Page 50 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
Build a fire behind the shed, toss it all in—every scribbled note and ghost-smudged picture—and watch the past go up like driftwood and dry pine.
But now…
I don’t want to forget.
Even if it hurts.
Because loving her was never about safety.
It was about staying.
And maybe that’s enough.
The town’s wearing her best tonight.
Festival lights stretch from the bell tower to the edge of the harbor, woven like vines through every pole and post. Lanterns in soft ocean hues swing overhead, casting moving shadows on the brick walkways and worn driftwood benches. There’s laughter—deep and real and everywhere—spilling from cider stands and music tents, kids running barefoot with caramel on their cheeks and salt in their hair.
I move through it like a ghost who hasn’t quite left. Hands in my pockets. Eyes tracking everything and nothing. Smiling when someone nods. Not stopping.
Until I see her.
She’s near the west end of the square, standing beneath one of the old sycamores that frame the poetry tent. The wind teases the hem of her shirt, and her hair’s down—untamed, tangled in sunset and mischief.
She’s laughing.
Not a soft smile or a forced laugh—laughing—head thrown back, the sound bright and open and fuckingreal.
Rowan stands next to her, one arm around Evie’s waist, gesturing dramatically with a cider bottle. Whatever she said just landed like a punchline, and Evie’s half-folded over from it, peach juice dripping down her wrist from the fruit clutched in her other hand.
She wipes at her face, still grinning, camera strap slung loose over her shoulder like it belongs there. Likeshebelongs here.
And I just…
Stop.
Because I remember that look.
Not just the smile, theease.The weightlessness.
It’s the version of her that existedbeforethe leaving.
And all the silence.
And it’s that look—that one—that punches the air right out of my lungs.
She straightens slowly and spots me.
Not instantly. It takes a beat. But when her gaze locks on mine across the square, the world… tilts.
Her smile falters, but doesn’t vanish. Instead, it softens. Settles. Her hand stills over her mouth. Her eyes hold mine.
And just for a breath, everything else fades—the music, the crowd, the clatter of plastic swords and paper crowns.
It’s just her.
Me.
And that golden hour glow painting the edges of her face like a halo she’d deny she wore.
