***

'Of course, if you aren't busy' was obviously Rhys' way to give her an excuse to refuse. And of course, it was Nana who'd insisted he called Viola and invited her for a cuppa. No matter how angry Viola was with him - are you angry with him, Viola? - she knew he would never put her in such an awkward position. What was it he'd said the previous night? 'What does it matter now?' He seemed to think it was over between them - is it, Viola? - but he was right in making it look like nothing was wrong in front of Nana. Nothing should upset the woman right now. After giving Nana's last night's remarks a thought, Viola had finally seen it as it was: Mable Holyoake had been setting it up from the start. She'd arranged Viola's return to Fleckney; she'd found her a job and accommodations; she'd had Rhys and Viola over for dinner together; she'd teased and hinted on Fenton's attention towards Viola, well-aware how possessive Rhys could be. Viola felt a pang of resentment towards such blatant match-making - but then she remembered Nana's ashen face and how small she'd looked on the hospital gurney.

"I'll be happy to stop by," Viola said.

"Oh? I mean, yeah, that's great." Rhys sounded predictably surprised, but he recovered quickly. "I'll text you the details, alright?"

"Sure," Viola said. "Say 'hello' to Nana."

"I will. And, Vi?" His voice dropped, deep and emotional. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Rhys."

She hung up and looked down at the screen. It went dark, and she stared at her reflection. She looked tired and unwell, with dark circles under her eyes, and the lowered corners of her mouth. She pushed her phone into her handbag, said goodbye to Yola and her new friends, and started walking away from the Old Station. It was starting to snow again, and her headache was getting worse.

***

She bought herself lunch in the Oak and Shield, which was rather empty, probably due to most of the residents of Fleckney still recovering from the festivities. Still, there was too much public attention towards her - and too many questions regarding the health and well-being of both Rhys and Mable. Viola took her lunch to go and slowly headed back to the surgery. When she got back, her food was already cold, and Viola put the container in the fridge and went to her bedroom. She lay down on the bed, over the covers, and closed her eyes. Her feet felt cold, and she thought that perhaps she should consider investing in a good afghan. A white fluffy afghan, just like the one on Rhys' sofa. The first tears spilled and unpleasantly tickled the bridge of her nose, and she wiped them away. She didn't notice how she drifted to sleep.

When she woke up, she saw a text from Rhys. They were keeping Nana in the hospital for one more night, but he reassured Viola there were no serious concerns.

She sat up and cringed from the sharp pain behind her temples. That was a hunger induced migraine, she was intimately familiar with those. She now had a choice to either go to the kitchen and warm up her lunch. There was a fifty per cent chance she'd be able to keep herself from vomiting it out afterwards. Alternatively, she could go back to sleep, but it could mean nasty flu-like symptoms tomorrow. Besides, the tightness in her chest and her shallow breathing were alarming. She'd put her body through an enormous stress in the past seventy two hours. She needed to woman up and take care of herself. Viola pulled her knees up and buried her forehead into them. Her phone beeped again, and she picked it up and looked at the text, squinting from the light coming from the screen.

Thank you for agreeing to come. Nana asked for you. I'll tell her about us once she's stronger.

She'd been right, then, Viola thought, he'd assumed they were done. The thought didn't bring any relief, although normally she'd enjoy having it all clear. If anything, she just felt... tired. Some sort of distasteful shiver ran through her body.

Why can't you be like a normal person, Viola? Why can't you just call your best mate, get a pizza and a bucket of ice cream, watch some soppy romcom, cry, and lament that all men are, quoting Yola, 'primitive arseholes, two brain cells smarter than a banana?' The answer would be, because she didn't eat pizza or pudding. Except with Rhys, a little voice in the back of her mind noted.

Just tell Yola she was right, and that Rhys Holyoake was 'the mankiest testosterone-filled knobhead in the history of testosterone-filled knobheads,' same source of quote. That he'd arsed up your budding romance - and that's after you gave him the second chance! Tell her that you hated his guts, and that he didn't deserve this 'lush piece of arse' he's repeatedly complimented!

Except.

She didn't hate his guts. And he wasn't an arsehole - although, perhaps, still a bit of a 'testosterone-filled knobhead.' And with all his flaws and his temper and his insecurity and his jealousy, he was a good man. She'd always thought so, and she still did these days - that he was imperfect, human, headstrong, impatient, so often simply infuriating - but a good one, nonetheless.

Viola took a deep breath and threw her legs off the bed. She got up, wobbly on her feet, and started slowly making her way to the kitchen. On the way, a fortunate idea came, and she texted Fenton. He'd be locking up the surgery at the moment. He answered he'd order them dinner, and she sat down at the kitchen table and closed her eyes. She only needed to wait for about fifteen minutes, and she'd eat and could take her medication. And then she picked up her phone and texted Fenton again, making a mental note to share this major advancement in her recovery with her therapist during her next visit.

I'm having an anorexia induced migraine. I'm going to need some painkillers. Please, don't turn on the light in the kitchen when you come in.

***

The next day she had no appointments after her lunch break, and she was catching up on her paperwork, when Snezha knocked on her door and stuck her head in.

"There's another bouquet for you, Dr. Holyoake," the woman said with a cheeky grin.

Viola slowly put down her pen. She couldn't imagine who'd send it. After all, she'd run out of admirers these days.

When the nurse carried in a giant bouquet of roses, callas, orchids, and field lavender, Viola pointed at her filing cabinet. The door closed behind Snezha, and Viola rose and came up to the bouquet. It had a card from all the Holyoakes, thanking her for what she'd done for Nana - but she knew Rhys would be the one to have chosen it. All of the flowers, without dyes or sprays, which she disliked in bouquets, were of natural, gentle pastel violet - her favourite colour.

***

She made sure to leave work a bit earlier, and stopped by Miss Rosa's for a quick early dinner. The visit to Nana could become, if not stressful, rather awkward, and she made sure her blood sugar was on a healthy level and she was properly hydrated.

Molly, the nurse from before, opened the door, and they greeted each other cordially. Nana and Rhys were in the drawing room, and he rose from the sofa when Viola came in. She gave him a soft smile, noting his exhausted look and dishevelled hair.

"Ah, Viola, at last," Nana said. She sounded weak, but there was colour on her cheeks, and her eyes twinkled merrily. "I assume you aren't bringing any chocolate tart in that box of yours," she said, pointing at the takeaway container in Viola's hands.

Viola sat down on the sofa, put the pudding down, and picked up a cup with a saucer from Nana's hand. Rhys joined her, keeping respectful distance between their bodies.

"These are berry yogurt parfaits," Viola said with a laugh. "They are light, but Miss Rosa assured me even Rhys wouldn't be disappointed."

He chuckled and took a sip of his tea. She threw him a side glance, taking in his appearance, as if for the first time in a very long time: his thick dark beard, the crow's feet near the corners of his eyes, his long fluffy lashes that made his electric blue eyes seem even brighter.

"Viola," Nana said loudly, and Viola realised that wasn't the first time she'd been addressed.

She whipped her head and gave Nana a slightly embarrassed smile.

"Pardon?"

"I asked how you were feeling." Nana smirked slyly. "Maisie mentioned you were feeling ill in the hospital. She said it seemed a rather peculiar sort of sickness," Nana said in a pointed tone.

From the corner of her eyes, Viola saw Rhys' hand with a cup freeze a couple of inches away from his lips.

"It was the champagne, I think," Viola said flatly. "Plus, I drove Rhys' truck, it can give anyone a severe bout of motion sickness," she added and sipped her Earl Grey.

Nana studied her, but said nothing. Molly came in with plates and spoons for the dessert. Viola realised she hadn't bought one for Molly and offered to give up hers.

"You should take mine," Rhys said, gently pushing the box towards the girl. "I've had enough sugar today."

"No, no, I can't," Molly started mumbling. "And I'm tubbs enough without it, and–"

"It's low carb and full of berries," Viola said and handed Molly a spoon. "Take it. He never shares his sweets. He must really like you. Savour it."

Rhys gave her a sardonic look, and on some impulse she tapped her spoon to the tip of his nose. His eyebrows jumped up all the way to his hairline. His lips curled and puckered in that sexy little smirk that always preceded a flirty joke from him - and then she saw the exact moment he remembered. For a second, a vulnerable lost expression ran his features, and he looked away from her and down at his hands. When he lifted his face, he looked just as calm and confident as usual.

After tea, Nana said her goodbyes, and Molly helped her upstairs. Viola and Rhys carried dishes to the kitchen.

"Molly's staying for the next few nights," Rhys said to Viola, when she took a stack of cups from his hands.

She nodded and started loading the dishwasher.

"Viola, I wanted to thank you," he said, and she straightened up and gave him an amused look. He looked earnest and somber.

"I think you might have," she said and chuckled. "About five dozen times."

"For coming tonight," he clarified. "And for pretending for her sake."

"Ah, that," Viola said, turned away, and pressed the buttons on the dishwasher's control panel. "You're welcome."

"I told her," he said. "Before the bake. I told her you'd agreed to have dinner with me." She peeked and saw him shake his head. A deep furrow lay between his eyebrows. "Anyroad, it doesn't–"

He didn't continue, as she assumed, his melodramatic statement. She leaned her back against the counter.

"Thank you for the flowers," she said quietly.

He nodded. "They're from everyone in the family. They all wanted to come over tonight, but Dr. Jenkins said not to overwhelm her."

He shimmied his shoulders with an almost inaudible groan.

"You look tired," Viola said, and he nodded again.

"I'm knackered," he grumbled. "The stupid shoulder still hurts, and–"

He froze, his words stuck in his throat, because she'd stepped closer to him and pressed her forehead to his chest. She heard his exhale falter when she'd touched him, and she brushed her hands to his sides and embraced him around his middle. He swallowed, hard, and whispered, "Vi?"

"Hm?" She turned her face and pressed her cheek to him.

He smelled like pine or cedar or whatever 'manly' smell he had in that 'manly,' boring looking bottle in his lush shower enclosure. His jumper was soft, and she suddenly yawned so widely her jaw cracked. Her head spun - this time, in the best possible way - and tension seemed to dissipate from her shoulders.

"Vi?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm so sorry for what happened," he whispered.

"I know," she said and rubbed his spine with her palm, up and down. "You were an arse."

"I was," he agreed readily. "Such an arse."

"And a twat," she said.

"A major twat," he said.

"And a pillock."

"The biggest pillock ever." She could now hear a smile in his voice. "And a tosser. And a wanker. Can I touch you, Vi?"

"You can," she allowed, and his warm palm lay on her nape in the lightest of touches.

"Vi, do you think–"

He didn't continue, and she yawned again. Suddenly she remembered how lovely their nap in his sleeper had been - and how bare and cold her bed was. And then she thought that sleeping with him - actually sleeping with him - would send all sorts of wrong signals. And then she thought that there was no such thing as a signal in a relationship.

"Can I stay over at your place tonight?" she asked, and his hand halted where he'd been tenderly stroking her shoulder blades.

"Sure," he answered, his voice coarse.

"Good," she said, stepped back from him, and yawned again. "Let's go then. Molly will lock up."