As soon as Viola stepped out onto the balcony, she knew that Rhys wasn't the Juliet to her Romeo. His face was dark, and she saw the tense, displeased line of his shoulders. She left the door half open behind her, mostly to let the heat from inside keep her warm, and inhaled. The air was crispy, and tiny snowflakes lazily swirled in the dark behind the railing.

"Evening, Rhys," she said, still keeping her voice light.

There was still a chance she was misinterpreting his furrowed eyebrows and his lips pressed in a stern line. Perhaps, the pain in his shoulder bothered him. Don't be daft, Viola. You know better.

"You're enjoying yourself," he stated in that meaningful way of his, muscles dancing on his jaw.

To Viola's chagrin, the old reflexes kicked in right away. Guilt. Shame. The urge to fix his mood, to explain herself, to– She took a measured breath, halting the whirlpool of her thoughts.

It's been ten years, and nothing changed.

Or did it?

"What's wrong, Rhys?" she asked.

She sounded cold and withdrawn - but she was losing hope any other tone would be appropriate at the moment. After all, he wasn't even looking at her.

"Nothing's wrong," he grumbled, his gaze down under his feet. Like a petulant child.

Is she supposed to guess? Offer options of what it was that she's done wrong, to bury herself even deeper, to justify his displeasure with her?

"I am not having this conversation with you," she said firmly, and he lifted his eyes at her. "It's not even a conversation. It's once again the same silent treatment you'd been giving me for years," she continued, "and I'm having none of it."

She turned sharply on one place and stepped back, her hand lying on the door handle.

"Vi," he said, in the same disgruntled tone. As if it's her. As if she's the one being unreasonable.

There was no point - to stay, to try to talk, to hope that it could be better for the two of them. You know it, Viola. Just go inside.

She looked at him over her shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Why did you leave in the afternoon?" he asked, giving her a heavy look.

And just because she'd been feeling so excited, and happy, and so in love with her new life, and because she'd been looking forward to seeing him, and because it hurt so much to get this sort of reception - how many times before have you had this exact scenario play out for the two of you? - Viola narrowed her eyes and stepped to him.

"Why are you asking?" she hissed, losing her composure, quite possibly for the first time in her adult life. "You think you know the answer to this question. You're bloody Rhys Holyoake, and you've already decided why I did what I did. Whatever I answer right now doesn't matter. If I get it 'right,' it'll just confirm you're clever. If I get it 'wrong,' I'm lying and being evasive. There's no winning this sort of an argument with you." She angrily shook her head. "And again, this isn't even an argument. It's you letting me know you're displeased with me for a transgression you imagined I'd committed. It's Amsterdam all over again."

"I didn't imagine you shagging me and leaving without even saying goodbye," he barked.

"Pardon?" Viola asked.

"You didn't even let me touch you!"

His voice was rising. Someone inside might hear them. Viola stretched her hand to the door, planning to close it, but it seemed to trigger some sort of a temper tantrum in him, possibly because it looked like she was going to leave. You should, Viola.

"You just gave me head so you didn't have to sleep with me, and you left!" he growled.

She'd never seen him like that! Closing off and brooding? She'd seen that. Getting these 'ideas' of his in his thick head? Plenty of that! But this rage, open and unreasonable, his face twisted in an anguished expression, which she couldn't help but see insecurity and panic hiding behind - she had never thought Rhys Holyoake was capable of that! No matter how broken and difficult their relationship had been, he'd never screamed at her, never cursed, and he'd never been that direct and crude about their intimacy!

"You didn't stay. You didn't call. You just went, and dressed in this–" He gestured around her jumpsuit that she'd chosen so lovingly, hoping to impress him. "And then I had to watch you flirt with every fucking man in this place, including bloody Niklas Bjornsson! And that bloody tango with John, you two grinding–"

She decided she had nothing to do here anymore, jerked the balcony door open, and walked inside.

Stupid, stupid Viola.

***

While she was taking the first step in, all her old thought patterns - so much money wasted on therapy, and it took one conversation with him to make her regress! - flaring up. The first thought was to leave the Dance, go back to the surgery, and go to bed. She'd stay in it for two days, she knew, without eating, only drinking water. The next urge was to find a one-night stand. She'd rarely acted on it before, mostly, after Rhys and before Hani. Her issues with physical intimacy had gotten worse during her second marriage, and after her second divorce she'd only had a few.

With surprise she realised she was close to tears. It was odd, but on the other hand, she seemed to cry a lot more after she'd returned to Fleckney. Her therapist would say it was a positive development, she tended to suppress emotions and go 'numb.' She took a few shuddered breaths, trying to steel herself. There were people inside, waiting for her to dance with them, to smile, and to be the perfect Viola Holyoake. Sick rushed up, flooding her throat with bitter taste. She shouldn't have had so much champagne.

Had it been anyone else she ran into right by the door, she would have taken herself under control.

"Ah, Viola, here you are," Fenton said in a jolly voice. "I'm your punter number one."

He gave her a beaming smile. Suddenly, Viola felt livid. Why did it have to be Rhys?! Why not Fenton? Why did she have to feel something towards the man who thought he had the right to speak to her as he just had on the balcony - while the lovely, respectful, considerate Dr. Fenton stirred nothing in her? What was wrong with her that she'd put herself through the same heart-wrenching, humiliating, life-draining torture again?! Wasn't Einstein misquoted to have said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?

Her lips twisted in a distressed grimace, and Fenton's smile dropped.

"Viola, is everything–"

"Vi." Rhys' voice behind her was low and hoarse, and she jolted and then pulled her shoulders back, her spine going taut and straight.

Panic - that familiar anxious helpless panic - made her ears ring with disgusting buzzing. If she went in, she'd cry, and Fenton would start comforting her, and there would be a scene. Behind her, Rhys was on the balcony. Lesser evil, I suppose, she thought. But which one was less? She felt almost dizzy - making a decision was proving hard - and she clenched her fists.

"Alan, I apologise, but do you mind giving me a few more minutes? I'll skip this dance, but I promise to make it up to you," she said.

Her voice sounded absolutely normal. How is this possible?! She took a step back, under Fenton's attentive look, and she knew Rhys was just inches behind her - and then he also stepped back, giving her space. She continued moving, and so did he - thank Heaven - and she closed the door to the balcony.

"Vi..."

"Do not talk." This - didn't sound normal at all. It didn't even sound like her. She fixed her unseeing eyes on the door, thankfully hidden from the people inside with the heavy velvet curtains. "You're only here because I need a moment. I–" Her voice broke.

Don't cry. You have your responsibilities to fulfill, and you can't do it with mascara smeared over your face. Breathe. Pull yourself together.

A few seconds later she finally could take a breath, her chest still constricted painfully. She closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and opened them again. She realised they were outside, and the snow was falling heavily now. She saw Rhys stand in the corner of the balcony, white snowflakes in stark contrast to his curls.

"Vi, can I– Just one thing? Please?" He sounded like he was in pain.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"I am– so– sorry." His voice wavered. "I– I should've asked– No, that's not it– I don't know what came over me. I've never felt like– I– Vi–" Something akin to a sob bubbled in his throat. "You can't imagine how sorry I am for what I said. I overstepped, I crossed the line. It's like some sort of a mental–" He shifted, and she tensed, but he took a step back, pressing into the railing. "I was jealous, I tried to shake it off, to cool off my head, but–" He once again choked on his words. "But please, just know I'm sorry for what I said. No woman should hear that."

"It doesn't make it OK," she said, feeling the first tears well in her eyes. "And it won't make it go away."

"No, of course not," he said vehemently. "Of course not! I– don't know what came over me. I never thought I'd– behave like that towards a woman."

There was a sincere ache in his tone, and she glanced. He looked broken.

"And especially... you." His voice dropped into a whisper. "Not you, Vi..."

"I need to go back," she said coldly, feeling suddenly lost.

"Yeah, yeah, of course," he said quietly. His head dropped low, and she saw his right hand fist and unfist anxiously.

"Please, don't cash in your Golden ticket," she said in an unpleasant voice.

"God, Vi, of course not," he exhaled. "I'll– go. And– I'm sorry." He didn't look up.

She put her hand on the door handle, but somehow she just couldn't press it.

Why are you still here, Viola? Are you a masochist?

"Why did you–" she said, and his face flew up. "You've never been jealous like that before," she said quietly.

"It was like this red fog in front of my eyes, Vi. I don't know– Everything seemed... sort of fucked up. Like it wasn't even... you." He exhaled noisily. "I don't know what to tell you. I've never had that before. I was– insecure, I reckon. And I tried to snap out of it, I swear," he said, and his face distorted. "Bugger, I'm so sorry, Vi. I swear I never–" He then shook his head. "I just felt useless, and– What does it matter now? And, Vi," he whispered, "you look amazing. And the dance was brilliant. I'm just an arsehole, and–" He swallowed hard. "And what happened between us– that too– I'm sorry for what I said."

"We had no condoms, and I wanted you to feel good," she said evenly, and she saw all of his massive body jolt. More like a sadist, are you, Viola? Because he knows. And he's sorry. And saying it won't be any sort of an explanation, because no one needs it. You're just trying to inflict pain on him. But you'll be adding another nail to his coffin, aren't you, Viola? "You told me to do what I enjoyed, without apologising for it - and I did." Yep, definitely a sadist. Look at him! If you continue, he might actually cry. "And I don't understand why you said I did it to avoid sleeping with you. I think it qualifies as 'sleeping with you.' If anything, it was I who didn't get any... fulfillment."

He jerked again, as if she slapped him.

"I'm sorry, Vi," he whispered - and she pushed the door and went inside.