Page 47 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
It starts with a prank, which should’ve been my first clue that the universe was gunning for me.
One minute I’m elbow-deep in a tray of sea-salt fudge samples, the next I’m being “coincidentally” escorted toward the Ferris wheel line by a sugar-high Jamie and a Rowan who’s smirking like the devil’s most well-read cousin.
“I swear,” I hiss as Rowan pushes me past the last row of food carts, “if this is some matchmaking setup?—”
“Relax,” she drawls. “It’s not matchmaking. It’sdivine intervention.”
Jamie bounces ahead of us in his monster mask, giggling like he knows a secret. Which he does. Because this whole thing reeks of collusion.
I see the ride before I see him.
The Ferris wheel is old. Real old. The kind of old that’s been patched with duct tape and held together by tradition, creaking with every turn like it’s whispering the town’s history under its breath. It stands against the twilight like a rusted crown, each gondola a different color faded from decades of sun and sea air. Tonight, the lights strung along its spine glow soft and golden—warm like fireflies trapped in glass.
The car waiting at the bottom is seafoam green, chipped at the edges, the paint curling like it’s trying to peel away from something it remembers.
Aeron’s already inside.
He’s leaning back with one arm stretched along the rail behind him, legs slightly apart, posture relaxed but unmistakably alert. His eyes catch mine like they always do—dark, storm-shadowed, too steady for how fast my chest starts tightening.
Of course it’s him.
Rowan gives me a little shove. Jamie giggles again, and before I can claw my way back to dignity, I’m stepping into the car like a woman walking willingly into her own undoing.
The wheel lurches into motion with a mechanical groan that sounds like it’s seen some things.
I settle into the seat beside Aeron, keeping a careful inch of space between us, like that’ll matter when the air’s already heavy with everything we haven’t said.
Neither of us talks as the ride lifts us slowly above the town.
Below, Lowtide Bluffs glows like a postcard—lanterns strung between booths swaying in the breeze, kids in painted faces darting through the crowd, the scent of fried dough, kettle corn, and ocean salt curling together into something achingly familiar. The lighthouse flashes in slow, sweeping intervals from the bluff’s edge, its glow a lazy metronome keeping time with the hush of the waves.
I stare out at the horizon, where the sky is bleeding out every shade of rose and fire. The sun’s sinking slow into the sea, smearing peach and gold across the clouds like the whole sky’s been kissed too hard.
“This was a setup,” I say after a long silence.
Aeron doesn’t even pretend otherwise. “Probably.”
I glance at him. “You in on it?”
He shrugs, watching the sky. “Didn’t fight it.”
“Why?”
“Felt like it might be the only way to get you to sit still.”
There’s a beat of silence where the air between us says more than either of us can.
The car rocks gently as we climb higher. The wind’s cooler up here, brushing across my skin like memory—salted and sweet and sharp at the edges. My hands are clenched in my lap. I don’t know what to do with them. Or with the ache blooming behind my ribs like a bruise I’d forgotten about.
“You look tired,” I say quietly.
He hums. “Been a long week.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“You look like you haven’t slept either.”
“Sleep’s overrated.”
