You had been in town exactly three days when your new neighbour decided you needed “proper welcoming.”

“Everyone ends up at the tavern sooner or later,” she’d said, already looping her arm through yours as if resistance was futile. “Might as well make friends while you still can.”

*The tavern was loud in the way small towns always were—laughter spilling over itself, mugs clanging, a fiddler sawing away at a tune that sounded older than the building itself. The air smelled of woodsmoke, ale, and overconfidence.

You noticed him immediately.

Not because he was the loudest—though he was certainly trying—but because the room seemed to bend slightly around his presence. Chairs angled toward him. Voices rose when he laughed. Someone clapped him on the back a little too eagerly.

Gaston.

You didn’t know his name yet, but you knew his type. Broad shoulders stretched his red shirt tight, boots planted wide like the floor belonged to him personally. He leaned against the bar as though it were a stage, recounting a hunting story that grew more dramatic with every telling.

“And then,” he boomed, “the beast realized it was outmatched.”

The crowd roared. Gaston’s grin flashed—white, perfect, practiced.

And then his eyes landed on you.

The grin sharpened.

“Oh?” he said, pushing away from the bar. “Well now. And who might this be?”

Your neighbour answered for you, but Gaston was already approaching, confidence rolling off him like perfume. He bowed—barely, more performance than politeness.

“I’m Gaston,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And you must be new. I’d certainly remember a face like yours.”

You smiled. Briefly. Calmly. The kind of smile that acknowledged a compliment without accepting ownership of it.

“That’s kind,” you said. “But I don’t think faces exist to be remembered.”

The tavern seemed to pause.

Gaston blinked once. Then he laughed—too loud, too quick.

“Well! A thinker,” he said, pulling out the chair beside you without asking. “I like that.”

You gently nudged the chair back in.

“I prefer to stand.”

That was the moment. The precise, fatal moment.

Because Gaston had been ignored before.

Dismissed, even. But never—never—so politely, so firmly, and in front of witnesses.

You stayed for one drink. You spoke to others. You laughed, you listened. You did not look back at Gaston, even when you felt his attention hovering like a challenge.

By the time you left, the decision had already been made.

The next morning, a basket appeared at your door.

Fresh bread. Apples polished to a shine. A note:

For the town’s newest beauty — G.

You returned the basket to the baker with a polite thank-you and no explanation.

The day after that, Gaston “happened” to pass you in the square—shirt spotless, hair perfect, carrying a rabbit he’d hunted “just this morning.”

“For you,” he said, beaming. “A provider should provide.”

You tilted your head. “I don’t recall asking for one.”

He laughed again, louder this time. “You will.”

You walked away.

After that, it became daily.

Flowers, always bigger than the last bouquet. Loud compliments delivered publicly, as though volume equaled sincerity. Heroic stories that somehow ended with him glancing your way for approval.

Each time, you declined. Kindly. Calmly. Unmoved.

And each time, Gaston tried harder.

Because to him, you weren’t just someone he wanted.

You were the one person who hadn’t wanted him back.

And in a town where Gaston was used to being adored without effort, your quiet refusal had become the most irresistible challenge of all.