***

"Morning," he boomed.

She'd forgotten his voice - or to be more precise, the effect it could have. His eyes ran her body, and she felt heat spill on her cheekbones. Damn her pale skin!

And then she saw the exact moment when he recognised her.

"Viola?"

Suddenly his shocked face seemed so funny to her that all her embarrassment - from flashing her ex-husband with lashings of her bare skin - seemed to evaporate. Viola snorted.

"Did you expect someone else?" she asked.

"I didn't expect anyone," he grumbled. She knew - had known - him well enough to catch the uncertain expression hiding in his eyes. He stepped into the kitchen and pulled his jacket off. "What are you doing here?"

"Making tea," she answered, pressing her lips to suppress a smile. He threw her a quick exasperated glance. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Maisie said Nana wasn't feeling well, and that she needed me to come to take over."

What sort of a game is Maisie playing?

"When did she say that?" Viola said sharply.

"A few days ago," he said. "I was away on site, and came back as soon as I could."

"Ah." Viola laughed quietly. "Well, since then, I came to visit - and stayed. You probably didn't answer Maisie so she assumed you weren't coming."

"Why would she assume I wasn't–" he started and then nodded in realisation. "Because I didn't answer."

"Because you didn't answer," Viola said at the same time. "Although you never do, so I can't see why she would expect you to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said in a dark tone and furrowed his eyebrows.

She remembered how apprehensive she used to be of these frowns of his. Would you look at that, it only took you ten years to stop twitching and looking for a way to fix his mood.

"I'm sorry," she said innocently. "I should have phrased it better. You used to never answer texts or emails. Perhaps, it has changed since we last communicated via digital written means."

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Ah, this expression's familiar too. This is Rhys Holyoake's 'we are not amused' expression. The kettle whistled, and she turned away from him to take it off the hob.

"How long are you staying for?" he asked behind her in an irked tone.

Stop thinking about the fact that your vest is pretty much see-through and how tightly these trousers are hugging your backside, Viola. He doesn't care. Why should you?

"I don't know yet," she said. She opened a cabinet and realised the shelves were full of spices and condiments. "Where are the mugs?"

Instead of him answering, she felt his presence very close to her - and she twirled on one spot and winced away from him. Suddenly it was hard to take a breath. He was massive. She'd quite forgotten that. And his smell. Apparently his taste in scents hadn't changed. She caught the same cedar or pine or some other of those 'manly' fragrances. She stared at his face. The beard was new - full, thick and somewhat unkempt. All those years ago he had occasionally let it grow, claiming shaving was too much aggro, but it had been more of a stubble then. He knocked at one of the cabinet doors with his knuckles, his eyes intent on her face.

"Your hair's longer," he said quietly.

"It's Saturday," she said.

He blinked, and his gaze lost some of its intensity.

"What?" he asked.

"I thought we're exchanging obvious statements," she said and gave him a polite smile. "You said my hair was longer, I pointed out it's Saturday."

He once again narrowed his eyes at her. Viola opened the cabinet and took out a mug for herself.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, but he was already stomping out of the kitchen.

She heard the bathroom door bang behind him, and she released a shuddered exhale. And then she chuckled and shook her head.

Blimey. Rhys Holyoake. In the flesh.

She sat down at the table and was dangling a teabag in her mug when he came in. He wore one of those military style jumpers, and she shortly wondered if he'd thrown his jacket on the floor in the hall just as he'd always done all those years ago. This really has nothing to do with you now, Viola. He seemed to have gained more muscle weight since she'd seen him last, although she hardly had paid any attention to his looks then. And besides, the day of her mum's funeral had been cold and rainy, and he'd had his usual black M-65 jacket on then, which made anyone look hench.

He threw a look at her mug and lifted his left eyebrow sardonically. He's hinting you should have made him tea as well. Or perhaps not. How would you know? It's been ten years, and you don't know the man in front of you anymore.

He pulled up the sleeves of his black jumper, got himself a mug from the cabinet, and threw a tea bag in.

"So, you want to stay with Nana," he said, pouring hot water over.

She didn't deem it necessary to say anything in response, after all he wasn't exactly asking anything.

"She's not well, she needs to go to the hospital," he deadpanned and turned to her, lifting his mug to his lips.

Ten years. It had been ten years - and nothing had changed. On the other hand, why would anything change?

Viola gave him a calm smile, while her mind worked quickly. She could remind him that she was a medical professional - and he wasn't. She could point out that he'd only just met her after years of them leading separate lives, and that even when she'd been young, shy, and married to him, this tone of his - domineering, leaving no room for argument, or even any sort of discussion - had not been OK. But it had been ten years, and she wasn't young, shy, or married to him. She lifted her Earl Grey to her lips and took a small careful sip. His eyes roamed her face.

And then a doorbell rang through the cottage. He glanced towards the hall.

"That's probably Mable's carer," Viola said, and Rhys gave her a surprised look.

Viola rose, picked up her robe, and walked out of the kitchen. She could almost feel his gaze on her back. She put the robe on and opened the door.

"Hiya, I'm Molly," the young woman standing on the porch greeted Viola.

"Morning," Viola answered with a warm smile and stepped aside letting the girl in. "I'm Viola Holyoake."

"You'd be one of the grandsons' wives, right?" Molly said with a laugh. "Aren't you lot all ginger?"

Viola chuckled. That was another popular anecdote in Fleckney: the Holyoake boys marrying redheads. Most of them did. Only one of them divorced a redhead, though.

Speak of the devil.

Rhys stepped out of the kitchen, and Molly shrank under his stare.

"Rhys, would you please help Molly with her coat?" Viola said firmly. "I'll go check if Mable is awake."

She could feel his apprehensive gaze on the side of her face. It probably didn't compute in his mind. She'd just given him an order - a civil one, but an order nonetheless. Viola turned around and walked up the stairs.

She knocked on the bedroom door and was allowed in.

"Morning, Mable," she said. "Your carer is here. She seems lovely. And Rhys is here too."

"Oh dear," Mable said, looking at Viola over her reading glasses. "How bad is it?"

"I think I should go downstairs before she runs," Viola said. "Should I send her up?"

"Yes, please, dear."

"Would you like a tray?" Viola offered softly.

"Of course not." Mable pursed her lips in exactly the same gesture as Rhys. "As I said yesterday, you're my guest, not my servant, Viola. I'll either ask the girl, or come down myself."

Viola agreed lightly and was ready to leave, when Mable asked nonchalantly, "Is this what you wore when he saw you?"

Viola's hand froze on the door handle.

"I can't imagine he saw anything new, Mable," Viola said without turning and heard Nana's silver laugh behind her.

The girl stood at the bottom of the stairs already, probably waiting for the first opportunity to escape the charged energy field Rhys Holyoake tended to produce around him when he was dischuffed. Which would be about 80% of the time. At least that was the case ten years ago. People change. Viola saw him stand in the door of the kitchen, drinking his tea. Yes, people do change, it's probably more likely to be 90% now.

"Second door on the right," Viola said to the nurse, and the girl sped up to the first floor.

Rhys followed her with his eyes. Viola walked back to the kitchen, passing him on her way.

"How's she doing?" he asked and followed Viola.

"Dr. Fenton thinks there's nothing medically wrong with her," Viola answered, sitting down again.

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Rhys dismissed and opened the fridge.

He stuck his head inside - and Viola burst into loud laughter.

Ten years! It's been ten years - and here you are, Viola! Any discussion of anything with Rhys Holyoake had always been like that American film The Groundhog Day - always the same and never an actual discussion. Rhys postulated, everyone was supposed to do what they were told.

He slowly backed out of the fridge and gave her a questioning look.

"I'm the new partner in Dr. Fenton's surgery as of next week," she said, and saw Rhys' blue eyes widen. "And I would greatly appreciate it," she added, "if you didn't question my colleague's professional judgement."

Rhys' jaw slacked. Maybe she was right. People did change. She had.