Page 11 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“This.”
She looked up then—eyes wide and wild, lashes wet with sea mist.
I remember reaching out—slow, careful, giving her room to run.
She didn’t. Not at first.
But when I brushed a knuckle down her cheek, her breath caught, fingers curled hard around that damn camera strap.
And at the last second, she turned.
And vanished.
Next morning, the house was empty. No note. No goodbye.
Just gone.
The hammer stills mid-swing, breath sawing rough in my chest.
Fifteen years and that scar still bleeds when I least expect it.
I drive the last bolt home harder than I should, the crack echoing across the empty dock.
Closure. That’s all I need. Or so I keep telling myself.
But the lie tastes bitter tonight.
Because deep down, I’m not sure I want her to leave again.
By the time I pack up, twilight’s surrendered to full darkness.
The boardwalk glows faint ahead—lanterns flickering like low stars.
Voices drift through the air—music, the clink of glasses, Rowan’s laugh cutting sharp through the softer hum.
I skirt the edge of the crowd, boots whispering over weathered planks, not ready to face her.
But fate’s never been kind that way.
“Harbor Master.”
The voice is soft, low.
I stop cold.
Turn.
She’s there—standing beneath a lantern pool, camera strap loose, hair slipping free in sea-damp waves.
“Missed a hell of a sunset,” she says.
My voice comes out rougher than I mean. “Busy.”
She nods once, unreadable. “Figured.”
For a breathless moment, the space between us hums—thick with everything unsaid.
“You—” I start, then clamp my jaw.
