They let her ride in the ambulance with him, and she only stopped touching him and rubbing his hands and his upper arms, when the paramedics shooed her away. One of them asked whether she was Viola Holyoake, and she started insisting that she was family and had the right to be with him. The paramedic laughed and said he meant he knew of her from a couple of doctors in the Abernathy General. Viola gave him a confused look. She simply couldn't focus on anything except Rhys on the stretcher.

Four years prior, on her way from work to a dentist's appointment, she'd witnessed a massive car crash. She'd resuscitated a person in a ditch, put three shoulders back into their sockets, and had to bandage an open fractured tibia, all at once. She had remained calm through three hours of the ordeal, had cancelled her appointment, and had returned to her A&E with one of the ambulances, after which she'd proceeded to tend to the patients for another six hours. Right now, her hands shook so much she couldn't zip up her jacket, and her head was spinning, making her sharply nauseous. She wouldn't be able to put an Elastoplast if needed.

There was no serious damage to Rhys' tissues, and once he had been pumped full of painkillers for his shoulder and plenty of warm liquids had been poured into him, he was released. John had arrived at the hospital twenty minutes after they'd taken Rhys in. They'd loaded groggy Rhys in John's Land Rover, and Viola sat with him. He kept keeling into her, and eventually he rested his heavy head on her shoulder, and she held his hand, listening to his pulse under her fingers she was pressing into his wrist.

"You smell nice," he muttered sleepily.

John parked in front of the Periwinkle Grove, and helped Rhys out. Apparently Rhys' keys had taken a bath in the river, and Viola had to dig in the pockets of his wet jeans in a plastic bag they'd given her in the hospital. She unlocked the door, and John led Rhys straight upstairs to his bedroom. Viola froze in the middle of the drawing room, suddenly baffled by what it was exactly that she was supposed to do now.

She put down the bag with Rhys' wet clothes and went to wash her hands in his luxurious bathroom. When she was out, John was washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

"He said to drive you to the surgery," he said without turning. Viola wondered how he knew she was behind him. "If you aren't staying," John added pointedly and looked at her over his shoulder.

"I– I don't know," she muttered.

She lifted her hands to rub her eyes, and remembered she'd put make-up on when she'd gone to the bake. It felt as if it had been a week since then.

"I think I'll stay for a bit," she said and heavily sat on Rhys' velvet sofa. "I'll call myself a cab if– when I go home."

He studied her and nodded.

"I'm sure he won't mind if you stay," John said with a soft chuckle. "He was mumbling something about sheets, but I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Viola nodded and sighed. John walked to the hall and then turned to Viola.

"He saved a man's life today," he said, and Viola's face flew up. Their eyes met, and she saw John shake his head, a small proud smile on his lips. "He's a bloody hero," he muttered, as if reproaching.

"He is, isn't he?" Viola said. Her voice was scratchy.

"Pulling people out of icy water, teaching children to swim, taking care of his unprivileged tenants," John listed, curling his fingers. "If he wasn't such a wanker, he'd give us all an inferiority complex."

They laughed together, and Viola realised she was feeling almost drunk from exhaustion.

"It's like all those years ago," she said and yawned.

"What's like all those years ago?" John asked, putting on his boots.

"I don't know how to describe it," Viola said and leaned her shoulder against the wall. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered despite how warm Rhys' cottage was. "I just– I just always thought he was so much more– more everything than me. All of your family are– Were," she corrected herself and gave him one of her fake smiles. "Don't listen to me. I'm delirious."

"Viola, you're a doctor," John said, his eyes roaming her face. "You save lives every day. Not that it diminishes what Rhys has done today, but you surely have nothing to feel inferior about."

"Of course not." Viola looked under her feet. "Like I said, I'm just knackered, and–"

"When you started dating him," John interrupted her, and she lifted her eyes at him. "Remember?" he said with a joyless smile. "You and I went out a few times, and then we went to that small uni coffee shop, and Will and Rhys were there. And you two just looked at each other, and– I think we all knew then. Right away. And–" he chuckled and shook his head. "Him and I had a tad of a punch up afterwards, don't know if he ever told you. You know, he 'stole my girl,' after all," John drew out, and Viola raised her eyebrows. He laughed quietly. "And I told him you were too good for him. Actually, I was a melodramatic sod, and said neither of us deserved you. And he said, 'Of course, but I'll do better than you.' None of us, not a single person in this family, has ever thought you didn't belong, Viola." His voice grew serious. "If anything, this family is fortunate to have you. And it'll never change, no matter what happens between you two."

He pulled on his jacket, stepped to her, and quickly kissed her cheek.

"Have rest, Viola," he said softly. "You've had a long day."

"Could you ring up Nana and let her know everything's fine?" Viola asked.

He nodded and left. Viola locked the door behind him and went back on the sofa.

***

She'd fallen asleep sitting up, and woke up when she'd fallen on one side. She awkwardly flailed, sat up, and rubbed her eyes. Her watch told her it was half past three. She was cold, her neck felt stiff, and she was thirsty. She walked to the kitchen, had a glass of water, and decided to check on Rhys.

He slept on his back, spread out on the bed like a sea star, in a heap of pillows and duvets. He was still dressed in the tee and joggers that John had bought for him in the hospital shop. A small lamp on his bedside table was on, throwing shadows on his relaxed face, making his curls, scattered on the pillow, seem black.

She could've lain down with him. He'd probably move and wrap around her. They'd had that nap earlier in the day, and she knew now how well they fit together, just as all those years ago. On the other hand, she could see how awkwardly his shoulder was positioned, and she worried. A strange thought - of how fragile he was, just as any other vulnerable, mortal human being - came to her mind. It was easy to forget he wasn't some sort of a demigod.

Viola shook her head and went back downstairs. On her way, she'd picked up one of the blankets that had fallen on the floor near his bed, and she curled up on the sofa under it. She saw that she had a few missed calls and texts, but she decided to deal with them in the morning.

***

She once again woke up at her usual five thirty, just before her alarm, and after a visit to the bathroom, she went to his kitchen in search of coffee. She then used a new toothbrush she found - inexplicably but very much according to Rhys' illogical logic - in a kitchen cabinet near tea mugs and a few bottles of shampoo. She stared at the shelf and chuckled, shaking her head. All those years ago, he used to unload his bags when coming back from a grocery shop in exactly this manner: he'd just throw everything in one place, wherever the first item he'd taken out, belonged. Once, when they had been still married, she'd found a box of pasta in the bathroom, because that day he'd also bought soap. If memory served her right, he'd bought six bars of soap that day, all different, after she asked for one specific one. He tended to do that - to buy a dozen when only one was needed, and to buy several items related to the one requested. 'In case you need it' was his usual answer to her bewildered reaction. Having grown up in a frugal household, Viola could never understand it. She'd also never known what to do with all these unnecessary boxes, bottles, and packages - and trying to control and organise this avalanche of goods threatening to drown her home had been making her endlessly anxious.

She looked through his kitchen cabinets and saw that little had changed since then. Surely, a normal human being - a single male one, for that matter - didn't need five salt shakers!

She made coffee and sat down at the counter island. It was dark behind his window, and large snowflakes fell slowly, brushing at the glass. Familiar melancholy flooded her. She once again was sitting in a house where a man slept, but she didn't belong. She'd felt this way just before she'd decided to leave Rhys, and in the last two months before her divorce from Hani had been finalised. He'd come to visit that time, but stayed in the guest bedroom. There hadn't been any drama, both those times - just the draining, numbing, heart-wrenching sadness.

She realised tears were running down her cheeks, and she brushed them away and stared at her wet fingers in shock. She hadn't cried in years, before she'd moved back to Fleckney. And now, as if something had cracked in her - first, in the cemetery with Rhys; the day before, when they'd pulled him out of the water; and now, in his kitchen, this time for no apparent reason at all!

She heard a noise behind her, and whipped her head. He stood in the doorframe, disheveled and peeved. He looked at her and yawned.

"I smelled coffee," he said, his voice pure rasp.

She couldn't trust her voice, so she silently rose and took out a mug for him. He sat down behind her, she guessed by the sound of the bar stool scraping on the floor. She poured him coffee, went to the fridge, and then remembered he took it black with sugar. She froze in front of the fridge, suddenly feeling confused.

"Are you still angry with me?" he asked quietly.

She turned around sharply and gawked at him.

"Pardon?"

He, indeed, looked guilty. He made a cosy snuffling noise.

"You called me a moron yesterday and said I was the worst," he said. "And that you hated me."

"I was scared for you," she muttered.

He nodded. "I know. I'm sorry I scared you. I just– I thought it was the right thing to do."

"It was the right thing to do!" Viola said. "You saved the man's life."

He gave her the 'puppy eyes' look - and she burst into loud laughter. Her somber mood was suddenly gone. She stepped to him, put his coffee down, and pressed into him. He shifted, accommodating her, and she wrapped her arms around his middle.

She buried her nose into his sternum and said, "I don't hate you. You aren't a moron. Or the worst." She rubbed her cheek against him. "You might be taking everything a tad too literally, but other than that, you're ace."

She heard a warm low chuckle in his chest. He cupped the back of her head, and his fingers tangled in her hair.

"You just looked like you were crying," he murmured.

"It wasn't because of you," she said, patted his back, and straightened up. Their eyes met. "I've had a rough night," she said with a smile. "And your kitchen cupboards stress me out."

"I'll clean them out next time you come," he said.

She laughed. "Remember, love, they don't actually bother me. I'm kidding. I don't care, as long as it's not my home."

"I still want you to be comfortable," he said and yawned again. "And maybe you'll stay for longer then."

Viola, who'd stepped back to the counter to pour herself the second cup of coffee, froze.