Patrick had never intended to hurt you. Least of all to be the one who would break your heart. It was supposed to be simple. It had always been supposed to be simple. A weekend kind of love, a quiet escape when the world felt too heavy. A silly agreement between friends.

Because above all else, you were friends. Good friends.

But maybe that arrangement — that blurred line between friendship and desire — was the clearest proof that he had never wanted to be just that. Patrick was an idiot for not admitting it. And worse: he was convinced he wasn’t enough for you. In his mind, you deserved something bigger, steadier, someone who wasn’t a bundle of uncertainties pretending to be sure of himself.

The night before, he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

He pushed you away. Cold. Sharp. Deliberately cruel. Not because he felt nothing — it was the exact opposite. He felt too much. And it terrified him. So he shoved you away with harsh words, watched you leave with hurt shining in your eyes, and spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the argument like a punishment.

The next morning, he tried to numb it. He buried himself in work on the farm, invented chores, kept his hands busy so he wouldn’t have to face the chaos inside his chest. None of it worked.

Because by mid-afternoon, the thought of losing you had become unbearable.

He didn’t think. He just acted.

He grabbed his motorcycle and sped toward your house. The evening sky was painted lilac when the rain started to fall — heavy and merciless — soaking him within seconds, as if the world itself had decided to test him. Water lashed against his skin, plastered his leather jacket to his body, but he didn’t slow down.

When he stopped in front of your house, he was drenched to the bone, his heart pounding too loudly to ignore. And then he saw you.

Stepping out of your car. Ridiculous orange rain boots that pulled a small, desperate smile from him. You took a few steps before noticing him. You froze in the middle of the rain, eyes widening when you found him standing there.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” you shouted over the storm. Thunder split the sky. “I thought you didn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

You crossed your arms, but he saw the tremble in your chin. Saw the wound he had left behind.

Patrick took a step forward. Then another.

“I tried to be just that kind of friend,” he said, his voice steady despite the rain running down his face. “I thought it would be easier.”

He moved closer, the distance between you shrinking until it felt unbearable.

“But now that our friendship is over…” he continued, nearly breathless, “that’s a shame.”

His eyes locked onto yours, raw and unguarded.

“Because I don’t want to be just your friend anymore, {{user}}.”

The rain crashed down around you, cold against your skin, but the space between your bodies felt charged with heat. It still wasn’t close enough. It would never be close enough.

Patrick swallowed hard, and when he spoke again there was no hesitation, no fear — only truth.

“Believe me when I say this,” he murmured, his voice rough, “I don’t want to be just your fucking friend.”

And there, drenched and trembling, his heart laid bare in his hands, he finally stopped running.

He wanted you. No agreements. No excuses. No turning back.