Page 44 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
The bonfire smoke snakes through the wind like it’s trying to hang on to something. Salt clings to the inside of my throat, and the shore’s restless—waves slapping against the jetty like they’re pissed off or just drunk on the moon. The stars are brighter tonight. Or maybe I’m just finally looking.
Drokhaz is already posted up on the split driftwood bench near the edge of the boardwalk, a bottle of dark liquor in one hand and a scowl on his face like someone dared him to feel anything and he didn’t take kindly to it. His coat’s thrown over the armrest, tattoos catching the firelight beneath the sleeves of his shirt like faded warnings.
I settle down next to him, the wood groaning under our combined weight. The bench smells like mildew and ash and summer sweat. It fits the mood.
“You brought the good stuff,” I say.
He grunts. “You look like you needed it.”
I take the bottle. It’s heavy. Honest. No label—just glass and heat and bad decisions.
One swig. Then another.
It burns down my chest like penance.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks without looking at me.
“No.”
“Want to pretend I didn’t ask?”
“Definitely.”
He nods once, easy. We sit like that a while, the wind cutting sharp along the boardwalk. Seagulls scream like banshees further down the docks. Somewhere behind us, laughter bubbles from the tavern patio—muffled, rowdy, alive.
I feel none of it.
“She saw you at the poetry thing,” Drokhaz says after a beat.
“I know.”
“She stayed after.”
“I know that, too.”
He takes the bottle back and downs his own punishment. “Still didn’t say it, huh?”
“She doesn’t have to.”
“But you want her to.”
I stare at the ocean. It’s blacker than ink and twice as cruel. Lantern lights from the festival shimmer on the surface, like the sea’s trying on jewelry it knows it can’t keep.
“Doesn’t matter what I want,” I mutter.
“Sure it does. Just not as much as what you’re willing to fight for.”
I don’t answer.
He leans forward, elbows on knees. “You think loving her means fixing her. But it doesn’t. It just means staying. Even when it hurts. Especially then.”
My jaw tightens. “I’vebeenstaying.”
“You’ve been hovering,” he corrects. “Like a lighthouse with the light turned off.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because he’s not wrong.
