It wasn't his warmth, nor the hard muscles of his massive body under her hands, nor the fresh spicy smell of his cologne and his skin; nor the hunger she could feel in his movements - not for sex, but for closeness - in how his embrace kept tightening and how his fingers moved, gathering more and more of her dress on her back. It was the sudden pull inside her that was the most shocking. Overwhelming. Like drowning. She arched into him, and let him crush her, and the hot skin at the back of his neck burnt the inside of her forearm. She hadn't touched him in more than ten years - not like this. She moaned and closed her eyes.

"Vi," he whispered, and it felt as if he was going to move away - and she pulled him in more insistently.

Viola was hardly a person prone to colourful metaphors - but something seemed to crack inside her. And she pressed into him, and warmth spread inside her, making her melt into him, both softening and waking her up. She moved her right arm back, intentionally brushing her wrist to his nape, and then pushed her hand up, threading her fingers into his hair. Her head spun, and she slacked, dropping her forehead onto his shoulder.

"Vi?"

"I think, I might–" she said. It's amazing how sober your voice sounds - considering you're feeling completely inebriated! From one hug, Viola. What's this all about?

"You think what?" he asked quietly.

He followed her example, and she felt his long strong fingers tangle into the hair at the back of her head. She couldn't hold back another moan. She slightly turned her face and rubbed her nose to the side of his throat.

"Vi, what are you doing?" he asked. He was raspy - and sounded almost alarmed.

She brushed her palm on the other side of his neck, and then dragged the tips of her fingers - and her nails - down to the hollow between his clavicles, and hooked her fingers on the collar of his jumper. Suprasternal notch, her brain supplied. She could feel his body react to her touch: the shudder than ran through him, how his hand twitched on her nape, and a sharp inhale that made his chest rise. Had it been like that before? Had she affected him that much then? She couldn't recall.

"I think I need a nap," she said - and released him and moved away.

He scrutinised her face, frowning, and she saw him press his lips in a hard line.

"You're bollocking me, aren't you?" he asked in a low voice - and Viola suddenly burst into laughter. He looked so vexed!

"Heavens, no," she said. "I'm ill, tired, and confused."

He gave her another glare, and she lay down and pulled the duvet over her head. She had mild claustrophobia, so it was somewhat uncomfortable - but she just couldn't help this uncharacteristic frolicking!

"Vi, seriously, what the actual–" he started, and then his mobile rang.

He muttered something, most likely rather crude, and got off the bed. She heard him stomp out of the room, and she jerked the duvet off her head.

What are you doing, Viola?

She sat up in the bed, once again tucking her pillow behind her back. He was back a few minutes later, with an empty tray from the kitchen and the take away bag.

"I got you the same you got me," he grumbled. He must have noticed the cringe she didn't manage to fully hide. "What? Not good?"

"Definitely not the pudding," she said. "And I'm not particularly fond of the soup."

"Fenton left you a thermos in the morning," Rhys said, in an even more disgruntled tone. "Do you want me to warm up whatever's inside?"

"Yes, please," she said.

He dropped the bag on the floor and left with the morning tray. Viola heard cupboards and microwave doors bang in the kitchen. No one could delegate their displeasure with noises made by inanimate objects quite as well as Rhys Holyoake! Viola was still holding on to her jolly mood - but only just. All those years ago, he could take no more than three objections at a time, no matter how small. After that, he'd shut off and wouldn't say a word for hours afterwards. By now, she'd told him off for his comment on her bed, had told him he'd insulted her, had hid from him under the duvet, consequently refusing to answer his question, and then had rejected his gift of soup and cake. No wonder Fenton's poor kitchen was receiving some beating.

He was back with a tray: a bowl of steaming chicken soup, a cut up slice of toast with butter, and two mugs of tea, each with a merry yellow circle of lemon floating in it. Vi looked over the assortment with surprised admiration. He had always been more adept in the kitchen than her, but it had been years since anyone had taken care of her this way.

"Thank you," she said as he put the tray onto her lap.

"You should thank Fenton," he said and picked up one of the tea mugs.

Viola decided she was above quipping 'Maybe I will' back at him, and started eating her soup. He drank his tea silently, sitting on the foot of her bed. Viola glanced at him checking for the telltale signs of his ire: muscles dancing on his jaw, or narrowed eyes. She found both, as well as the even thinner line of his lips, and sighed. Goodbye, Viola's light and silly mood. See you in another five or six years!

She also knew he was hungry, and thus, even more disagreeable than usual. She could never understand while he seemed to enjoy wallowing in these dark moods of his instead of getting some food into him, taking his irritation under control, and simply discussing what it was that was bothering him. Instead, he just sat there, and brooded, and somehow, without saying a word, making her feel responsible for it!

"I'm really grateful for your help, Rhys," she said levelly, putting down her spoon, "but you really don't have to stay. I do feel much better."

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

Who says things like that? There's a thin line between 'refreshingly direct' and 'rudely blunt.'

"I want you to stop glaring at me, tell me if there's something you'd like to discuss, or, if you can't bring yourself to do the above, do please leave," she answered sharply, and picked up a soldier.

And now watch him grit something through his teeth and leave, banging the door behind him, in three, two, one... Their eyes met, and she bit into the bread with a crunch. She hadn't had toast in at least three years. He looked down into his tea and jerked his neck in his usual gesture of unease.

"I can't keep up with you, Vi," he said. "You– You were dischuffed with me, and then you hugged me, and touched me, and then you were– hiding and as much as giggling! And now you want me to leave. I don't get it." He threw her a half-upset, half-annoyed look. "You said you'd have dinner with me, and now you're angry with me, so I reckon the date is off the table."

Viola gave him a bewildered look over. How can a person take zero responsibility for how people are around them? What sort of a massive blind spot does one need to have?!

"You do realise that my behaviour doesn't just– happen in vacuum, Rhys, do you?" she exclaimed, almost at loss of words. "I'm reacting to what you say and do! I'm angry because you say hurtful things, and you throw and bang things, just because I didn't want to eat the soup that makes me nauseous! And I hugged and touched you because for a moment there I liked what I saw! You were open and sincere and complimented me and made me feel good about myself. And now we're back exactly where we left off ten years ago - with you being abrupt, and closed off, and– And you do realise that you're just hungry and that's why everything rubs you the wrong way, right?" she added - and then exhaled purposefully, taking her own waspish tone under control. "So, yes, I agree, perhaps going on a date isn't the best idea for us."

"I didn't say that," he said stubbornly.

"Alright, then I am saying it," she said firmly. "You aren't hearing me, Rhys. I wanted to go out with you because you were lovely to me. You flirted, you helped me in the cemetery, we had dinner. You kissed me at Nidhogg Hall. Everything I ever liked about you was there. But today, I'm repeatedly reminded why I left you. And let me tell you that," she said. She was getting angrier, and her voice dropped, cold and scratchy. "I do not make the same mistakes twice. I'm not blaming you, nagging you, or accusing you. I'm just telling you that I don't want to have to deal with it again. I don't need a man who–" She stopped and gave him a sarcastic smirk. "I don't need a man, period. But I considered having dinner with you because you made me feel– excited. I am not excited right now."

And now, he will definitely leave. Whatever she'd said, she had just 'blamed, nagged, and accused,' to think of it. He slowly got up, and her mind immediately jumped to what she would have to do to calm herself down when he was gone. Her hands that she was hiding under the duvet were shaking. It's your own fault, Viola. You let your guard down, and let him lure you into this aggravation with his laughing lines near the corners of his eyes, and his lips that you were starting to wonder about, and his velvet voice. And now it will be awkward, and painful - and did you forget how small this town is?!

He looked under his feet and cleared his throat.

"Do you mind if I eat before you kick me out?" he said, making Viola startle and stare at him in confusion. "Not to waste the nauseating soup."

He gave her an unreadable look, and she frowned.

"Please, help yourself," she said slowly, not at all sure what was happening.

He opened the bag, took out the soup container, and sat with a tray back onto her bed - much closer to her. Viola picked up her tea and took a sip. There was a fair amount of honey in it, and it took her a few seconds to stomach the sweet taste.

"I'm sorry," he said between spoonfuls of cullen skink.

Viola froze with the mug near her lips, and looked at him. He put the spoon down, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and gave her an earnest look.

"What are you apologising for?" she asked.

"Whatever I did that made you– not excited anymore," he said.

Viola gave out a disbelieving bark of laughter.

"You have no idea why I'm upset," she said.

"No," he said, his face perfectly calm. "But I accept it that you are. And that it's my fault. When you feel better, we can discuss it and you can tell me how to do better."

"Rhys, I'm not a test you can take at a later time, and then try again if your score is low!" she exclaimed. "You can't just dismiss a misunderstanding we're having and go on as if nothing were happening!"

"You said you were ill and tired and confused," he said in a dispassionate tone. "I don't want to upset and exhaust you any more. You need to rest. I still want to go on a date with you. So, unless you honestly don't, in which case we can close this discussion, I say, get better and then explain to me what I'm doing wrong and how I can improve."

"But–" Viola choked on her own words. "That's not how– people work! A person can't be improved or fixed or– 'do better' for that matter! Where did this idea even come from?"

"Nana," he deadpanned.

"Pardon?!"

"She had a 'talk' with me. Told me I needed to do better if I wanted you back," he said. "I do."

Viola's head spun, and not at all from the arousal and the tactile pleasure like before.

"This is preposterous," she exclaimed.

He shrugged. "Works for me." He gave her a small collected smile. "Vi, I have a temper. I'm not an idiot, I know it. You left me once, meaning there are things about me you don't particularly like. They can't be some major issues, otherwise you wouldn't agree to try again. I'm flexible, I can work on nuances."

'Flexible?!' 'Nuances?!' 'Temper?!'

In his own vernacular, is he... bollocking?!

He finished his tea, put down the mug, and asked, "So, are we good?"