When they got to the cemetery it had started to snow, and he parked his truck. He climbed out and opened her door.

"Do you mind waiting in the car?" she asked.

"Of course," he said and handed her one of the bouquets.

She balanced them in her arms, gave him a small smile, and headed along the familiar alley. Somehow, every time when she was making this trip, she had the same memory: visiting Rhys' grandfather's grave with Nana. Viola had just married Rhys then. Nana had just had her hip replaced, and Viola had driven her and the large bouquet of red roses to the Fleckney Woulds cemetery. Mable Holyoake had had four husbands in her lifetime - and Patrick Holyoake, her first husband had been the love of her life, according to her. Viola had felt then that it was quite unfair towards her next three Mr. Nana's. These days, she could see the irony in the indignation she'd felt ten plus years ago.

That day they'd come to the cemetery, Nana had sat down on a bench in front of Patrick's grave - and started talking to him. She told him the news of his grandchildren, the latest gossip of Fleckney, and what the doctor had said about her surgery. As Viola found out later, Nana never behaved this way near the other three graves. Patrick had died when his twin sons had been five.

Viola placed the bouquets on her parents graves, and, as always, she just stood there, wishing she had Mable Holyoake's faith: that the dead heard us, that they cared, that they weren't just... gone. As a scientist, Viola lacked the luxury of the comforting thought that our bodies didn't just stop working one day, and then, there was nothing left of us.

She was starting to feel cold, so she pushed her hands into the pockets of her coat, and headed back to the car. Rhys was sitting in the driver's seat, his phone in his hand, and she had to knock on his window to make him look up. He gave her a surprised look - she really hadn't been gone that long - opened the door and came out of the car. She didn't feel like arguing and reminding him that he could just unlock the passenger door, so she waited for him to walk around and open it for her.

When he closed his door behind him, he turned to her and smiled softly.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked.

"I normally just drive to the nearest town, and find some place for lunch. There's this–"

Suddenly, her voice broke, and she pressed her hand around her throat. For a second, she couldn't understand what was happening - her eyes burnt, and there was some strange pain behind her temples - and then the first sob burst out of her. She hadn't cried in this cemetery since the funerals. She cried rarely, in general, and the hot tears that suddenly filled her eyes felt jarring.

"I don't– I don't know why I'm–" she tried to speak, but the words jumbled, and she dropped her head and hid her face into her hands.

She felt his large hand lay on her shoulder, and she shifted and leaned towards him. Another sob quaked her body, and then another, loud and desperate. She pressed her face into his shoulder, and then grabbed whatever was nearest to her. Her nails sank into the sleeve of his jacket. She cried, grasping for control - and failing. And then he picked her up under her arms, and pulled, and sat her on his lap. She fit, she was so much smaller than him. He shifted, making sure she had enough room for her legs, and he might have even moved his seat. She didn't quite notice. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and kept crying, her face against his shoulder. His jacket had opened when he'd pulled her closer - and she felt the scratchy material of his jumper scrape against her forehead and cheek. He ran his fingers through her hair, and she felt him press his cheek on the top of her head. She fisted her hand around a handful of his jumper, and small hiccups and heaves escaped her in hoarse exhales.

She was calming down now, and she shifted and pressed her forehead into his neck.

"God, I haven't cried like that in years," she rasped out and took a shaky breath. "Don't know what's wrong with me today..."

"It's probably my fault," he joked.

She gave out a jittery chuckle and sat up straighter. Their eyes met.

"I'm sorry," she said. She hurriedly wiped her tears, brushing the tips of her fingers under her eyes. There was mascara on them. The familiar shame for losing her composure made her shoulders tense. "I don't usually–" she started, and then bit her tongue because he stroked her cheek with his thumb.

"You do know you're allowed to cry in the cemetery where your parents are buried, right?" he said. "I did plenty of that if you recall."

"Well, you've always been the sensitive one," she quipped, and he chuckled.

"No matter what they say about you, you aren't made of stone either, Vi," he said. "Or ice."

"Ah, right, the Ice Queen," she said with another nervous laugh. "The courtesy of your cousin John, if I recall correctly," she muttered, suppressing the bitterness she habitually felt at the memory of the nickname. "No, I'm not made of stone. Still, I must be coming down with something."

She pressed her hand into the dashboard - and he opened his left palm offering her support. She took it, and climbed onto her seat carefully.

"Maybe, you caught my flu," he said.

"It's been a week, I assume I'd have shown symptoms earlier," she said. "But maybe. Stress could've weakened my immune system. I didn't run well in the morning, actually, I felt sort of off."

"If you do get ill, you might as well have snogged me then," he said and started the car.

"Oh, I will forever mourn that wasted opportunity, Rhys," she said, and he snorted.

She flipped the visor to look at herself. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was disheveled. She pulled the pins out of her hair and ruffled it.

"It looks brilliant," he said, his eyes on the road.

"What? My hair?"

He threw her a quick side glance. "Yeah. I like it longer," he said.

She smiled, pleased by his compliment. They were quiet for a few minutes, and she was starting to feel sleepy.

"So, where did you want to have lunch?" he asked.

Viola couldn't suppress a yawn.

"It doesn't–" She yawned again. "Doesn't matter."

"Do you want to sleep for a bit? We'll eat when you wake up," he said.

She suddenly felt so knackered, and her seat was so comfortable, that she nodded, and pulled the collar of her jacket up, and settled down. She was asleep seconds after she closed her eyes.

***

"Vi," someone called her quietly, and she stirred. "Vi, wake up."

She slowly opened her eyes, and stared at Rhys, trying to understand where she was. Oh right. Mum and Da's graves. The white carnations. The shocking melt down, like she'd never had before. His cologne, and his warmth. His hard body under his jumper. She was in Rhys' car.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"At my place," he said. "You slept all the way back to Fleckney Fields. I thought you might want to order something to eat. Or just freshen up. I didn't know if you wanted me to bring you to the surgery like that."

"Thank you," she said with sincere gratitude. She looked at his cottage through the windscreen. "I'd love to come in if you don't mind."

"I'm inviting you," he said with a chuckle. "But I didn't expect you to come, so excuse the mess."

"Mess doesn't bother me when it's someone else's home," she said and unbuckled her seatbelt.

"Really?" he asked sardonically. "So, you're OK with me throwing my clothes on the floor as long as it's not your house."

"Yes, of course," she said, giving him a confused look. "Why does this surprise you?"

"What about those mugs I leave around?" he asked when they came up to his front door.

"They are your mugs on your bedroom floor, Rhys," she said. "What do they have to do with me?"

"So, it's not the mess itself that makes you cheesed off?" he asked, unlocking the door, and letting her pass him into the hall.

"It always surprises me when people think I judge them, or care how they live their lives," she said and bent down to unzip her boots. "I just want my home to be tidy and look good. Clutter and things lying around make me anxious," she said, straightening up and unbuttoning her coat. "I can't sleep or work when it's messy, that's all."

She looked up and realised that he was standing by the door, the key still in his hand, not a zipper open or a button unbuttoned.

"What?" she asked.

"Why did you not just tell me that?" he exclaimed. He gave her a bewildered look over. "We had rows about it for years! Why didn't you just say exactly this - but then?"

"I'm sure I did," she said.

"No, I would've remembered," he said firmly.

"Rhys, I must have mentioned it," she said with a chuckle. The never wavering assurance of Rhys Holyoake! If he doesn't remember it, it never happened! she thought in amusement.

"No, no, you did not. You nagged and complained, and I tried but I just kept forgetting. I leave things lying around," he said. "It's just a thing with me. But if I'd known it made you anxious, I would've paid more attention."

They stared at each other, and then she gave out an uncomfortable laugh.

"Well, what does it matter now?" she said and turned away from him to hang her coat in the closet. "Now I don't live with you, and you can leave things lying wherever you want." A revelation dawned on her, and she whipped her head to gawk at him. "Is that why you brought the tray down the other day? When you were ill?"

"And picked up my clothes from the floor because you promised to come back," he grumbled and bent down to take off his boots. "And now it turns out you don't care."

Viola giggled and clasped her hand over her mouth.

"And the shower?" she asked.

He threw her a grumpy look, but then his shoulders shook in a silent laugh, and he nodded.

"I didn't expect anything to happen, but thought you'd appreciate a clean shirt," he said.

"I did," she said, and turned away from him. "So, how much mess are we talking about here?" she asked, and he chuckled behind her.

"I might suggest you stay out of the bedroom," he said.

"Well, that won't be a problem," she said and walked in.

"Not today, I reckon. But it's just day one," he said behind her, and she felt a small tickle at the back of her neck, as if the small hair stood up from the purring rumble in his voice. "You are yet to have dinner with me."

She didn't find anything clever to say and went to his bathroom to wash her hands.