set more candles around the living room—on the mantle, the coffee table, an overturned crate by the window.

The house smells of old wood and sea-damp fabric, the faintest ghost of her mother’s perfume still clinging to the faded curtains.

And beneath it all—her.

Salt and rain and something sharper, something that sinks under your skin and stays.

I roll my shoulders back, shake the water from my hair. “Breaker’s shot,” I say. “You’ll need it replaced. Maybe the whole panel.”

She snorts softly. “Add it to the list.”

But her voice is thin around the edges.

I cross the room, crouch near the hearth. The old firebox is cold, the stack of wood beside it half-rotted. Still, I find a few dry pieces beneath and set them in place.

Strike a match. Watch it catch.

The small blaze grows slow but steady, shadows warping across the floor.

“Better,” I murmur.

She hugs her knees to her chest, watching the flames.

“Storm like this brings out the worst in this place,” she says, voice rough. “Always has.”

I glance at her. “You used to love storms.”

Her mouth twists. “I used to love a lot of things.”

I lower myself to the floor beside her, lean back against the couch. The wood behind me groans under the wind’s assault.

“I get that,” I say quietly.

She turns her head, lashes dark against pale skin.

“Yeah?”

I nod once. “After my father died... I hated the sea for a long time.”

Her brows draw together. “But you... the docks, the harbor?—”

“All a way to take it back,” I say. “To control what I could.”

She’s silent a moment, gaze flickering over my face like she’s trying to see behind the words.

And hell, maybe I want her to.

“Why’d you stay?” she asks softly.

My throat tightens. “My grandmother.”

She tilts her head.

“She raised me after everything fell apart,” I say, voice rough. “Kept me steady when I wanted to drift.”

I stare into the fire, watching it claw its way up the logs.

“She wanted to see me happy. Wanted me to build a life here. And for a while... I thought maybe I would.”

Her breath catches. “And then I left.”

I glance at her.

“You broke more than one heart that day, Evie,” I say. “Mine included.”

Her shoulders hunch. “I didn’t know...”

“I know.”

I lean my head back, eyes closing for a moment. The wind shrieks through the eaves, the house shuddering under it.

“But knowing doesn’t change what it cost.”

She lets out a slow, ragged breath.

“I’m tired of running,” she whispers.

I open my eyes. Watch her.

“You can stop,” I say.

She laughs, bitter and low. “It’s not that simple.”

“Maybe not. But you’re here. That’s a start.”

“Will you stay? Just tonight.”

I look at her, candlelight gilding her face, eyes open and raw in a way that hits me dead center.

I nod. “Yeah.”

The couch is too damn small.

We end up side by side, legs tangled beneath the blanket she pulls from the old cedar chest.

She tugs her damp sweatshirt off, leaving a thin tee beneath. I strip off my soaked shirt too, muscles stiff with cold, breath steaming faintly in the chill air.

“Clothes on,” she mutters, voice tight.

“Of course,” I say softly.

I settle back, let her curl into me slow—like testing if I’ll vanish.

I don’t.

She rests her head against my chest, fingers fisting in the hem of my tee like a lifeline.

And for a long time, we just breathe.

The storm rages outside, but in here, there’s only the snap of the fire and the soft sound of her breath.

Her heartbeat thuds against my ribs—fast at first, then slower, steadier.

I rest my chin atop her head, close my eyes.

It’s been a long damn time, but I feel something ease loose inside me.

Something I’d buried so deep I thought it was gone.

Hope.

Sometime in the small hours, I wake to the hush of a world washed clean.

The rain’s eased to a soft patter, the wind a tired sigh.

The fire’s a faint red glow, shadows long and stretching.

But the space beside me is cold.

I blink, sit up.

The blanket’s folded. The room’s empty.

She’s gone.

I rise, stiff, heart twisting sharp and low.

No note. No sound.

Just gone.

Again.

I stand there a long moment, staring at the empty couch, fists clenched at my sides.

Then I pull my shirt on slow, breath rough.

Because some storms don’t break things.

Some storms reveal what was already cracked beneath the surface.

And I don’t know yet if this one’s done with us.

Not by a damn sight.