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Welcome back to a brand new story!
Hope you enjoy this one.
This story will have mature themes. It also heavily goes into detail about certain kinks/issues and a lot of the chapters focus on coming to terms with those desires. If that’s not your thing then don’t bother reading this because I don’t want negative comments lol... Reminder: ITS JUST A BOOK!
Short chapter to start us off and get us introduced to our new character. This story has also been posted on wattpad but I will update them at the same time.
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A cottage stood at the end of a long, winding lane, nestled against the edge of a dense woodland. Its weathered stone walls were flecked with moss, and ivy crept lazily up towards the crooked roof. A single chimney jutted out from the tiles, faintly blackened from decades of use. The windows, though small, were spotless, reflecting the golden light of the early evening.
The front porch sagged slightly, the wood splintered in places and creaking under the weight of anyone daring to step on it. A battered wicker chair rested beneath the shade of an ancient elm tree, its sprawling branches casting dappled patterns across the porch. A row of clay pots lined the railing, their intended flowers overtaken by untamed greenery. The air carried the faint, sweet scent of honeysuckle from the bushes that bordered the cottage, mingling with the earthier smell of soil warmed by the sun.
Inside, the cottage was cool and dim, the rooms compact but tidy. The living room, just beyond the entryway, was cluttered with books piled precariously on every available surface. A threadbare armchair sat beside a small table, which bore the weight of an old lamp, a mug with tea stains, and a half-filled notebook with frayed pages. The walls were lined with wooden shelves, each one holding a mismatched collection of trinkets: tarnished brass keys, a jar of feathers, and a cracked pocket watch that no longer ticked.
The kitchen, though equally modest, was well-kept. The white paint on the cabinets was peeling at the corners, revealing the natural wood underneath, and the tiled floor bore the tell-tale scuff marks of heavy use. A kettle rested on the hob, its metal dulled from years of brewing countless cups of tea.
Elliot sat in a chair by the largest window in the living room, where the evening sun spilled across the wooden floor in golden streaks. He was still, his elbow propped on the windowsill and his chin resting on his hand, as his gaze lingered on the view beyond. The town lay just visible in the distance, a collection of rooftops and chimneys against the rolling hills. It was a place he had avoided for a long time now, save for the occasional necessary trip into the grocer’s or post office. His cobalt blue eyes scanned the area quickly. He wished he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
The heat of the day had yet to fade, and the air was thick and languid, carrying the steady hum of cicadas from the trees nearby. It was early July, the height of summer, but the season felt almost unreal in its perfection; too warm, too still, too unchanging. For Elliot, it was simply another day of existing, unnoticed and untouched, on the edge of a world he no longer wanted to belong to.
Elliot’s gaze drifted to the garden; or rather, the unruly patch of land that masqueraded as one. From his seat, he could see the tall grasses swaying lazily in the breeze, dotted with wildflowers that had taken root in every corner. The hedge lining the boundary of the property was uneven, its jagged edges a glaring reminder of how long it had been since he last trimmed it. The roses, planted long before he moved in, were struggling to bloom amidst the suffocating weeds that had overtaken their beds.
He sighed, the weight of the chore pressing down on him even as he sat idle. Gardening was something he despised with every fibre of his being; the dirt under his nails, the aching back, the relentless buzzing of insects. It was a job that demanded patience, precision, and a love for nature that Elliot simply didn’t have. In fact, he loathed it. He wishes, so damn wishes, he could live in a high complexity apartment with white tiled floors and high ceilings. But all he had... was this.
Leaving the garden untended wasn’t an option, not here. If the cottage fell into disrepair, it would draw attention, the kind of attention he couldn’t afford. The overgrown garden might invite curious passers-by, the sort who would peer over the gate or knock on his door with unsolicited advice about pruning or mulching. That was the last thing he wanted.
He ran a hand through his dark, jet black hair, already imagining the hours it would take to hack away at the chaos outside. Maybe he could start tomorrow; early, before the heat became unbearable. Or maybe he could leave it another week. A small laugh escaped him, dry and humourless. No, he couldn’t. The neighbours, distant as they were, had already started glancing at the place when they walked by, their eyes lingering just a little too long on the unkempt hedges and the creeping ivy, almost as if they thought nobody lived here and the house was up for sale.
Elliot leaned forward in his chair, letting his head fall against the window with a soft thud. He hated the gardening, hated the way it made him feel tethered to this house, to this life he didn’t want but couldn’t leave. Yet the alternative, letting it all fall apart, wasn’t an option. Not for someone like him.
The cicadas droned on, their persistent hum filling the silence. Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting the garden in shadows. It could wait until tomorrow, he told himself. Just one more day. The garden could wait. It always could. He pushed the thought aside, reaching instead for the book that sat on the small table beside him, its spine cracked from years of use.
The cover was faded, the title barely legible, but Elliot didn’t need to see it to know the story inside. He had read this particular novel at least half a dozen times, each word etched into his memory like an old friend. It was a mystery, the kind he always gravitated towards; clever, intricate, with characters who made mistakes and plots that twisted in unexpected ways.
Books had always been his sanctuary. Long before he had the cottage, before the secrets, they had been his escape. When he read, the world fell away, taking with it the guilt, the fear, and the relentless hum of anxiety that had become his constant companion. In the pages of a book, he could be anyone, anywhere; a detective unravelling a conspiracy, a traveller venturing into unknown lands, a hero solving problems far bigger than his own.
He thumbed through the pages, savouring the faint scent of old paper and ink. His collection of books was modest but well-loved, gathered from second-hand shops and library clearances. Some had notes scrawled in the margins, remnants of other lives and other readers. He liked to imagine who they were, what they’d thought when they’d underlined a particular passage or left a faint smudge of ink beside a critical scene. He was only 19 years old, after all. He had plenty of time to read, learn and explore different genres.
As the first line drew him in, Elliot felt the knot in his stomach begin to loosen. Here, in the quiet of his sitting room, where he sat all alone, he could lose himself for a little while. The weeds in the garden, the creeping ivy, the neighbours and all their judgmental looks could wait. Right now, all Elliot wanted to do was survive another day in his forced solitude.
