Page 10 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
“And yet here you are, keeping count of her every step.” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “Do you want closure, or a second chance?”
I tighten my grip on the board. “Neither.”
Drokhaz snorts. “Liar.”
“How do you even know about any of this?” I ask the orc who, it feels like, just got here yesterday. And somehow is already Mr. Popular in town thanks to Rowan.
“Word travels fast.”
He claps my shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth, then strides off toward the festival tent, leaving me stewing in salt-thick air.
I last exactly twenty more minutes before the need to move drives me off the main boardwalk.
The festival prep hums behind me: vendors hammering stakes, kids chasing each other between string-light poles, Rowan shouting orders with her usual fire.
But I cut through the side path toward the east docks, boots thudding solid against the aging planks.
Here, the air tastes different. Brine and cedar and rust. The scent of old boats and older regrets.
I pass the row of moored skiffs, their hulls swaying in time with the lazy tide. A gull shrieks overhead, wheeling through the bruised sky.
Twilight creeps in faster here—long shadows stretching from the piling supports, lanterns still dark, waiting.
I make for the damaged east post.
The council’s been dragging their feet on repairs, too worried about keeping the damn lantern budget fat.
Typical.
I drag a replacement beam from the supply stack and heft it over one shoulder. Muscles strain with the weight—good. Physical work keeps my mind tethered.
I haul it into position, wedge it tight beneath the warped crossbeam, and start bolting it in place.
Hammer swings and metal sings.
One breath. One strike.
Good.
Don’t think too hard.
But memory slides in like fog through an open door.
I see her here.
Not as she is now—wary and distant, camera between us—but as she was that night.
The last lighthouse festival.
We’d spent the day chasing sea spray and sun, daring each other to jump from the high rocks, mapping stars on old napkins.
Later, long after the crowds faded, we ended up here—barefoot, salt-streaked, half-drunken on stolen cider and unspoken words.
She stood close. Closer than she ever had before.
“You ever think... we’re missing it?” she whispered, voice unsteady.
“Missing what?”
