Page 24 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“Will you stay? Just tonight.”
I look at her, candlelight gilding her face, eyes open and raw in a way that hits me dead center.
I nod. “Yeah.”
The couch is too damn small.
We end up side by side, legs tangled beneath the blanket she pulls from the old cedar chest.
She tugs her damp sweatshirt off, leaving a thin tee beneath. I strip off my soaked shirt too, muscles stiff with cold, breath steaming faintly in the chill air.
“Clothes on,” she mutters, voice tight.
“Of course,” I say softly.
I settle back, let her curl into me slow—like testing if I’ll vanish.
I don’t.
She rests her head against my chest, fingers fisting in the hem of my tee like a lifeline.
And for a long time, we just breathe.
The storm rages outside, but in here, there’s only the snap of the fire and the soft sound of her breath.
Her heartbeat thuds against my ribs—fast at first, then slower, steadier.
I rest my chin atop her head, close my eyes.
It’s been a long damn time, but I feel something ease loose inside me.
Something I’d buried so deep I thought it was gone.
Hope.
Sometime in the small hours, I wake to the hush of a world washed clean.
The rain’s eased to a soft patter, the wind a tired sigh.
The fire’s a faint red glow, shadows long and stretching.
But the space beside me is cold.
I blink, sit up.
The blanket’s folded. The room’s empty.
She’s gone.
I rise, stiff, heart twisting sharp and low.
No note. No sound.
Just gone.
Again.
I stand there a long moment, staring at the empty couch, fists clenched at my sides.
