Page 69 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
I belong here. Not because I owe it to the town, or to Aeron, or to the past I keep picking apart like a wound that won’t quit bleeding.
I belong because I chose it.
I’ve carved out a space between the tide and the fog and said—this. This is mine.
Tomorrow I’ll fix the porch step. Next week, maybe I’ll repaint the door.
For once, I’ve got time.
–
The sky’s streaked mauve and gold by the time I make it back to the house, my hair still wind-mussed and my boots crusted with beach grit. The place smells faintly of lemon oil and old wood—Rowan’s doing, no doubt. She’s already sitting on the porch when I arrive, two glasses and a bottle of red between us.
She raises her eyebrows as I step up. “You survived monster patrol.”
“Barely,” I groan, dropping into the chair across from her. “He made me sign a contract. Swore blood, or something close to it. Might’ve been grape jelly.”
Rowan snorts and hands me a glass. “To surviving scavenger hunts, jelly pacts, and emotionally constipated sea captains.”
“Cheers to that,” I say, clinking her glass.
The wine’s cheap but warm, full-bodied and just tart enough to sting in a good way. The kind of drink that makes you spill things you’ve kept sealed too long.
She eyes me over the rim of her glass. “You know, it’s weird.”
“What?”
“You,” she says, gesturing vaguely. “Smiling. Not pacing like a feral cat in borrowed boots.”
I raise a brow. “That’s specific.”
“You’re not exactly subtle, Evie.” Her grin turns sly. “And let’s be real—you’re glowing.”
“Oh no,” I deadpan. “Not the ‘you’re glowing’ curse. That’s code for ‘everyone knows you’re getting laid or you’re emotionally compromised.’”
“Or both,” she sings.
I roll my eyes and take another sip, but I’m grinning now—really grinning, not that tight-lipped thing I’ve been doing since I learned how to brace for disappointment.
Rowan leans forward, her voice low and conspiratorial. “So. You finally got your elf.”
I choke on the wine.
She’s howling now, wheezing with glee. “Oh come on, you called him a broody elf with shipbuilder hands the first week back.”
“I did not.”
“You did, and I quote—‘He’s like someone conjured a Tolkien fever dream and dipped it in salt.’”
I cover my face with both hands. “Oh my god.”
“I mean,” she says between giggles, “where’s the lie?”
I peek at her through my fingers. “You’re evil.”
“Maybe. But I’m not wrong.” She sobers a little, her voice softer now. “I’m glad you’re laughing again.”
I look away, toward the horizon, where the last edge of sun is bleeding into sea.
