Page 66 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“Always,” I say. “But I won’t fight you for you.”
She closes her eyes. Just for a second.
She leans into me.
It’s not dramatic. Not a scene.
It’s just real.
Her forehead resting against my chest. Her breath warming the fabric of my shirt. My hand sliding up to the back of her neck, grounding us both.
“I’m scared,” she murmurs.
“I am too.”
“But I’m here,” she says.
And that’s enough.
For tonight.
For whatever comes next.
She pulls back just enough to look at me.
Her hand finds my wrist—light, but steady.
“I need to say this clearly,” she says. “So there’s no confusion. No ‘what ifs.’”
I nod, bracing. Every muscle in my chest feels like it’s wound tight, waiting for the crack.
“I’m staying,” she says.
I swallow, but my throat’s too dry to make it smooth.
She takes a breath, slow and deliberate. “Not for duty. Not for guilt. Not because I feel obligated or broken or because this town expects something from me.”
She leans in just a little more. Voice softer now, but fierce beneath it.
“I’m staying for me.”
The words drop like a stone in water—sharp, real, rippling through everything I didn’t even realize I was holding back.
And it’s like something inside me gives out.
Not like breaking.
Like I’ve been clenching my jaw for months and finally exhaled without it shaking.
My hand curls around hers. Just holding. Not gripping. Like if I squeeze too hard, this moment might shatter.
“You don’t have to be anything but who you are,” I say, voice low, gravel-dragged. “I don’t want a version of you shaped by weight you don’t want to carry.”
She searches my face, like she’s trying to make sure I mean it. Like maybe for the first time since I don’t remember when, someone actually does.
And then, just for a second, her shoulders drop. That tension she wears like armor? It lets go.
“I’m scared,” she whispers again.
