Page 57 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“What part of ‘I left a note for Rowan’ confused you?”
His jaw tightens. “Notes don’t stop rogue waves.”
“And you showing up here does?”
He yanks off his coat, the movement sharp. “You’d rather I left you alone with this?”
“Yes.” The word cracks.
Silence. Thunder growls offshore.
He moves to the hearth, begins stacking driftwood. “You don’t have to weather every disaster alone.”
I freeze. “Fuck you.”
The fire catches, flames twisting. “That what you think I meant?”
My knuckles whiten around the absurd champagne flute I’d swiped from the canceled festival. Warm Prosecco sloshes.
He stands, turning. Water drips from his earlobe, glints in the hollow of his collarbone. “Why’d you run tonight?”
“I’m not one of your damn buoys you need to anchor.”
“Answer the question.”
The glass shatters in the sink. Shards catch the firelight. “Because Ihatehow you look at me. Like I’m some relic you’ve been preserving since we were nineteen.”
He goes still.
“Those little mementos in your desk?” My laughter’s too sharp. “Photos. That compass. The fucking pressed seaweed from the jetty. You’re hoarding ghosts, Aeron.”
His voice drops, dangerous. “You went through my things?”
“Rowan mentioned it after two whiskeys. She’s worried you’re building a shrine.”
A muscle leaps in his jaw. The scar across his shoulder peeks through his soaked shirt, a pale seam I want to press my thumb against until he bleeds.
“You’ve been here six weeks and suddenly you’re an expert on my life?”
“I’m an expert on runners. And you’re sprinting in place.”
He crowds me against the counter, seawater and pine biting the air between us. “You want honesty? Fine. That compass still points true. Those photos? Proof I didn’t imagine us. But you—” His finger grazes my wrist where the camera strap’s left a raw groove. “You’d rather chase hurricanes than admit you care.”
Lightning forks. The windows rattle.
“Maybe I don’t want to be your ‘forever’ footnote!” The truth tears out, jagged.
He flinches.
Rain drills the roof. For three breaths, the only sound is wood snapping in the hearth.
He steps back. “Founders’ Day. We were sixteen. You said drifter towns either ossify or drown.” His hand flexes, as if physically restraining words. “You were wrong. There’s a third option.”
“Let me guess—you?”
“No.” His sea-glass eyes hold mine. “Us.”
The furnace groans. Waves hammer the shore.
