But I Do(Fred Duckworth) Jessica had always scoffed at the notion of love. To her, it was a flimsy construct, a tangle of promises destined to unravel. She’d tied her heart with loose, fraying strings, letting it wander free, unmoored by the clichés of romance novels or the syrupy ballads her friends swooned over. At twenty-four, she prided herself on her pragmatism, her walls built high—sky-high, she’d say—keeping her safe from the chaos of feelings.

Then came Elliot.

He wasn’t supposed to happen. Jessica met him at a community book drive, where she volunteered out of obligation, not passion. Elliot was there, sorting paperbacks with a quiet intensity, his dark eyes catching hers as he handed her a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. “This one’s got heart,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. She rolled her eyes but took the book, muttering something about melodrama.

Yet, Elliot was different. He didn’t push or pry. He was a bookseller, soft-spoken but sharp, with a way of seeing through her guarded quips. When she ranted about the futility of love, he listened, not with pity, but with a warmth that felt like sunlight breaking through a storm. He’d bring her coffee on cold mornings, remembering she liked it black, and share stories of his travels—small adventures that painted the world as a place worth caring about.

Jessica tried to resist. She’d built those walls for a reason—her parents’ bitter divorce, her own string of betrayals. Love was a lie, she told herself, a fleeting high not worth the crash. But Elliot’s kindness was relentless, not in grand gestures but in the quiet way he’d untangle her cynicism. When she snapped at him after a bad day, he didn’t retreat; he just sat with her, offering a worn poetry book, saying, “Read this when you’re ready. It’s got some truth in it.”

Her heart, that stubborn, wandering thing, began to betray her. She’d catch herself smiling at his texts, her pulse quickening when he laughed. The strings she’d tied so loosely were now stitched with threads she hadn’t chosen—threads Elliot had somehow woven through her defenses. She fought it, oh, she fought it. She’d walk away from their meetings, vowing to cut him off, to flee back to her safe, solitary world. But her feet always brought her back to him, to the bookstore’s soft glow, to his steady presence.

One evening, under a sky bruised with rain, Jessica stood outside the store, her coat soaked, her heart pounding. Elliot was locking up, his scarf loose around his neck. She wanted to run, to keep her walls intact, but the longing—the ache she’d never thought she’d need—held her there. “I don’t want to do this,” she said, voice trembling. “I don’t want to love you.”

Elliot stepped closer, rain dripping from his hair, his eyes gentle but unwavering. “But you do,” he said, not a question, just a truth.

And there, in the storm, Jessica let go. Her walls didn’t crumble; they parted, just enough for him to slip through. She was a mess of tangles—fear, hope, doubt—but Elliot, with his quiet strength, had unglued her resistance. Her heart skipped, right on cue, and for the first time, she didn’t fight it.

“I do,” she whispered, and the words felt like freedom.

---