A fortnight later...

Fenton knocked at her office door - she recognised his confident loud rattle - and she invited him in. He stuck his head in, just as always.

"Lunch?" he asked grumpily.

"I've already had it," Viola said. "My previous appointment was short."

The Welshman nodded and studied her.

"Mrs. Owens won't be pleased," he said.

"Oh right, she'll have nothing to gossip about," Viola said with a laugh. "After our previous lunch, Mrs. Tomlin in the florist shop asked me if I was 'enjoying my new accommodation,'" she said, widening her eyes dramatically.

"Bloody grapevine," he grumbled and retreated in the hallway again.

Viola chuckled and went back to her paperwork.

"Oh and Viola," Fenton said, sticking his head in. She looked up at him. "Sorry," he muttered. "Would you check on Elisa Short, please? She didn't ring us back."

"I will, Alan," Viola answered. "Her bloodwork is back, and I think I should offer her a home visit. I have no appointments for the afternoon, and she has the little'uns. I wouldn't want her to drag them to the surgery."

"That's very kind of you," Fenton said.

***

Viola hissed in irritation. The slush that she'd just scooped with her ankle boot felt disgusting. The terraced cottages where her patient lived had some sort of roadworks happening in front of them, and she'd had to plod through a significant patch of mud and rubble to get to the entrance, and now back to her car. She walked carefully on the temporary pathway, put across the muck, when her phone rang in her handbag. She stopped and pushed her hand into her oxblood Mulberry.

"Afternoon, Viola," Rhys' voice came from behind her, and she startled.

"Hi. Sorry, phone!" she said hurriedly, turning to him and finally fished out her Android and picked up the call. "Yes, Alan?"

She listened to Fenton inform her that the plumber would be able to come to fix 'their' shower no sooner than the next morning, while Rhys just stood on the other end of the plank she was balancing on, his eyes intent on her face.

"Right, yes, thank you for letting me know," Viola said, and mouthed 'Sorry' to Rhys again.

He nodded.

"I will find somewhere else to shower then, Alan," Viola said, somewhat distracted by Rhys' presence and the repulsive feeling of cold water slowly soaking the foot of her stocking.

Fenton muttered some of his usual incomprehensible grumbling, and they said their goodbyes. Viola stuffed the mobile back in her back, and lifted her eyes at Rhys.

"OK, let's try this again," she said, and he smirked. "Hi."

"Hello," he said. "Visiting Elisa?"

Viola gave him a surprised look.

"That would be confidential," she said and looked him over. He had a large bag from Mr. Tote's grocery shop in his hand. "Are you visiting Elisa Short?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm her landlord," he answered. "These are mine." He pointed behind him with his thumb.

"These– You mean, you own the cottages," she said.

He nodded.

"Her husband used to work for me, he was planning to buy their cottage out after we finished renovating them. And then he had his accident," he said. "He was a good man."

"I'm sorry," Viola said sincerely. "She mentioned her landlord was partially wavering their rent, I just didn't know it was you." She smiled at him. "That's very decent of you."

"Well, she's a friend, and she has three little'uns," he said with a shrug. "I should get their groceries to them."

"Yes, of course," Viola said quickly. "Well, have a good day!"

"You too," he said - but didn't move.

Viola threw him a confused look and turned around to leave.

"Will I see you at Nana's on Sunday?" he asked behind her.

She looked at him over her shoulder.

"I wasn't invited," she said with a small laugh.

"You should come," he said. "We're ordering Chinese. Your favourite."

That was so much like him - to invite a person for dinner to someone else's house!

Viola gave out another laugh. "I don't like Chinese anymore," she said and shook her head. "And I'm sure if Nana wanted to see me this Sunday, she'd let me know."

He opened his mouth to say something - and then he didn't.

"Have a good day, Rhys," Viola said again.

She walked almost all the way to her car when she couldn't help it anymore and turned around. He was at the door of Elisa's cottage already, and she saw him ring the bell.

She'd seen him only once since that odd conversation they'd had in Nana's kitchen. Viola had been invited to another Sunday dinner but this time, almost all of the Holyoake grandsons were there. Viola had had so much catching up to do with the rest of the family that she'd hardly spoken two words to Rhys that evening. She'd been introduced to his cousins' wives - Clementine and Fiona - and had spent an endlessly pleasant evening getting to know them, as well as reconnecting with Oliver and Sam Holyoakes. Semra, Sam's wife, had been said to be ill, but his children had been there. All of them had ended up playing a few rounds of Cluedo, and Viola had enjoyed the evening immensely. She knew now she'd been naive to assume she'd be able to stay away from the Holyoake family, despite not being part of the family officially - but she also realised she didn't mind. After all, she had always planned to have her life and practice in exactly this environment: where everyone knew everyone and tended to stick their noses into everyone's business.

She climbed into her Panda and turned the key.

***

Two days later she was making coffee in the morning when her phone rang.

"Viola, dear, this is Mable." Nana's voice in the phone lacked its normal lilt.

"Morning, Nana."

"Do you happen to know how Rhys is doing? He's not picking up his phone, and I'm worried," Nana said.

Viola frowned and put down the container with the beans. Rhys Holyoake - and how he was 'doing' - surely was not her responsibility these days, was it?

"Dear, I'm only asking because he was ill and said he'd ring the surgery," Mable said, correctly interpreting the reason behind Viola's silence.

Viola felt a pang of guilt for her - given, internal - outburst of indignation.

"I'm not entirely sure, Nana," she answered. "I haven't heard from him. If he did, he would've talked to Alan. I will look into it."

"Thank you, dear," Nana said. "And I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise, you know that. But you are a doctor - and he always picks up the phone when I call."

"He's probably asleep, Nana," Viola said, and a guess popped up in her mind. "Does he have the flu? I ran into him two days ago, and I know he was in contact with a patient of mine who'd been ill."

"He said 'headache' yesterday, so I assumed it was his usual migraine." Nana sounded distressed. "You know him, dear, he doesn't complain, so he must feel truly poorly to admit it."

Viola once again promised Nana to look into it and hung up. She looked at her watch. Fenton would be back from the gym any moment, so she just sat down with her coffee and waited for him.

The front door opened and closed, and she heard Alan's hurried steps up the stairs.

"Morning," he grumbled, passing by the kitchen door.

"Alan," she called, and he took a few steps back and stopped in the door. "I've just gotten a call from Mable Holyoake," Viola said, feeling rather uncomfortable. "She's worried about her grandson."

"Which one?" Fenton asked with his usual sarcasm.

"Rhys. Has he contacted you? She says he was ill."

"Are you asking as a family member?" he asked with a chuckle. "Because otherwise it's confidential."

"I am not his family member," Viola said dryly, and he laughed again.

He had a dry barking laugh, which Viola found rather attractive.

"And yet," he said, giving her a sardonic look. "I haven't heard anything. He is my patient, just as the rest of the Holyoakes, as you're aware, but last time I saw him was a year ago for his physical for the swimming coach certification."

Viola thanked him, and he went to his half of the flat. Viola finished her coffee and caught herself drumming her fingers on the table. She splayed her hand on the table, surprised to see her old fidgeting habit resurface. It took her more than ten minutes to make her decision.

She dialled his number and listened to the tone and then to his voicemail message. While getting dressed, she still pondered whether to ask someone else to go - but then she picked up her keys and went down to her car.

***

The Periwinkle Grove was one of the oldest cottages in Fleckney Fields. He was right when he'd said she'd always liked it. It had been neglected and untouched for years when she'd seen it last. Looking at it now, she could see that the renovations on it had been done in the best possible manner - with the respect to its original structure and with the authentic materials.

She came up to the front door and lifted her hand to ring the bell - and froze in hesitation.

"Morning, Dr. Holyoake," a voice came from behind, and she whipped her head.

Mr. Pye, the milkman, was approaching her with his basket in his hand.

"Morning," she said, feeling her cheeks flame up.

You only have yourself to blame, Viola Holyoake. You should've sent Sam or Fenton.

"Oh, is Mr. Rhys alright?" the milkman asked.

"That's what I'm here about. For a home visit, you see," Viola said. The more you explain, the worse it'll look.

"Oh, well, I hope he feels better soon," Mr. Pye said and handed her a milk bottle. "Pass my best wishes to him, please."

"I will," Viola said.

She wasn't proud of it, but she waited for the Irishman to go all the way back to his van, before she finally rang the bell. The cottage was silent for a few minutes, and Viola gritted her teeth, torn between an acute desire to turn around and leave - he's not her patient! - and the thought that she should probably ring the bell again. And then the door opened.

She felt almost relieved to see him so obviously unwell, except the professional empathy kicked in right away at the view of his dull, dark blue eyes, his ashen pale skin, and the bright red lips.

"Hiya," she said, keeping her voice low. He'd have a splitting headache as well. "I came to check on you." She gave him a soft smile.

His hand on the doorframe, he was leaning forward, his large body slumped ahead. He was barefoot, dressed in a pair of soft lounge trousers and a tee.

"What time is it?" he asked. His voice was pure rasp.

"C'mon, let's come in," she said softly, stepped forward, and put her hand on his upper arm.

He was definitely burning up.

"It's probably Elisa's flu," he muttered. "You shouldn't–"

"I've had my shots," she said, and he beckoned her inside after a second of hesitation.

He closed the door and immediately leaned his back against the wall.

"What time is it?" he asked again.

"It's nine," she answered, "in the morning."

He cringed. "Thursday, right?"

"Let's get you back to bed," she said, and he nodded weakly.

"Where's your kitchen, Rhys?" she asked. "I have your milk."

He gave her a bleary-eyed, confused look, and she lifted the bottle.

"It's–" He pointed, and she looked through the large, well-lit drawing room at his kitchen. "Can I have some of it? It's cold."

"Not with the antibiotics I'm going to prescribe to you," she said.

She took off her jacket and boots, and quickly walked to his kitchen. She washed her hands and put the bottle in the fridge. Everything around her looked exactly the way one would expect from Rhys Holyoake: it was a mad mixture of the original rough textures of the stone floor and the walls, washed out wood, and distressed ceramics - and the newest and most high-tech appliances in the kitchen. He tended to gather a colourful assortment of exclusive knick-knacks, expensive furniture, and stylish items in his home, creating a discorded and loud, but oddly cosy space. And of course, anything technological had to be the latest and the best, he'd always been quite a techno snob.

"C'mon," she said, "where's your bedroom?"

"In the extension," he said and tried to straighten up.

He was so wobbly that she grabbed his upper arm again and supported him. The extension was at the back of the cottage, connected to the main area with a tiny hall. Again, it didn't clash with the original structure, despite its modern pared-down look. He knew his construction, after all - even though he had an appalling taste in furniture and linen, she thought in amusement. A vaulted glass stairwell led to the upper floor, to a lofty bedroom suite. He as much as fell in his massive bed.

"Where's your phone, Rhys? We've all been calling you," she said.

He rolled on his back and waved his hand around the bed. Viola approached, stepping over a pair of jeans and his jumper lying on the floor. She pulled his duvet over him, and dug in his bedding. She suddenly remembered how he slept - in a nest of two duvets, and a couple of blankets, maybe a throw, and always at least four pillows.

"It's out of battery," Viola said and put it on the charging stand on a bedside table.

She sat down on the edge of his bed and opened her bag.

"I assume you don't have a thermometer," she said.

She put the little cap on it, and he groaned.

"Do you have a mouth one? I hate the ear one," he said in an exaggerated whiny tone, one corner of his lips curling up, and she gave him a sardonic look.

He had funnily sensitive ears, she'd forgotten that.

"Don't be such a baby," she said and leaned in.

He jolted when she put the thermometer in, and she pressed her palm into his other cheek, keeping his head still. Their eyes met.

"I'm sick, I'm allowed," he said. "Your hands feel nice."

"It's because I'm cold-blooded," she said. The thermometer beeped. "Well, you aren't faking it," she said, looking at the small screen. "Did you take anything?"

He shook his head. "I came home around lunchtime and fell asleep."

He cleared his throat, and she saw his Adam's apple bob when he swallowed with difficulty.

"That was yesterday, Rhys," she said with soft reproach. "You should've called Fenton."

He hummed, not really agreeing with her - and then suddenly his hot fingers wrapped around her wrist. He picked up her hand and plopped it on his forehead.

"I'm going to need my hand back," she said nonchalantly. "I'm expected in the surgery in half an hour."

"So, you're just going to leave me," he said and closed his eyes.

"Yes, but before that I'm going to pump you full of meds," she said. "Keep your phone nearby, I'll ring you up later to check on you."

"Will you not stop by?" he asked, without opening his eyes. She thought she saw a small smile hiding in the corners of his lips. "Bring me soup or something."

"I'll send Alan," she deadpanned. "He has cold hands too."

She was rummaging in her bag and caught his movement in the corner of her eye. He was frowning, staring at her intently.

"I don't like it," he said, and she turned to him.

"What is it that you don't like?" she asked.

He swallowed with difficulty again.

"You and– Fenton's hands," he said.

He was furrowing his eyebrows, and she gave him an amused look.

"You're delirious," she said. "Literally."

She got up - deftly ignoring the unhappy noise he made, and his hand twitching on the sheets, as if he was going to stop her.

"I'll make you tea, bring you some liquids here - please, keep drinking - and I'll stop by later today, alright?"

He nodded again and closed his eyes.

"Take the key," he said, "by the front door, on the tripod table."

A coffee-coloured curl had fallen across his forehead, and she almost moved it aside, but then jerked her hand back.

"I'll be right back," she said and left the bedroom.