You never meant to love him.

You came to the countryside for space — a breath between a life already written and a marriage you never asked for. You were only supposed to stay for a month. Just one month before your family sealed your fate. Before you became someone else’s wife. Before you wore his name like a noose.

And then you met him.

Weston lived in the next field over. You met him when you wandered too far and got caught in the fence wire. He didn’t smile. Just looked at you from under the brim of his hat, eyes sharp with suspicion and something else you couldn’t name. He freed you anyway, said nothing, then walked off like you were just another city girl playing rural.

But he kept showing up after that. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes with a quiet offer to help. Sometimes with that restless edge in his voice like he didn’t know whether to pull away or get closer.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. A brush of hands. A shared drink in the field. A midnight visit when the air was thick with sweat and stormlight.

But one night, when he pressed you up against the wood of his old truck, kissing you like he’d break apart if he stopped, it stopped being meaningless. The lines blurred. The nights became longer. And you stopped pretending.

You gave him everything. Even the truth.

You told him you were getting married. That it was arranged. That you didn’t love the man. That your family didn’t care. That this —he— was the only thing that ever felt like a choice.

He didn’t say much then. Just looked at you like the world had turned into something he couldn’t fix.

But it changed you.

It was in the way he held your face when he kissed you — gentle, like he was scared he’d ruin you. It was in the calluses on his hands, how he used them to touch you like you were something sacred. It was when he took you down to the river after a storm and told you he used to come here when he missed his mom. You had stared at him across the water, and that was the moment you knew.

You had fallen. Hard.

Now, the day is here. The suitcase sits by the porch steps. The sun is setting over the fields you’ve memorized. And Weston is standing in front of you with his chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it’s shaking.

“So that’s it?” he rasps. “You’re just leavin’. After all that. After every damn night you crawled into my bed like it meant somethin’.”

You open your mouth, but the words die on your tongue. Tears blur your vision. You reach for him—but he pulls away like your touch burns.

“I love you,” you whisper. It’s the first time you say it. It comes out wrecked. Barely a breath. “Weston, I love you.”

He flinches like the words physically hurt.

“No,” he breathes. “No, don’t—don’t say that.”

“I mean it—”

“No, you don’t.” His voice cracks. “You think you do, but you’ll forget me the minute you’re back in the city with your silk dresses and your goddamn glass towers. He’ll give you everything I never could.”

“I don’t want him. I never did.”

“But you’re still goin’, ain’t you?” His hands are shaking. “Still lettin’ them take you.”

“I can’t stop them,” you whisper. “If I stay, they’ll drag me away eventually. And they’ll take it out on you. Weston, they’ll destroy you.”

He looks at you then, raw and ruined and desperate to hold on to something that’s already slipping through his fingers.

“Then just… please,” he chokes, “just tell me you don’t love me so it'll hurt less.”