Cotswolds
Cotswolds — February 2025
The cottage looked like something from a film.
Stone walls. Wooden beams. Huge fireplace. Endless countryside rolling outside frost-covered windows.
And complete silence.
Leah stood in the doorway carrying bags while Elle looked around slowly.
"Oh no," Elle murmured.
"What?"
"You've booked romance."
Leah looked deeply defensive immediately.
"It's two nights in the countryside."
"You chose a cottage with a fireplace."
"It was available."
"There are candles everywhere."
Leah glanced around briefly.
Interesting.
There were actually a concerning amount of candles.
"Right," she muttered. "That part's less explainable."
Elle burst out laughing while Leah carried their bags upstairs trying unsuccessfully to maintain dignity.
Hopeless.
Absolutely hopeless.
The truth was Leah needed this.
No London.
No Arsenal media.
No agency events.
Just quiet.
Just them.
The last few weeks blurred together between St. Albans and the city until suddenly both of them felt permanently half-packed.
So Monday morning Leah simply announced:
We're leaving for two days.
No further explanation.
And now here they were in the middle of the countryside while rain rolled softly against ancient windows and the world felt very far away.
"You know what's concerning?" Elle asked while opening cupboards in the kitchen.
"What?"
"You own a countryside coat."
Leah looked offended.
"I'm English."
"No, this is a specifically wealthy countryside coat."
"It's practical."
"It screams 'my family owns horses.'"
Rude.
Very rude.
But not inaccurate.
Leah ignored her completely and moved toward the fireplace instead.
"You know how to light that?" Elle asked suspiciously.
"Absolutely."
Ten minutes later smoke filled half the room.
"LEAH."
"I'm adapting."
"You're actively killing us."
Eventually the fire worked.
Mostly.
And suddenly the cottage softened into warmth and golden light while evening settled outside.
Elle curled sideways against the sofa in thick socks while Leah cooked badly in the kitchen pretending she wasn't reading instructions directly from her phone.
Domesticity again.
Always dangerous.
"You know what Beth said when I told her we were coming here?" Leah asked while stirring pasta.
"What?"
"That couples who go to the countryside together either break up or get engaged."
Elle physically choked laughing.
"Oh my God."
Leah looked deeply traumatised.
"She said there's no middle ground."
"That's actually terrifying."
"Correct."
Still—
the word lingered strangely in the room afterward.
Not awkwardly.
Just there.
Because lately the future kept quietly appearing between them now.
Not through pressure.
Through normality.
Through wanting ordinary things together.
Leah carried bowls toward the sofa eventually before immediately sitting too close beside Elle despite the entire couch being empty.
Clingy.
Very clingy.
"You're attached to me lately," Elle murmured softly.
Leah leaned back against the cushions looking completely unashamed.
"Yes."
God.
The honesty of it still ruined Elle every time.
Outside the countryside disappeared fully into darkness while rain tapped against the cottage windows and the fire crackled softly nearby.
Peace.
Real peace.
The kind Leah spent years convincing herself she didn't need.
Then eventually Elle suddenly sat up grabbing her phone.
"What are you doing?" Leah asked suspiciously.
"Content."
"Oh no."
"Relax."
That word never meant anything good.
Five minutes later Leah stood behind Elle in the cottage bedroom while she angled her phone toward the mirror beside the wardrobe.
The lighting glowed soft and warm from bedside lamps.
Elle wore one of Leah's hoodies with bare legs disappearing into thick socks while Leah stood behind her in grey joggers and a black t-shirt, chin resting lightly against her shoulder.
Domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
"Smile normally," Elle instructed.
"I am smiling normally."
"You look like a hostage."
Rude.
Very rude.
Then instinctively Leah's hands settled around Elle's waist.
And one slipped lower.
Firmly.
Possessively.
Straight onto her bum.
Elle froze slightly before immediately laughing.
"Leah."
"What?"
"That is not subtle."
Leah looked at the mirror innocently.
"Feels supportive to me."
Hopeless.
Absolutely hopeless.
Still—
Elle posted it anyway.
One mirror photo.
No caption except a tiny white heart.
And within approximately six minutes the internet completely lost its mind.
—
LEAH'S HAND???
OH THEY ARE IN LOVE LOVE.
The grip on that woman????
This is the soft launch equivalent of a hard launch.
I KNOW A DOMESTIC COUPLE WHEN I SEE ONE.
Leah Williamson has never looked happier in her entire career.
—
Meanwhile across the cottage Leah sat beside the fire scrolling through reactions in horror while Elle laughed herself breathless beside her.
"They're analysing my hand placement."
"You literally grabbed my ass in 4K."
"It was instinctive."
"That somehow makes it worse."
Leah groaned dramatically and dropped her phone onto the sofa.
"I need to retire from public life."
But she was smiling.
Of course she was.
Because secretly?
The photo felt like them.
Not polished.
Not performative.
Just warm and close and slightly obsessed with each other.
Elle shifted closer beside her then until Leah's arm automatically wrapped around her shoulders again.
"You know what's funny?" Elle murmured softly.
"What?"
"You used to hate people knowing things about your private life."
Leah looked toward the fire quietly for a second.
Then back at her.
"Think I just hated the wrong people knowing."
God.
That sentence settled directly into Elle's chest.
Because now?
Now it didn't feel invasive anymore.
Not when the love underneath it was real enough to survive being seen.
And somewhere in a tiny countryside cottage while the internet spiralled over one mirror photo and Leah's overly possessive hand placement, both women quietly realised something:
they'd stopped hiding long before they admitted it aloud.