Page 22 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
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.
CHAPTER 8
AERON
Ishould 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.”
