Chapter One: The Gym Floor
The weight room at Truro’s Riverside Fitness opened onto a courtyard where morning sun slanted through tall windows, casting stripes of light across rubber mats and polished steel. The air smelled of sweat and disinfectant, mixed with the faint, clean scent of wood from the pull-up bar Jack Hayes had helped install when the gym renovated six months prior. He had refused payment for the work; instead the owner had given him a year’s membership and a discount on protein powder he did not really need.
At twenty-eight, Jack moved through his workout with the easy strength of someone who had built their body through work as much as training. His hands wrapped around forty-kilogram dumbbells, knuckles white as he pressed them up from his chest, shoulders and triceps working in smooth rhythm. He wore a grey tank top that clung to his torso, highlighting the definition of his abs and the taper of his waist. His black gym pants were rolled just above his ankles. He hated how fabric bunched under his knees when he squatted. Thick white cotton socks covered his feet. They were the kind he bought in packs from the market in St Austell, sturdy enough to hold up to days on his feet at construction sites. Today they were streaked with fine dust from the gym floor, smudged near the toes where he had shifted his weight during deadlifts, and marked with a faint brown stain from a splatter of varnish he had missed when changing that morning.
He set the dumbbells down with a soft thud, leaning back on the bench to catch his breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he pushed his blonde hair back with his forearm, leaving a dark streak across his skin. His eyes drifted around the room. Three older men doing shoulder presses in the corner, a woman on the rowing machine with headphones in, and a tall man he had not seen before standing by the cable machine.
Ross Vance had been watching Jack for nearly ten minutes. He had moved to Cornwall three months earlier from London, trading a cramped flat in Camden for a small cottage near Falmouth, and Riverside Fitness was the first place he had found that did not feel stuffy or full of people showing off. At thirty-two, he was lean and solid from years of cycling and hiking, his olive skin tanned deep from weekends spent surveying garden sites. His dark hair was cut short enough to stay out of his eyes when he bent over plans, and he wore faded black leggings and a navy hoodie he had pulled up over his head against the gym’s overzealous air conditioning.
His gaze kept sliding down to Jack’s feet. It was not just curiosity. Something about the worn fabric, the way it molded to the shape of Jack’s toes, the marks of use that told a story of work and movement, held him fast. He had always noticed socks, ever since he was a boy watching his father come home from his job as a groundskeeper, boots off and socks dark with soil and grass clippings. There was something honest about it, something that spoke to the life a person led. Ross felt his cheeks warm and turned his attention back to the cable machine, twisting the weight stack with more force than necessary.
The clank of metal made Jack look over. He had noticed the new man a few minutes earlier. His focus was obvious even from across the room, though it did not feel intrusive. Jack stood up, rolling his shoulders as he walked toward the water cooler in the corner, grabbing a plastic cup and filling it to the brim. He paused beside the cable machine, water sloshing slightly in his hand.
“Everything okay over there? That weight stack looks like it’s taking a beating.”
Ross jumped, fumbling with the pin he was trying to insert. “Oh sorry. Yeah, fine. Just getting used to the settings. They’re different from my old gym in London.”
Jack nodded, taking a slow sip of water. “I know the feeling. First time I used one of these I nearly pulled my shoulder out of its socket.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jack. I’ve been coming here for a couple of years now.”
Ross took his hand, surprised by how warm and calloused it was. “Ross. Just moved down for work.”
“Nice. What do you do?”
“Landscape architect. Mostly designing gardens for estates around the coast. Some private homes too.” Ross gestured vaguely toward the window, where the tops of oak trees swayed in the breeze. “Trying to make places that feel like they belong here, not like they’ve been dropped in from somewhere else.”
“Sounds good. I do carpentry. Bespoke furniture mostly, sometimes full renovations.” Jack ran his free hand through his hair, leaving it messier than before. “I built that pull-up bar by the window. Got tired of the old one wobbling every time someone used it.”
Ross followed his gaze, then let his eyes drift back down to Jack’s feet. He could not help it. The socks looked soft, well-loved, and he found himself wondering what they smelled like. “I noticed your socks earlier,” he said before he could stop himself. “They look well-used.”
Jack looked down at his feet, then back at Ross with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Dirty, you mean. I was working on a floor in an old cottage near Mevagissey this morning. Stripping back decades of paint and varnish. Did not have time to change before I came here.” He wiggled his toes, making the fabric shift against his skin. “My mom used to say I’d wear socks until they walked off my feet on their own.”
“I don’t think it’s dirty,” Ross said, his voice quieter now. “I think it’s real. Like you don’t care about looking perfect all the time.”
Jack leaned against the machine, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why would I? I’d rather be useful than polished. Though I’ll admit I probably should have brought a spare pair today.” He nodded toward Ross’s feet, where dark grey wool socks peeked out from under his leggings. They were thin at the heels, worn soft from months of walking through fields and construction sites, and marked with tiny green specks of grass clippings. “Yours don’t look exactly brand new either.”
Ross felt a jolt of something warm in his chest. Surprise that Jack had noticed, relief that he was not judging. “I was surveying a garden site this morning. Got caught in a patch of long grass and did not bother brushing them off.” He paused, then took a small step closer. “Can I ask you something? And please tell me if it’s too much.”
“Go on.”
“Can I look at them closer? Your socks, I mean.” Ross’s heart was beating fast, but his voice was steady. “I know it sounds strange, but I’ve always found worn socks interesting. The way they hold the scent of where you’ve been, the marks of what you’ve done.”
Jack studied his face for a moment, looking for any sign of discomfort or insincerity. He saw none. Only curiosity and something softer he could not quite place. “Sure,” he said finally. “Come on over to the mat by the bench. I’ll sit down so you don’t have to crane your neck.”
They moved to the far corner of the room, away from the other gym-goers. Jack sat down on the edge of the weight bench, stretching his legs out in front of him so his feet rested flat on the mat. Ross knelt beside him, careful to keep his distance unless invited closer. He reached out slowly, his fingers hovering just above the white fabric before he touched it.
The socks were softer than he had imagined, worn thin at the toes where Jack’s feet pressed against the fabric. He ran his thumb along the heel, feeling the texture of the cotton, noticing the faint impression of Jack’s heel bone beneath. There were smudges of dust and wood shavings, and the varnish stain was darker up close. Amber against white.
“It’s like a map,” Ross said quietly. “Every mark tells where you’ve been.”
“Maybe it is.” Jack watched him, his expression calm and open. “That stain on the toe is from the cottage floor. The smudge on the side is from leaning against my workbench while I waited for glue to dry. And the dirt on the heel is from walking through the fields behind my place. There’s a path that leads down to a stream where I go to clear my head sometimes.”
Ross looked up at him, their eyes meeting. The air between them felt still, warm even in the cool gym. “Can I smell them? If that’s okay with you.”
Jack nodded slowly, no hesitation in his face. “Yes. Just tell me what you think.”
Ross brought one foot closer, breathing in gently. The scent was earthy and warm. Wood dust and varnish, mixed with the faint, clean smell of Jack’s skin and the dry dust of the gym floor. It was not overpowering; it was just him. “It smells like you’ve been working hard,” Ross said, his voice soft. “Like wood and sunshine and fresh air. Like Cornwall.”
Jack smiled, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my dirty socks.” He shifted his weight slightly, then looked down at Ross’s feet. “Can I look at yours? If you don’t mind.”
Ross felt warmth spread through his whole body. He stretched his legs out beside Jack’s, resting his feet on the mat. “Please.”
Jack reached out, his calloused fingers gentle against the wool fabric of Ross’s socks. He traced the pattern of small holes at the heel, ran his thumb along the toe where the fabric was worn thin. “These feel like they’ve been places too,” he said. Then he leaned closer, breathing in softly. The scent was of damp earth and grass, mixed with the lavender soap Ross used and the faint smell of leather from his cycling shoes. “Smells like gardens,” Jack said, looking up at him. “Like rain on soil and fresh growth. Like home.”
Ross felt his throat tighten. He had never shared this part of himself with anyone before, never thought he would find someone who did not think it was strange. “I’ve never told anyone about this,” he said. “About noticing socks, or liking how they smell. I was afraid people would think I was weird.”
Jack shook his head, pulling his hand back slightly but keeping his eyes on Ross’s face. “We all notice different things. Some people see faces in clouds, some people hear music in the wind. You notice socks. That does not make you weird. It makes you pay attention to the little things that make people who they are.” He stood up, brushing dust from his pants. “I was going to grab a coffee after this. There’s a place just down the road that does a mean flat white, and they let you bring your own mug if you want. Would you like to come? We could talk more. About gardens, or woodwork, or whatever else comes to mind.”
Ross stood up too, brushing his knees clean. He felt lighter than he had in months, like a weight he did not know he was carrying had lifted. “Yeah,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “I’d like that a lot.
The glass doors of Riverside Fitness slid open with a soft hiss, and fresh air washed over them. It carried hints of cut grass from the park across the road and salt from the coast a few miles away. As they stepped onto the pavement, both Jack and Ross paused at the same moment, their eyes drifting down to each other’s feet.
Jack’s trainers were classic black Nikes, the leather scuffed and faded to a dull grey in places. Mud was caked thick in the treads, dried to a pale brown that flaked off as he shifted his weight, and dark streaks of what looked like varnish and wood dust marked the sides. The laces were frayed at the ends, tangled with tiny bits of gravel from the gym car park, and the air around them carried a warm, earthy scent of sweat, worn leather and damp soil. It was the smell of long hours spent on building sites before training.
Ross’s Adidas were dark blue canvas high-tops, splattered with mud and green grass stains that had set into the fabric. The rubber toe caps were scuffed almost white, and paint marks in soft grey and brown dotted the sides. They were from marking out garden designs. The soles were worn smooth along the edges, and as he took a small step forward, a mix of damp earth, lavender from his socks and the faint, sharp smell of rubber rose up around him.
Jack let out a low whistle, his eyes moving from Ross’s trainers back to his face. “Cor, those are well and truly lived-in. Proper job.”
Ross smiled, running a finger over the scuffed side of Jack’s Nikes. “Yours too look at all that mud. You weren’t kidding about working on that cottage floor this morning.”
They stood for a moment, each looking at the other’s footwear with the same quiet admiration they’d shown for each other’s socks back in the gym. Every mark told a story: mud from fields and sites, scuffs from ladders and tools, stains from work done with care.
“Let’s go for that coffee then,” Jack said.
At exactly the same time, Ross spoke too: “Let’s go for that coffee
They laughed, the sound carrying across the quiet street.
“Great minds,” Jack said, nodding toward the narrow alleyway he’d mentioned earlier. “I was just about to say. Maggie’s bound to have her lemon drizzle cake out by now.”
“Perfect,” Ross replied, falling into step beside him. The pavement was still warm from morning sun, and Jack stepped carefully around a patch of dried mud where a delivery lorry had parked earlier. His white socks were now dusted with grit from the street, the varnish stain he’d mentioned in the gym standing out bright amber against the cotton. Ross’s dark grey wool socks peeked out from under his leggings. Tiny green specks of grass clippings were still visible, just as they had been on the gym floor.
‘The café’s just round the corner,’ Jack said, nodding toward the alleyway between a bookshop and a bakery. ‘It’s called The Pot Shed. They make all their own cakes, and the coffee’s from a roastery in St Agnes.’
Ross glanced at him, noting how Jack’s shoulders relaxed as they left the gym behind. ‘You come here often, then?’
‘Most days after training,’ Jack replied. ‘The owner’s a friend of mine. I built some shelves for her last year when she was reorganising the seating area. She lets me bring my own mug to cut down on waste.’
They turned into the alleyway and emerged into a small cobbled courtyard, where wooden tables and chairs were arranged around a brick fireplace. The Pot Shed had been built into the side of an old granite building, its walls covered in trailing ivy and window boxes filled with bright purple lobelia. A chalkboard by the door listed today’s specials: carrot and coriander soup, ploughman’s lunch with homemade chutney, and lemon drizzle cake.
Inside, the air smelled of fresh coffee and baking, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg from the cake stand by the till. The walls were lined with shelves stacked high with pottery mugs, and a notice board covered in flyers for local events. There was a carpentry workshop at the community centre, a talk on native plants for garden design, and a charity cycle ride along the coast.
‘Jack! Usual for you?’ The barista, a woman with curly brown hair tied back in a scarf, smiled as they approached the counter. ‘And who’s your friend?’
‘This is Ross,’ Jack said, pulling a worn ceramic mug from his gym bag. It had a crack down one side, but was held together with neat copper wire. ‘He’s just moved to Cornwall from London. Ross, this is Maggie.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Ross said, shaking her hand. ‘I’ll have a flat white please, and a slice of lemon drizzle if you’ve got any left.’
‘Coming right up,’ Maggie said, turning to the espresso machine. ‘
They carried their drinks to a table in the corner, where sunlight streamed through a large window onto the wooden surface. Jack sat down first, stretching his legs out so his feet rested on the stone floor. His white socks were now marked with tiny specks of cobblestone dust. Ross took the chair opposite, and found himself looking at Jack’s feet again, just as he had in the gym.
‘You’re not staring again, are you?’ Jack said, but there was no teasing in his voice. Only warmth.
‘Sorry,’ Ross said, but he didn’t look away. ‘I suppose I am. It’s just… in London, everyone was so concerned with looking perfect all the time. Suits pressed, shoes polished, socks always brand new. It never felt real to me.’
‘That’s what I said to you earlier,’ Jack replied, stirring sugar into his coffee. ‘Useful not polished. My dad always told me that things with character are worth more than things that look pretty but do nothing. He was a farmer. He spent his whole life wearing boots and socks that were never clean for long. When he died last year, I kept one of his old pairs. They’re full of holes, but they remind me of him every time I look at them.’
Ross nodded slowly. He thought of his own father, the groundskeeper who had taught him to notice the small details in the world around them. He’d shown Ross how grass grew differently in shaded spots, how soil changed colour depending on what was planted there, and the marks left on socks after a day’s work.
‘My dad was the same,’ Ross said. ‘He used to say that every mark on his socks was a story. There was a patch of damp earth from planting bulbs, a stain from tree sap, a tear from climbing over a fence. He let me look at them sometimes, even smell them. Said it would teach me to pay attention to where things come from.’
Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Is that where it started? Your interest in… well, in socks like ours?’
‘It is,’ Ross admitted. ‘I’ve never told anyone before. Not even my friends in London. I was afraid they’d think it was strange, or that it was just some kind of fetish they couldn’t understand.’
‘But it’s not just that, is it?’ Jack said. ‘It’s about what they represent. Authenticity, hard work, a life that’s been lived fully.’ and its a bit sexy especially the smell I often sniff my own after a long hard day maybe now I can sniff yours
‘Exactly,’ Ross said, relief washing over him. ‘When I saw your socks in the gym, with all their marks and stains, I knew straight away that you were someone who understood what matters. You’d built that pull-up bar because it needed doing, not because you wanted praise for it. You’d been working on a cottage floor before training, even though you knew your socks would get dirty.’ and I agree with is sexy and yes please if can sniff yours!
Jack picked up his mug, taking a slow sip of coffee. ‘I’ve never thought about it like that, but you’re right. And when I looked at your socks earlier with grass clippings and soil on them – I knew you were the same kind of person. You’d been out surveying a garden site, getting your hands dirty because that’s what your work requires.’ sweating and living
They sat in silence for a moment, watching dust mites dance in the sunlight. Then Jack reached down, adjusting his white sock so the varnish stain was visible. ‘You know, when you asked to smell my socks in the gym, I wasn’t sure what to think at first. But when you said they smelled like Cornwall… well, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’ although if cornwall.smells like my filthy sweaty socks I'm.nose blind haha
Ross smiled, then lifted one foot slightly so his grey sock was in view. ‘And when you said mine smelled like gardens and home I’d never felt so seen in my life.’
‘Can I ask you something?’ Jack said, his voice quiet. ‘You mentioned earlier that some people might call this a fetish. Do you think that’s what it is?’
‘I think it can be,’ Ross replied honestly. ‘For some people, it might just be about the physical sensation or the scent itself. But for me and I think for you too it’s more than that. It’s about worship, in a way. Worshipping the life someone’s lived, the work they’ve done, the person they are.’
Jack nodded thoughtfully. ‘That makes sense. My grandad used to talk about worshipping the land he farmed. It wasn’t in a religious way, but in the sense of respecting it, caring for it, paying attention to what it needed. Maybe this is like that.’
‘It is,’ Ross said. ‘And I think that’s why it feels so right. Because it’s rooted in respect and understanding, not just desire.’ or objectifying you amd those socks
Maggie brought over their slices of cake. They were golden yellow with a drizzle of icing sugar and fresh lemon zest. She paused by their table. ‘You two look like you’re having a good chat. A new friend?
Jack said yes I think so maggie
‘, cutting into his cake. ‘I’ve got a small place just outside Truro. It’s a cottage with a workshop in the garden where I do most of my carpentry. I was thinking, if you’re free tomorrow, you could come and see it. I’ve got some plans for a new storage shelf, and I’d love to get your opinion on how to integrate it with the garden
Ross felt a surge of excitement. ‘I’d love that. What time should I come?’
‘How about ten o’clock?’ Jack said. ‘We can have a look round the workshop, then maybe go for a walk down to the stream I mentioned in the gym. The path’s muddy in places, though. So you’ll get chance to get your socks filthy a naughty grin flickered across Jack's face
Ross laughed. It was a real, full sound that made Jack smile. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. And you’ll wear these white socks, won’t you?
‘Of course,’ Jack replied. ‘They’re becoming my lucky pair, I think.’
As they finished their cake and coffee, Ross looked out at the courtyard, where a group of children were playing with a ball on the cobbles. He thought about how different this was from life in London. There was the slow pace, the sense of community, the way people cared about things that mattered rather than how they looked. He thought about Jack, with his calloused hands and well-worn socks, and how he already felt more at home with him than he had in years.
‘You know,’ Ross said, turning back to Jack, ‘I’ve heard people say that the best stories are the ones that are true. They’re the ones where people are honest about who they are and what they care about. This feels like that to me. Like we’re writing a true story together, one mark at a time.’ jacked nodded and added one sniff at a time
The morning sun had already climbed high over the hills when Ross pulled his car into the gravel drive outside Jack’s cottage. The place was built from rough-hewn granite blocks, with a slate roof that glistened silver in the light and a chimney stack that sent a thin wisp of smoke curling into the sky. A wooden sign by the gate read ‘HAYES CARPENTRY’ in painted letters that were faded but clear, and the garden around the house was a mix of wildflowers and neat vegetable beds rows of carrots and peas growing alongside foxgloves and poppies.
Ross got out of his car, his Adidas still splattered with mud from the day before, and paused to look at the workshop at the bottom of the garden. It was a long, low building with a corrugated iron roof and large wooden doors that stood slightly ajar, letting out the warm smell of wood dust and beeswax. As he walked down the path, he could hear the sound of a radio playing folk music and the faint whir of a sander inside.
Jack appeared at the workshop door before Ross could knock, wiping his hands on a worn canvas apron. He was wearing the same white nime cotton socks thick and sturdy, now darkened with sweat from hours of sanding and his black Nikes were caked in fresh mud from working in the vegetable beds that morning. His face was flushed from exertion, and sweat had dampened his blonde hair at the temples.
‘You made it!’ Jack said, grinning as he stepped forward to shake Ross’s hand. His palm was warm and slightly damp from sanding wood. ‘Come in, come in. I’ve been working on that storage shelf I mentioned you’ll have to tell me what you think of the design.’
Ross followed him into the workshop, and the smell of wood hit him first. It was a rich, warm mix of oak, pine and cedar, with undertones of glue and linseed oil. The walls were lined with shelves stacked high with tools and pieces of timber, and workbenches covered in sawdust stretched along both sides of the room. A large dining table polished to a high shine – stood in the centre, and Jack gestured toward it proudly.
‘I made that for a family in St Ives,’ he said, running his hand over the surface. ‘English oak took me three weeks to get the grain just right. Smell that.’
He leaned forward and breathed in deeply, his eyes closing for a moment. Ross did the same, bringing his face close to the wood. It smelled of sunshine and earth, of slow growth and careful craftsmanship.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Ross said, and he meant it. ‘You can tell how much care you put into it.’
Jack smiled, then moved to one of the workbenches where a set of wooden shelves lay partially assembled. ‘This is the one I’m working on now,’ he said. ‘I want to put it against the wall outside so it’s part of the garden rather than just a storage space. I was thinking we could plant climbing roses at the base what do you reckon?’
Ross walked over to look, running his fingers over the smooth edges of the wood. He could see the marks of Jack’s tools fine grooves from the plane, tiny indentations from the chisel each one a sign of the work that had gone into it. ‘I think that’s a brilliant idea,’ he said. ‘Roses would soften the wood, and their roots would help hold the soil in place by the stream bank. We could add some ferns too they love damp spots like that.’
They spent the next hour talking through the design, Ross sketching out plans in a notebook while Jack adjusted the measurements on the shelves. Every so often, Ross would find his eyes drifting down to Jack’s feet the socks were now dusted with sawdust, and the mud from his trainers had left dark prints on the workshop floor. At one point, Jack bent down to pick up a piece of timber, and Ross caught a whiff of warm cotton and sweat from his socks. It was the same earthy scent he’d noticed in the gym, mixed now with the smell of wood dust.
‘You’re staring again,’ Jack said, but his voice was light and he didn’t seem to mind. ‘I suppose these socks are even worse now than they were yesterday.’
‘Not worse,’ Ross said, looking up at him. ‘Just more interesting. Every new mark is another story.’
Jack laughed, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Speaking of stories, how do you feel about going for that walk down to the stream? The path’s steeper than I remembered, and it’ll be muddy after last night’s rain, but it’s worth it when you get there.’il.just change into.my boots
‘Sounds perfect,’ Ross replied. ‘I’ll just grab my jacket from the car.’oh crap I forgot boots!
They set off a few minutes later, Jack leading the way through a gate at the bottom of the garden and onto a narrow track that wound up over a hill. The path was thick with mud in places, and Ross had to watch his step to avoid slipping. Jack moved more easily over the rough ground, his boots finding firm footholds even where the earth was soft and wet. As they climbed higher, Ross could feel his heart beating faster from the exertion, and sweat began to trickle down his neck under his hoodie. And jacket
‘Nearly there,’ Jack called back, his voice carrying over the sound of birds singing in the trees above. ‘Just round this bend you’ll see the stream through the trees.’
Ross pushed on, his legs burning slightly as he climbed the last stretch of hill. When he reached the top, he stopped to catch his breath, and the view took his breath away. A clear, fast-flowing stream wound its way through a valley below, bordered by trees and wildflower meadows. The water sparkled like glass in the sunlight, and he could see small fish darting through the shallows.
‘Told you it was worth it,’ Jack said, coming to stand beside him. He was breathing hard from the climb, and sweat had soaked through the back of his t-shirt. His face was flushed bright red, and he pushed his hair back from his forehead with a muddy hand. ‘This is my favourite spot. I come here when I need to think, or when I’ve been working too hard and need to slow down.’
Ross nodded, his eyes fixed on the stream. ‘It’s incredible. You can feel how old this place is like it’s been here forever.’
‘It has, more or less,’ Jack said. ‘My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid. We’d fish for minnows in the stream and build dams out of stones. He taught me how to tell which trees were good for carpentry just by smelling their bark.’
He walked over to an old oak tree at the edge of the path, running his hand over the rough bark. ‘Smell this,’ he said, gesturing for Ross to come closer.
Ross leaned forward and breathed in. The bark smelled of damp earth and moss, with a faint, sharp tang that reminded him of autumn. ‘That’s amazing,’ he said. ‘You can really tell it’s an oak.’
‘My dad could tell you what kind of oak it was just from the smell,’ Jack said, then began to walk down the slope toward the stream. ‘Come on let’s get closer. There’s a spot by the water where the wild garlic grows thick in spring.’
The path down to the stream was steeper and muddier than the climb up, and by the time they reached the bank both of them were breathing heavily and covered in mud. Jack’s boots were caked thick with wet earth, and sweat had seeped through the fabric of his boots, leaving dark patches on his white socks. He stopped at the edge of the stream, looking out at the water with a wide smile on his face but his shoulders slumped slightly as he shifted his weight, clearly aware of how damp his feet were.
‘These are absolutely sweat logged,’ he said, shaking his foot gently. ‘I knew I should have worn my gaiters!
Before Jack could reach for the laces, Ross stepped forward, his hands moving with quiet fluidity. ‘Let me,’ he said softly, lowering himself to one knee in the damp grass beside Jack’s feet.
He reached up and began to untie the laces of Jack’s left boot, his fingers working carefully as if handling something delicate. The mud had caked around the eyelets, but Ross took his time, brushing it away gently until the laces came free. As he pulled the boot off, a whiff o sweat and exertion hit both noses his sock was steaming followed by the soft rustle of damp fabric.
Jack’s once sock was dark with sweat and water, the cotton clinging to the shape of his foot. Ross set the boot down beside him – it was heavy with mud, and the inside glistened with moisture – then brought his face close to the fabric of the sock, breathing in deeply. The scent was warm and earthy: sweat from Jack’s exertion on the climb, damp cotton, and the rich smell of mud from the hillside. Mmmmmmmm size 12 he moaned
He then picked up the boot, holding it carefully as if it were a piece of fine china and brought it to his nose. The leather smelled of wear mixed with the same sweat and mud that clung to the sock a complex, living scent that spoke of every step Jack had taken that day.
‘Every part of you tells a story,’ Ross said quietly, setting the boot down and moving to the other foot. He repeated the process with Jack’s right boot, as he pulled it free, then pressed his nose to the damp sock and the leather of the second boot in turn.
Jack stood still, his breathing soft and steady as Ross worked. When Ross had finished and looked up at him, Jack sank slowly to his knees in the grass before Ross, his eyes fixed on Ross’s feet his Adidas were splattered with mud and grass stains, the canvas dark with sweat, and his socks were drenched through from exertion
‘My turn,’ Jack said, his voice low and reverent. He reached forward and took hold of Ross’s left trainer, his fingers moving with the same care Ross had shown him as if the well-worn Adidas were made of the finest crystal. He loosened the laces gently, brushing away clumps of mud with his thumbs before sliding the trainer off.
Sweat dripped from the canvas onto the grass, and Ross’s sock – dark blue wool, now sodden was stretched tight over his foot. Jack looked at it for a moment, then leaned forward and inhaled deeply, his face close to Ross’s toes.
‘You’re a size 14,’ he said, his voice full of quiet admiration. ‘They’re perfect solid and grounded, just like you. The socks smell incredible lavender from your soap, damp earth from the path, and the warm scent of your skin. Even drenched like this, they’re beautiful.’
He set the trainer down carefully, then repeated the process with Ross’s right foot, sliding the Adidas off with gentle precision and breathing in the scent of the damp sock and worn leather. When he was done, he looked up at Ross, his eyes bright with emotion.
‘You see me,’ Jack said. ‘And now I see you really see you. Every mark, every smell, every part of you that’s been worn down by life is perfect to me.’
Ross reached out and touched Jack’s face, his thumb brushing away a speck of mud from his cheek. ‘We see each other,’ he said. ‘That’s all that matters.’
They sat there for a while in the grass by the stream, the water bubbling gently beside them. Jack leaned forward and picked a leaf of wild garlic, crushing it between his fingers and holding it up to Ross’s face. The scent was strong and fresh, with hints of onion and spring rain. Ross breathed it in deeply, feeling it clear his head after the climb.
‘That’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘We could plant some of that near the cottage it’d look great with the roses.’
Jack nodded, then stood up slowly, offering his hand to help Ross to his feet. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but I’m thirsty. There’s a spring up the hill where the water’s clean enough to drink want to go and see it?’
‘Lead the way,’ Ross replied, taking Jack’s hand and letting him pull him up. His legs were stiff from sitting in the grass, but he felt more alive than he had in years.
The path to the spring was even steeper than before, and they had to climb over fallen branches and push through thick patches of gorse. Jack was moving faster now, his excitement clear in the way he bounded over obstacles and pointed out interesting plants and stones along the way. By the time they reached the spring, both of them were covered in mud and sweat, their breathing heavy from the exertion.
The spring bubbled up from under a large flat stone, clear water running over smooth pebbles and into a small pool. Jack knelt down beside it, cupping his hands and drinking deeply. ‘Tastes like cold iron,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Best water you’ll ever drink.’
Ross knelt beside him, drinking slowly. The water was cold and fresh, and it felt like it was washing away the tiredness from his muscles. As he drank, he could smell the damp earth around the spring and the faint scent of wild garlic from the bank above.
‘You know,’ Jack said, sitting back on his heels and looking at Ross, ‘when I first saw you staring at my socks in the gym, I thought you were just being strange. But now… now I realise you see things the way I do. You understand that every mark, every smell, every worn-down bit tells a story about who we are.’
He reached out and touched Ross’s hand, his fingers calloused but gentle. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before. Someone who sees the good in things that other people would think are dirty or worn out.’
Ross looked at him, his heart full. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you either,’ he said. ‘Someone who works so hard and cares so much about what they do. You make things that last, Jack. Things that have soul.’
Jack smiled, then stood up and brushed mud from his knees. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We should head back before it gets too late. I was thinking we could make dinner i’ve got some fresh fish from the market in Truro, and my mum sent me some of her homemade chutney.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ Ross said, standing up and following Jack back down the hill. As they walked, Jack pointed out more plants and stones, telling stories about each one and asking Ross about his work designing gardens. Every so often, one of them would pause to smell a flower or a piece of bark, or to look at the marks on their boots and socks each one a reminder of the bond they were building.
By the time they reached the cottage, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky pink and gold over the hills. Jack led Ross into the kitchen, where a wood-burning stove sent warmth and the smell of burning logs through the room.
‘Let me get the kettle on,’ Jack said, taking off his muddy trainers and socks and leaving them by the door to dry. ‘We can have a cup of tea before we start cooking you must be exhausted.’
Ross sat down at the wooden table, taking off his own trainers and socks. They were damp and covered in mud, but he didn’t mind every mark was a memory of the walk they’d taken, of the stream and the spring and the moment Jack had knelt before him, seeing him fully for the first time. As he sat there, he could smell the wood smoke from the stove and the faint, warm scent of their boots and socks by the door a scent that felt like home.
Jack came back into the room a few minutes later with two mugs of tea, setting one down in front of Ross before sitting opposite him. ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Strong with two sugars just how I like it.’
Ross took a sip, the warm tea spreading through his chest. ‘This is exactly what I needed,’ he said. ‘Thank you for today, Jack. For showing me your place, for taking me on that walk. It means more than you know.’
Jack smiled, looking at him over the rim of his mug. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘For seeing me, really seeing me. I can’t wait to see what we build together shelves and gardens and… well, whatever else comes next.’
Ross looked at him, his heart full of hope and warmth. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Me too.’
As they sat there drinking tea and talking about their plans, the last of the sun disappeared below the hills, leaving the room warm and golden in the light from the stove. Outside, the stars were beginning to come out over the cottage, and the smell of wood smoke and damp earth drifted through the open window. It was the smell of connection, of work well done and love beginning to grow.
End of part 1
