Page 7 of Until the Last Leaf Falls

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.

Observations

Tuesday morning dawned damp and grew wetter and Niles, not liking the idea of Orren getting soaked waiting in the glade, had left the library unlocked with a note pinned to the door before setting off on his book round. The local constabulary would no doubt roll their eyes at such a casual attitude to security, but Niles cared more for Orren’s comfort. Besides, in the two weeks since Orren had started coming to the library, Niles had had no other customers. If that changed today, it would be a miracle.

Niles hurried through the morning, depositing and collecting books with cool efficiency. Between the drizzle and the chill, his customers were even less inclined to talk, and he finished his round in record time.

The glade was quiet when he returned, the soft patter of rain on leaves the only sound. Orren stood amongst the trees, dressed in his usual ensemble of jumper and cloth jacket, with his curls a damp mop. He had one hand resting on the trunk of the birch. His head was bowed and his lips were moving.

Whatever Orren was doing felt intensely private, and Niles stopped at the edge of the courtyard, suddenly uncertain. Should he announce himself? Pretend he hadn’t noticed Orren in the glade? Head for the library and find Orren dry clothes and a towel?