Page 81 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“And?” she asks, voice careful now.
“And it looks like this,” I say. “You. Me. Mornings that start in beds that aren’t borrowed. Coffee made just the way you like it, even if you change it every other week. You running out at dumb hours to catch weird fog light on a pier. Me hauling crab lines or patching docks and still getting back in time to eat with you.”
She watches me, jaw tense, but there’s something else behind it—hope, maybe.
“That simple?”
I nod. “If we let it be.”
She leans in, nudges my foot with hers. “You really think we can blend it?”
“I don’t think we blend it,” I say. “I think we build it. New. From scratch. With all our messy edges showing.”
Her mouth twitches into a crooked smile. “That sounds like a lot of work.”
“Worth it,” I say without hesitation.
She looks down into her mug, then up again. “You sure? I come with cameras and mood swings and occasional flights of irrational rage.”
I grin. “I come with boats, barnacles, and a deeply repressed emotional spectrum.”
She laughs—loud, full, unfiltered. It echoes off the beams and settles somewhere in my chest like a promise.
“Okay,” she says after a beat. “Then I guess we build it.”
I cross the kitchen, press a hand against the curve of her back, and kiss her like it’s an agreement.
Not an ending, but a beginning.
She pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against mine. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt and her breath is warm against my cheek. “You think Jamie’ll approve of us shacking up?”
I snort. “Jamie thinks I’m part pirate and part sea monster. Pretty sure I’ve already won his heart.”
She smirks. “True. He did draw you with tentacles.”
“High praise.” I press a kiss to her temple. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever this is. Whatever it becomes.”
“Even if it gets messy?”
“Especially then.”
The kettle whistles low and she shifts to pour the rest of the water into the French press. Steam curls up between us, and for a second I just stand there watching her. This woman who’sturned my world inside out without trying. Who’s stayed. Who chose this.
And damn, if that doesn’t wreck me in the best way possible.
Outside, the town is waking. Boats creaking against their moorings. Shop signs being flipped. Life rolling forward like it always does. But inside this old, imperfect kitchen, everything feels new.
Everything feels like ours.
The boardwalk feels different now.Not just newer, not just repaired. It’s deeper than fresh planks and sturdy bolts. It feels lived in again—earned. The kind of place where things start and restart, slow and sure. The kind of place that remembers.
The lanterns sway low above us, their light golden and gentle, catching on the curve of her cheek as we walk side by side. Her hand is warm in mine, fingers laced like she’s always known how to fit there. There’s no crowd now, just a few stragglers folding up tables, someone humming off-key near the coffee stall, and the sea whispering in that familiar rhythm only Lumera really understands.
She slows near the old mural by the docks—now repainted with bold blues and messy sea monsters Jamie swears he designed all by himself—and tilts her head, taking in the glow of the paper lights above it. I catch her profile in the lantern glow, her lashes shadowing the soft curve of her cheek, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so still.
Not because she’s hesitating.
But because she doesn’t need to rush anymore.
