She expected panic, defensiveness, and resistance. Let's face it, it would make sense for her deep-rooted anxiety and low self-esteem to trigger all of the above - except all she felt was some sort of a slightly patronising amusement. He thinks he's being so bloody clever, doesn't he? she thought and chuckled.

She poured herself coffee, well aware that he was sitting very still behind her, gauging her reaction, maybe even holding his breath - and then she slowly turned, took a sip of her coffee, and looked at him over her cup. She was right, his back was straight, and his eyes were fixed on her face.

"Alright," she said and sipped her coffee again.

"Alright?" he repeated, giving her a cautious look.

"If we date and I spend time in your cottage, I'll very much appreciate it if you cleaned up and reduced the amount of clutter, for when I visit," she said nonchalantly. "Don't bother with the kitchen, I'm not going to cook in it, that's for sure. But if you want my Turkish coffee in the morning, you could assign me a shelf: with beans, a cezve, a grinder, and cups."

His left eyebrow had been slowly travelling up while she spoke - and she couldn't keep the straight face anymore and snorted.

"Fair enough," he murmured, and the left corner of his lips curled up. "Just let my shoulder get better, and I'll get on with it."

"Ah yes, the shoulder," she said. "At least you know what to expect. Three days in a sling, and cold compresses, and then warm compresses and mild exercise."

He nodded and sipped his coffee.

"Could I have sugar, please?" he said. "It's on the counter behind you."

"Let me guess, it's in a jar that says 'flour,'" Viola teased.

"No, it's a box of packets," he laughed.

"If I were still your wife, I'd lecture and nag you right now about what a waste of money it was, and how much rubbish you're putting out into the world," she said and plopped the box in front of him.

"You can't lecture and nag me right now," he whinged in an almost convincing sullen voice. "I'm injured. And I can't open the sugar, actually," he added and pushed the box back towards her on the island.

"And I am not your wife," she pointed out and tore open three packets.

He emitted a noncommittal hum, and Viola gave him a sarcastic glance, which he, of course, deftly ignored.

"How did you injure your shoulder?" she suddenly asked. "The very first time, twelve years ago. I just realised that I don't know."

He looked up at her.

"We were still together then. It was on a construction site. What was it, that bridge in Abernathy, I think?" he drew out pensively.

"Yes, we were together, but I was away. And because you were being a prick at the time, you didn't tell me. And when I came back, it turned out you'd dislocated your shoulder, tore three muscles in it, and from then on would always suffer from shoulder instability," Viola answered in an acidic tone.

His eyes widened.

"Why was I being a prick?" he asked, sincerely confused.

"Because I was in Amsterdam at a conference at the time," Viola said. "Do you remember Amsterdam?"

His face dropped.

"I remember Amsterdam," he said quietly.

"Yes, so do I." Viola's voice grew even more venomous. "I was at a conference, and you thought I was having an affair."

He frowned.

"And to punish me for the affair that you imagined, you didn't tell me about the accident," Viola said and took a large angry gulp of her coffee.

It was almost funny how vexed she felt all of a sudden. After all, it had been more than twelve years.

"That's not what happened," he muttered and rose.

He's going to leave now. He's not even going to invent an excuse. He just doesn't want to have this conversation, so he'll rise and leave, she thought and sighed. Maybe he was right. After all, what did it matter now?

She drank her coffee, and he just stood near the island, watching her. And then he sighed mournfully and sat back down.

"I didn't try to punish you," he said in a dark tone. "I didn't know if you cared." His voice was almost a whisper. "And whether you'd come back."

He's not leaving. He's trying to have a conversation. What did he say then? He'd rather 'stab himself in the foot with a spade' than talk about feelings.

"Come back from the conference?" Viola asked sharply. Do better, Viola. You sound spiteful and cold. Let him see how you feel. "I wasn't having an affair. And of course I cared! We weren't doing very well at the time... but I always cared."

He lifted his frowned face to her.

"You fancied the git," he grumbled. "And he was all over you."

"We were at school together, and we wrote a paper together," Viola said firmly. "We did not have an affair. And yes, there was mutual attraction. We're human, and it happens. I would never act on it!"

"I never thought you would!" He raised his voice. "I know you'd never cheat. But you fancied the speccy git, and–" He jerked his neck in his usual irritated gesture.

"We never even acknowledged it!" Viola exclaimed. "The speccy git - his name was Eric, by the way," she added forcefully, "he and I never even spoke of it. I suppose, we both knew there was no point. We didn't even spend any time together in Amsterdam." She gave it a thought. "I actually think I had a cold then and ended up sleeping in my hotel room the whole time after the talks."

She met Rhys' widened surprised eyes and made an unhappy noise.

"I felt hurt and betrayed, when I came home, and it turned out you'd been in the hospital, and–" she said quietly. "It just felt so unfair. I felt excluded and– as if I wasn't good enough. Not worth trusting or relying on."

She saw him swallow, and his throat bobbed.

"I'm sorry, Vi," he said, and his voice wavered. "I reckoned, we should have– talked about it then. But it was never our strong suit, was it?"

He gave out a joyless chuckle, and Viola shook her head.

"No, it wasn't."

She put her cup in the sink - mostly to hide her emotional state from him. Even she could keep up the unaffected facade for only that long - and then she remembered she didn't have to. She turned and faced him. Just make one step, Viola. Let him in just a bit. Maybe it won't hurt this time. Maybe this time it's safe.

"We're doing better now," she said in a small voice.

He smiled softly and nodded.

"We are," he said. "And it was a concrete pipe. It was secured properly, but the strap was faulty, and it rolled off the stack. Flattened me on the ground and did a proper work on my shoulder," he said after a pause. "It was your James Whitlaw's job to secure them. I fired him over it, obviously."

"Why 'obviously?'" Viola asked. "You said the strap was faulty. So why fire him over it? Did he not check it as he was supposed to?"

"He did."

Viola gave out a fake pensive 'hm.'

"So, is James Whitlaw psychic then?" she asked with an innocent expression on her face.

"I had a crew member injured on the site by the equipment he was supervising," Rhys said stubbornly. "It wouldn't look good if I did nothing about it."

"Right, because it's a macho field, and you're a hard bloke," Viola scoffed. "No wonder everyone thinks you're a tosser."

"I am a tosser," he quipped back. "That's the only way to run a business."

"And James Whitlaw isn't mine," Viola pointed out. "We were friends then, but never, at any point, has he ever been 'mine.' You do know that, right?"

He gave her a side glance, pretending to be suddenly interested in the dark street behind his window.

"Rhys?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he dismissed and finished his coffee. "I was never jealous of Whitlaw. He was only pretending to fancy you to rile me up. They all did it. Him, and plenty of other blokes I worked with." He rose and arched his back with a groan. She could see how awkwardly he held his shoulder. "I mean, it comes with the territory. Someone's always trying to nick your contract, or a better deal for materials - so they might as well try it on with your wife. Especially, when she's a lush piece of arse."

"Firstly, that's too crude even for you," she said sternly but couldn't hold back a snort. "And secondly, literally, no one has ever tried it on with me when we were together."

"Right, yeah," he scoffed. "Did I not have to drag Buric off you at that Christmas party thirteen years ago?"

"Buric is a disgusting creep, and he was so drunk he might have 'tried it on' with an armchair and the Christmas tree as well," Viola said.

"He's actually in prison right now," Rhys said and walked to the fridge. "For a double manslaughter."

"Oh goodness me." Viola shuddered. "I see, not everything in Fleckney improved with time."

Rhys looked inside the fridge, and then made a disgruntled noise.

"I can't cook anything right now. The bloody shoulder is killing me." He cringed. "Do you want anything? I'm thinking of ordering some take away."

"I should eat too," Viola said. "I haven't slept much. But I'd also love to have a shower. So, maybe I'll call a cab to the surgery."

"You can take a shower here," he offered offhandedly, already scrolling on his phone. "I'll give you a clean towel." He lifted the phone to his ear. "And we can have a nap after brekkie. Hm, what do you say? A nice, long nap."

He wiggled his eyebrows, and Viola realised she quite liked the plan.