Company
The next morning, Orren waited for him in the glade. He wore the same autumn-hued clothes, but now a dark green scarf curled about his neck.
“I was hoping I might work in the library again today,” Orren greeted with a smile.
Niles’s day turned into a holiday. “That’s what the library is for,” he said, ushering Orren towards the door. The trees had seen Orren. They’d understand why he’d lead the fascinating man into his domain instead of drinking his morning coffee amongst them as usual.
Orren had brought books this time and searched the library shelves for more, ending up with several open on the table in front of him, and often setting one down to pick up another.
He took no notes and the lack of a notebook and pen surprised Niles as much as Orren apparently not having a phone. Curiosity was like an itch in his brain, but he bit his tongue. At lunchtime, he ordered pizza, and it cheered him when Orren joined him in the glade.
“Why create a library?” Orren asked.
Niles shrugged. “It was an old dream of mine. A library is… a safe space of sorts when one’s not a people person.
Then I made my money creating a library app.
Spending it building an actual library seemed the logical next step, and when I came across this old posting house…
It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
” It felt like a wasted effort some days, a project just to please himself—but Niles didn’t say so.
Instead, he talked of the renovations, his joy and excitement when the furniture had arrived, and his pride at shelving the first box of books.
“All my favourite books didn’t even fill a bookcase. To be honest, they looked forlorn in the space. But… I’m sorry, I’m rattling on,” he apologised. “I didn’t realise…”
“You haven’t talked to anyone in a while?”
Niles felt his ears heat and knew his cheeks would be red.
“I talk to the trees, of course, but it’s different having someone who answers me in words.
” He grabbed a pizza slice at random, chewed and swallowed in the hope to stop the words that wanted out.
It didn’t work, because, for some reason, he felt Orren should know.
“I didn’t think it’d be so quiet. Or that I’d be so alone. ”
“Silence doesn’t equal loneliness,” Orren said.
“I know.”
“But do you? You may think your trees don’t talk, but when you rest your head against the birch, you feel the memory of a myriad of sunny days.
When you trace the bark of the oak, you hear the echo of a hundred forgotten storms. The language of trees is the slow, patient language of the world.
When you sit in the glade, you are more connected to this town’s soul than those who chatter in its streets. ”
Orren laid a hand over Niles’s where it rested on the bench, and Niles stilled.
A warm, broad, calloused palm. The touch gentle, delicate.
Niles shivered, wished for the courage to turn his hand to twine their fingers.
He wanted to hold on. Lean into Orren’s touch.
The impulse scared him. It had been so long since he’d wanted anything from another person.
Don’t be greedy, he admonished himself. Enjoy the comfort Orren offers.
And the simple touch was a comfort, a connection Niles hadn’t known he needed. It loosened a knot inside him that had been drawn painfully tight.
Niles felt no inclination to return to work that afternoon, and Orren seemed content to follow his lead.
The sun bathed the glade, and Orren asked about the trees and the library, until Niles couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk.
No stumbling, no awkward pauses, and none of the feeling that he embarrassed himself with every word.
He relaxed by degrees and ended up leaning against Orren as they watched the sun slip behind the roof and dusk settle over the courtyard.
“I’d better go.”
The reluctance in Orren’s tone re-awakened Niles’s awkwardness. His throat tightened on unspoken words, and he watched Orren walk away when he wanted nothing more than ask him to stay.
“Will… will you be back tomorrow?” he finally called as Orren reached the carriage arch, his form merging into the shadows.
“If you don’t mind. I have more reading to do,” Orren answered with reassuring promptness.
Niles rose from the bench and squinted into the gloom, but Orren had disappeared.
The next morning, Orren was back, books in his arms and a brown scarf around his throat.
Niles didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a boon, but he was determined to enjoy Orren’s company for as long as he could have it and be grateful.
They settled in the library, worked in companionable silence, and shared lunch in the glade as they had the day before.
It wasn’t until the afternoon light had shifted from gold to amber that Niles realised he'd stopped being aware of Orren's presence.
Not that he'd forgotten Orren was there, but the loop of worry in his mind—don’t be weird, don’t stare, watch what you say—had faded into nothing.
Orren read. Niles coded. The radiator ticked.
It was, Niles thought, the way he felt when he was alone in the glade with the trees.
Comfortable.
He turned his head to where Orren was bent over his book, sleeves rolled up, the leather bracelet on his wrist catching the light as he brushed back his curls.
Niles’s heartbeat fluttered, then settled as if it had found its equilibrium. This is normal, he told himself. This is a library. People come here to work.
But before he resumed his own task, he put in an order for more hot chocolate.
Orren’s presence in the library became familiar as the days passed.
Niles stopped looking up every time Orren ran a hand through his hair and no longer started when Orren set a mug of coffee on his desk.
He didn’t scrutinise his reflection before leaving the bathroom and almost stopped overthinking each word.
They still had lunch in the glade, but rather than live on pizza, Niles made salads and wraps and didn’t ask why Orren never carried anything but a stack of books.
Late at night, he wished Orren might have had a phone.
That they could exchange numbers and he wouldn’t lose track of this fascinating man when he was done with his work, but in the light of day, he pushed those thoughts aside.
He’d promised himself he’d enjoy Orren’s company while it lasted, and he wouldn’t let his misgivings poison his enjoyment.
“Why do you do that?” Orren’s voice drew him from his abstraction as they entered the library one morning.
“Do what?”
“Every time we come in, you look at the empty desk over there. I just wondered— I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I didn’t realise I did that,” Niles said, secretly pleased Orren seemed to watch him the way he watched Orren. “It’s nothing sad or horrible, just my reception desk. Only… this will sound weird… I used to find books left there for me. Old books—very old—about local folklore and earth magic.”
“And the weirdness is… where exactly?”
“They turned up while I wasn’t here and the library locked. They weren’t books anyone had borrowed, either. Two of them were first editions from the late 1700s. They’re not in any library database I use.”
Something flickered across Orren’s face—too fast for Niles to name. “Maybe they came from someone’s private library.”
“Oh…” Niles hadn’t considered that, too enchanted by the books and the messages that had accompanied them.
“Do you think they might have been stolen? Should I have reported them?” He switched on the coffeemaker and took the mug that had become Orren’s from the shelf to make him a hot chocolate.
Anxiety started to clog his throat. “I can’t explain how I got them.
Can you imagine me going to the police? Their faces when I say they turned up in a locked room?
With no signs of any break-in? They won’t believe me. And I’d feel so stupid and—”
“Niles. Breathe.”
Orren’s palms moulded to his cheeks, the unexpected warmth stopping his rant. He hiccupped, then centred his gaze on Orren’s face, and breathed. Once. Twice. Three times. Deep gulps of air until the panic faded and rational thought returned. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Orren said, not moving his hands. “I wasn’t suggesting they were stolen.”
“But you said—”
“That they might be from a private library.”
“That doesn’t explain how they got here.”
“No.” Orren smiled, but it was different from his usual smiles. Softer. Almost wistful. “It doesn’t.”
He let his hands drop from Niles’s cheeks when the coffee machine beeped, and Niles didn’t know whether to swear or be grateful for the interruption.
They both reached for the cup of hot chocolate at the same time.
Their fingers brushed. Orren's were as warm as his palms had been against Niles’s face, and rough in a way that suggested manual work.
Neither of them pulled away.
They stood motionless, long enough for Niles to notice a scar on Orren’s index finger. Then Orren smiled—slow, almost shy—and withdrew his hand. And Niles picked up the cup and handed it over, not meeting Orren’s eyes.