Page 49 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
I suck in a breath.
“That I’ll never figure out how to love someone without wrecking it.”
His eyes don’t leave mine.
“I don’t need perfect, Evie,” he says. “I just needhonest.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
Suddenly, like gravity doesn’t apply—his hand slides across the bench and wraps around mine. His grip is firm. Grounding. No expectations. No performance. Just heat and steadiness and a promise not spoken, only felt.
My heart stumbles.
We sit there, quiet, the wheel rocking gently in the breeze, the whole world spilling gold and lavender around us. I can feel every point of contact—his fingers curled around mine, the pulse in his wrist, the warmth bleeding from his skin to mine like an anchor.
I rest my head lightly on his shoulder.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe differently.
Just lets me lean.
And for once, I don’t feel like I’m falling.
I feel held.
CHAPTER 18
AERON
The drawer fights me.
Wood swollen from years of salt air and second thoughts, it scrapes open like it’s warning me. I kneel in front of it anyway, fingertips dragging along the edges like I’m handling something alive. Which, in a way, I am.
Inside, the past.
Not metaphorical—literal. Torn corners of letters never sent. Ticket stubs from that lighthouse concert series Evie used to drag me to. A lock of baby-fine hair wrapped in thread. Photos, warped from time and humidity. Her handwriting, too casual to be careless, sprawled on the back of a coaster I once carried in my wallet until the ink bled clean off.
And tonight, something new.
A photograph.
Unframed. No note. Just left quietly in the pocket of my coat like a dare she didn’t want to voice.
It’s of me—unaware, profile half-shadowed, the docks behind me a blur of grays and soft light. I’m not looking at the camera. I’m not looking at anything, really. Caught mid-thought. There’s tension in my shoulders. Lines near my eyes I hadn’t noticed before. I look older. Harder. Still.
But also… rooted. Present.
Like someone who hasn’t run in a long time.
I trace the edge with my thumb. Then, without hesitation, I set it on top of the pile.
The drawer could close. I could let it. But instead I just sit there, heels planted on the old hardwood floor, listening to the storm brewing inside my own ribs.
There was a time I thought I’d burn all of it.
