Page 67 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“I know,” I murmur. “So am I.”
“But I think I want to try.”
My voice catches. Just a little. “Yeah?”
She nods.
And the relief that hits me is a flood.
Not loud. Just... deep.
Like warmth in cold bones.
Like coming home after being lost too long to remember which way the sun sets.
“Okay,” I say.
She lets out a breath. A real one. Unburdened. I think she actually means it this time.
We stand there a little longer under the half-lit boardwalk.
The town behind us buzzes with life—kids yelling, strings of lanterns swaying, the scent of roasted fish curling through the air.
But for this moment, it’s just us.
CHAPTER 25
EVIE
Mornings hit different when you’re not planning your exit.
The fog rolls in thick over Lumera Bay, curling around the pier like it’s got secrets to keep. I’m sitting on the seawall with my camera balanced on one knee, watching a pair of gulls go to war over a crab shell. The shutter clicks in slow rhythm—steady, deliberate. Like breathing. Like I finally remembered how.
I haven’t run in three weeks. Haven’t packed a bag “just in case.”
I bought curtains.
I didn’t mean to, exactly. But there was this old vendor stall set up next to the fish market, and this woman named Calla—spiky white hair, a mouth like a sailor, and eyes that’ve seen more storms than the lighthouse—talked me into it.
“They’re too pretty for someone else to buy,” she’d said, shrugging. “You look like a woman who doesn’t decorate for other people.”
She wasn’t wrong.
So now my bedroom has teal linen panels that flutter in the wind like they’ve got opinions.
I do too. At long last.
I slide off the seawall and follow the sound of squealing laughter echoing from the boardwalk. Jamie’s there, wrapped in a life vest two sizes too big, waving a hand-drawn map in the air like it’s a treasure scroll from some sunken pirate kingdom.
“There’s one under the crab shack, Iknowit,” he shouts, legs pumping as he barrels toward the pilings.
Rowan trails after him, shaking her head and sipping iced tea like it’s spiked with patience. “He told every vendor on the strip they had to report sea monster sightings to him or risk a kraken visit.”
“Effective,” I say, falling in beside her.
“He’s already got three jars of sea glass and a broken fishing lure he swears is a ‘mer-shark’s tooth.’”
I snort. “Kid’s gonna run a whole monster museum by next week.”
