Coming Home to the Cotswolds – Part 2: White Lilies

Will's train ticket was for Sunday afternoon. On Saturday night he sat on the floor of Ollie's cottage with his back against the sofa, a glass of cider in his hand, and realised he had no intention of using it.

"You're doing that face," said Ollie, from the armchair.

"What face?"

"The one you made when you decided to climb the church tower in a thunderstorm."

"That was a very good decision," said Will. "We saw a rainbow."

"We got struck by lightning in our hair."

"Only a little."

Ollie laughed, low and warm, and set his cider aside. The cottage was small and tidy, with a wood-burning stove and bookshelves full of paperbacks. In the kitchen, on the shelf above the sink, sat a small apple-wood bird, its wings worn smooth from years of handling.

"I never thought you'd keep it," said Will.

"I never thought you'd come back to see it," said Ollie.

They sat in silence for a while. The stove ticked. Outside, the village was quiet, the church bell silent for once.

"I'm not going back on Sunday," Will said at last.

Ollie looked up sharply. "You're not?"

"I've been offered a job at the furniture makers in Stroud. Restoration work. I was going to say no." He turned his glass in his hands. "I think I'd like to say yes. If you'd let me stay near you while I learn how to be brave about it."

Ollie's face softened, slowly, into something warm and unguarded.

"You can stay in the spare room," he said. "Rent-free. On condition that you stop making lemon curd jokes at the shop."

"No promises."

"I'll take that."

Will got up, crossed the rug, and sat beside him on the arm of the chair. Ollie shifted to make room, and their knees brushed.

"Can I kiss you?" Will asked.

"Yes," said Ollie. "And if you change your mind, just tell me. I'll understand."

"I won't."

Ollie's hand came up to his cheek, rough and warm, a carpenter's hand, careful and sure. Will leaned into it. Then Ollie tilted his face up and kissed him, slow and steady, as though they had all the time in the world.

It felt like coming home. Not to a place, but to a person who had kept a bird on a shelf for ten years and waited.

When they finally drew apart, Ollie was smiling, his eyes wet.

"Green?" he asked, his voice low.

"Green," said Will, and laughed shakily. "Entirely green. Can we do that again tomorrow, in the workshop, with the door open so the village can see?"

"The village will talk for a week."

"Let them," said Will. "They always did."

On Sunday, the train left without him. He stood on the platform with his hands in his pockets, watching the last carriage disappear around the bend, and then walked back up the hill to the shop, where a carpenter in a leather apron was waiting for him with two mugs of tea and a half-carved bird.