When she drove Sam to Nana's, it was already close to eleven. The cottage was dark, and Sam unlocked the door with his key. He took off and hung his jacket in the closet, and headed straight upstairs, no doubt to the guest bedroom where his children slept. Viola was going to leave when she caught a glimpse of something white on Nana's sofa in the drawing room. It was Rhys' button-up she realised - and she slowly approached him. He didn't fit, of course, and his left leg was hanging off the sofa, his foot on the floor, while his right ankle was propped on the armrest. His hands were folded on his stomach, on the shirt, his jacket open.

"Rhys," she said softly and touched his shoulder. "Rhys, wake up."

He frowned, made a grunt like noise, and then his eyes opened slowly.

"Sam's here," she whispered. "You can go now."

He pressed his lips and gave her a dark look. She could see his features set, in the moonlight streaming from the window. He didn't argue, though, and sat up.

"What did the hospital say?" he asked.

"She's going to be OK," Viola said - and after a moment of hesitation she sat down on the sofa, keeping distance between their bodies. She wanted to tell him he needed to go to bed, but it was none of her business after all. Perhaps, 'not yet,' but definitely 'not anymore' for now. "How are Pat and Lily handling it?"

"It's not the first time," he said darkly. "Nana and I played Cluedo with them." His voice wavered, and he threw her a pained look. "Children shouldn't take this sort of shite that well..."

She nodded and gently put her hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry, Rhys."

He shook his head, and her heart clenched in sympathy. She shifted closer, and then he turned sharply and scooped her in a crushing embrace. To her shock, she felt his body tremble, and she wrapped her arms around him.

"It's my fault," he said, and Viola suppressed a gasp. "She hasn't had an episode for a year," he whispered. "She– She worked, you know– I thought, I helped. I–"

Viola slightly moved away from him and cupped his face with both her hands, making him look at her. HIs lips were pressed in a distressed line, his eyebrows furrowed, and she thought she saw tears in his eyes.

"Rhys," she whispered and stroked his cheeks with the tips of her fingers. "I know you meant well."

"I fucked up," he said, and his lips twisted in a humourless smirk that looked like a snarl. "Sam's right. I thought I'd fix everything. And instead–"

He closed his eyes, tilted his head, and pressed half his face into her palm.

"You'll do better next time," she said, and he exhaled sharply, his breath tickling her skin.

"Stay with me, Vi," he whispered and lifted his face. "Please? Just– I don't mean anything– you know." He gave her a begging look. "But just have a cuppa, or let's eat something."

"Sure," she answered softly. "Let's drive to your place, and order something."

***

When she parked her car in his driveway and walked in, he was already ordering. She looked at her watch. At this time the only food available would be pizza from Mama Gianna, a small place in Fleckney Woulds that served those with midnight hunger in the county.

She washed her hands in his bathroom and walked back to the drawing room. He was sitting on his blue velvet sofa, his head dropped back, his eyes closed. He looked up as soon as she came in and patted the sofa near him.

"I'm not a dog, Rhys," she said with a chuckle.

"Please?" he said.

"You're really milking this, aren't you?" she asked sarcastically, but came up to him.

He sat, his knees spread wide. When she was almost at the sofa, he leaned ahead, grabbed her around her waist, and pulled her onto his lap. The quick questioning look he gave her didn't quite compensate for this manhandling.

"I think you should eat that pizza alone," she said coldly.

"Vi, I'm sorry," he said and lifted his hands. "I just– Sorry, this really wasn't good."

She climbed off his lap. "No, it wasn't."

"Please, don't leave," he asked.

Viola sighed and sat down on the other end of the sofa. He dropped his eyes, and she saw muscles dance on his jaw.

"I'm sorry about our date," he muttered.

"Not the most important thing right now, is it?" she pointed out, and he nodded. "In a way, eating pizza on your sofa might benefit our relationship more," she added.

"Why?" he asked, glancing at her.

"Because in a restaurant, with candles and romantic music, we'd just be thinking about sex," she said calmly. "With our history, it would make sense to just come back here and shag afterwards. And I don't think it's wise."

She could see several emotions run through his features, all of them easily predictable: a tinge of arousal at the mentioning of sex, apprehension at her dismissal of it, and anger because she'd just clearly indicated none of it was in the books for him.

Rhys Holyoake made love like he breathed, ate, and slept, she remembered. It was a natural, everyday thing for him, the lack of which on a regular, frequent basis made him disagreeable. He didn't attach complicated emotions to it - and reacted with disdain when others did.

He narrowed his eyes at her, and she met his gaze directly. If his temper rose - and she was almost certain it would, with him being tired and emotional - she'd know they weren't ready even for their first formal date. He didn't say anything though, and she waited. She could see he was mulling over her words, and then his doorbell rang. He got up and went to pick up their pizza. She threw a look after him. In the storm of thoughts and emotions in her head, there was still a fair share of appreciation for how he looked in those trousers and that shirt.

He placed the boxes on the table in the dining room.

"Give me a hand with the plates, please," he said, and she got up to help him.

He was taking plates from a top shelf in a cupboard and threw her a side glance.

"You're right," he said quietly and placed a stack of plates into her hands. "We would only think about sex there. But is it that unwise, though?" he asked, and she saw the corner of his lips curl up.

He opened a drawer and pulled out napkins.

"It would be for me," she said, and he looked at her questioningly. "I don't think I can separate physical intimacy with emotional connection in my mind," she said. "And– I don't know if I'm ready for either."

To her surprise, he didn't bristle or close off. He drew his eyebrows together, and exhaled slowly, taking his emotions under control, perhaps - and then he nodded.

"You don't trust me," he said.

Viola's first reaction was to argue and reassure him - but in a way, he was right. She didn't. More so, she didn't trust herself around him. She put the plates down on his counter and stepped closer to him.

"But I want to," she said softly.

He didn't move, and she picked up his hands and pulled. He chuckled low in his throat, stepped closer, and she led his arms around her. He leaned in, and she saw his lashes flutter.

"You're confusing me, Vi," he murmured, his eyes dropped to her lips. "You don't let me touch you, and then you do this... And how's this supposed not to make me think of sex?"

She was now pressed flush into him. He slid his palms onto her shoulder blades, and pulled even, making her arch into him.

"I thought we'd already established I was wishy-washy," she said. "And I think you've been to a barber's."

She stroked his beard. It had an even bottom line now, and his neck was shaved, but almost none of the length had been taken off.

"I have," he answered, watching her lips. "This morning. I missed your dancing because that was the only appointment they had."

She stretched her hand and ran her fingers through his silky hair on his left temple, through the grey strand, and into his heavy, coffee coloured curls that tickled the skin between her fingers.

"And a bit of a trim, I see," she said.

"Not much," he muttered, clearly distracted. "You said you fancied it. Vi, you're bloody torturing me." Sincere distress rang in his voice, and she felt him shudder under her hands. "If you don't want to sleep with me, can you not touch me, please?"

She took her hands off him and stepped back. He groaned in his throat and rubbed his face with his right hand.

"Let's eat, yeah?" he said, picked up the plates and the napkins, and walked into his dining room.

Viola followed.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask if you ate pizza," he grumbled. "There's nothing else to order right now, though."

"Pizza's fine," she said.

He'd ordered three extra-large pizzas, all probably loaded with all sorts of bacon, salami, and ham - and a small Margherita.

"You used to like it," he said, with a note of uncertainty in his voice.

"I still do," she said and smiled at him. "Ta."

She hadn't had pizza in almost three years, and the first bite made her pause. By then he was half done with his first giant slice of chorizo and meatball one.

"Not good?" he asked softly.

Viola swallowed and suddenly giggled.

"No, it's– good." She bit again and chewed. He was watching her, and somehow unlike at other times when she ate 'sloppy' food in front of other people, she didn't feel like covering her mouth with her hand. "It's been an age," she said with a small laugh. "I forgot how good it was."

He popped half a crust into his mouth and picked up another slice. She saw his jaw move under his beard, and she shook her head in amusement. What in Heaven's name had made her think that eating pizza in his dimly lit dining room would be less dangerous than a dinner in a crowded restaurant?