Page 55 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“We’re not delaying. We’re evaluating,” I say, voice flat. “That contract opens our ports to syndicate control. You think the profits outweigh the price. I don’t.”
There’s a hush, heavy and tight.
Dimmitt adjusts his spectacles like the weight of my words is inconvenient. “You’re letting old wounds blind you to progress.”
“No. I remember what happened the last time we handed off our docks. Half our seaweed fields turned toxic from unregulated dredging. The council apologized with a commemorative plaque.”
Across the table, Rowan offers the faintest nod. Her support isn’t loud, but it never has to be.
Dimmitt huffs. “We’ll revisit the vote next session. But Harbor Master—Lowtide can’t afford sentimentality.”
I don’t bother responding. I’ve learned not to waste breath in rooms that mistake control for leadership.
Outside, the coastal wind hits like a balm. Briny and real. It carries gull cries and the faint whistle of a crab skiff returning from a pre-dawn haul. Drokhaz follows me toward the trucks parked along the edge of the bluff, the gravel crunching beneath our boots.
“You want me to trip him next time he says ‘sustainable freight’ like a threat?” Drokhaz offers, voice dry as low tide.
“Only if you want to give the council a heart attack.”
“They’d call it a strategic disruption.” He hands me a thermos—coffee, still hot. “You look like a man who wants to throw that council table into the sea.”
“I want a dock that doesn’t answer to men who’ve never hauled a net,” I mutter.
Drokhaz claps me on the back, then peels off toward the shipyard offices. I head for the south pier.
The sky is still low and silvered with morning mist, the sun only beginning to burn through. The scent of diesel, salt, and sun-baked wood wraps around me like memory. A skiff hums in the distance. Gull feathers drift in the air like soft falling ash.
And then I see her.
Evie.
Kneeling at Dock 3, camera up, eyes squinting through the lens. The morning light catches in her hair, making it a shadebrighter than it ever looks indoors. Her boots are braced against the warped wood of the dock, and her whole body moves with intention—focused, certain.
She’s photographing Marley and Goff, who are hauling their nets onto the pier. The shrimps glisten under the early light, and their laughter rises like something ancient and free.
Evie says something I can’t hear, and Goff chuckles, throwing an exaggerated pose with a fish clutched in both hands. She clicks the shutter. The sound of it somehow louder than the lapping tide.
I walk closer. Can’t help myself.
“Didn’t peg you for a morning person,” I say.
She doesn’t startle. Just lowers the camera and smirks without looking at me.
“Didn’t peg you for a poetic lurker, but here we are.”
My mouth twitches. “You’re out early.”
She shrugs, brushing windblown hair out of her face. “Old men with nets make better models than brunch crowds.”
“Fair. They smell better too.”
Marley gives us a cheeky wink before dragging his cooler toward his battered truck. Goff nods at me, still beaming from the attention.
Evie stands, slinging the camera over her shoulder. The tide’s shifted enough to leave a ribbon of seaweed along the dock’s edge, and the air tastes like salt and rust.
“You always walk the docks when you’re stressed?” she asks.
“Only when I can’t punch someone,” I reply.
