They finished their brekkie - each had eaten an omelette, and Rhys had also indulged in two massive scones from Miss Rosa's - and Viola rose.

"I can do the washing up," she said. "But just this once obviously, only because you're injured."

He chuckled. Viola saw that he was pale, and deep shadows lay under his eyes. She put a glass of water and his painkillers in front of him. He swallowed them right away.

"You should take a shower," he said with a wide yawn. "I'd like one myself afterwards."

"Are you sure?" she asked, putting the plates in the technological marvel that was his dishwasher. "Maybe you should go straight to bed."

"I want to wash off the river water," he muttered and rubbed his face with his right hand. "And the hospital."

"Then you should go first," she said. "And please, don't lock the door. I promise not to perv through a crack."

He laughed weakly, and she threw him a concerned look over.

"How bad is your shoulder that you aren't making a saucy joke remark now?" she drew out and stepped to him. "Let me help you up." He leaned into her, without holding back. He was right, he did smell like a hospital. You'd think, you of all people would be OK with it, Viola. "Head to the bathroom and let me dig through your clothes," she said softly. "I'll bring you something downstairs."

He nodded, and she walked him to the bathroom. Upstairs, his bedroom was just as disorderly as she imagined. While she was opening the doors and drawers in his wardrobe, she stepped on a tee on the floor, and picked it up. Her sensitive nose caught the smell of detergent and his cologne. That's why his mess didn't bother her, she realised. The chaos in the room didn't feel filthy. She put the shirt on a large armchair in the corner. She'd already found a pair of lounge bottoms and a tee, which left the question of underwear. She suddenly laughed. Following Rhys' logic she might as well search for a pair of pants in his garage. By the wall, she saw a laundry basket, and upon inspection she decided it was filled with clean laundry, including a few pairs of boxer briefs. Going down his glass-panelled staircase, she nodded to her thoughts: it seemed the new Viola was quite alright existing - at least for a short period of time - in his cluttered and disarrayed home.

She knocked on the bathroom door, and heard his voice, allowing her in. She came in, keeping her eyes to the floor. He had one of those shower enclosures in the corner, where the tray was level with the floor. It was large, definitely capable of fitting more than one person. Suddenly, a tsunami of some sort of porn-worthy images flashed through her mind, and Viola's cheeks flushed.

"I brought you some clothes," she said, pleased to hear that her voice sounded just as even as usual.

The water stopped running, and she heard him move, and the glass of the enclosure shook, making a quiet noise. The air in the bathroom was hot and damp, filled with the sharp fresh smell of his shower gel.

"Vi, I think– I need your help," he muttered - and her eyes flew up.

He stood inside the enclosure, leaning against the glass with his healthy shoulder. She could see he was hardly standing. She grabbed a towel off a hook and stepped to him.

"Shit, sorry," he muttered, opening the door. "I just– The painkillers kicked in, and I–"

"It's alright," she said, handing him a towel.

He couldn't wrap it around his hips with one hand, and she helped him catch another end, still somehow managing to look only at his chest. Not that it's helping in any way. Seriously, Viola? The man's half dead! How's this a good time for your libido to wake up? She then took another towel, and started carefully drying his torso. Water trickled off his hair. Viola picked up the end of the first towel out of his hand, and tucked it behind his waist. His skin as if scalded her knuckles. It was hard to breathe, and she chastised herself for this shockingly unprofessional behaviour.

He's a person in your care! Focus! It's not like you haven't seen his muscular torso and his thick chest hair and his stomach before.

She knew he wouldn't be able to bend, so she threw the towel over his head.

"Try to dry your hair a bit. I can't reach it," she said, and he grabbed it with his right and rubbed his mane. "Now, let's get you to the bedroom like that," she said, "and I'll help you get dressed."

On the stairs he kept pausing, and she could see he was at the end of his strength. He heavily sat down on his bed, and she took the towel out of his hand and gently scrunched his hair, wiped his beard, and patted the healthy side of his upper body.

"Alright, I can help you with your tee," she said and then looked him over with concern. "To be honest, if you feel comfortable with it, I'd just sleep naked if I were you. You're crashing and–"

"Yeah, it's fine," he said bleakly.

He started shifting, and Viola lifted a duvet. He awkwardly rolled under it, and then she pushed her hand under it and pulled the wet towel out.

"Will you still lie down with me? I know, I'm starkers, but–" he muttered, his eyes closing. "Please, stay–"

"I'll go take a quick shower, alright?" she said.

He hummed from under the duvet. Viola picked up the wet towels and went back to the bathroom. After a long hot shower she stepped out of the enclosure and wrapped in one of towel-sheets from a large woven basket. The sheet was luxuriously soft and thick. He always had a thing for good towels, she remembered. She looked down at her clothes. She could wash her jeans in his washing machine, and probably her socks and the thermoshirt. But her jumper, her bra, and her knickers were hand wash only. She rinsed her knickers and her bra in his sink with his shower gel, and hung them to dry on an electric towel rack.

When she returned to his bedroom, clutching the tightly wrapped towel sheet to her chest, she saw that he was sleeping. She stuck her nose into his wardrobe. The solution to her predicament was quite clear - she'd done it so many times all those years ago! - but she hesitated. She pulled out a soft long-sleeved tee out of one of the drawers, and then minced to the basket with clean laundry. C'mon, Viola, you know they'll fit. She threw another cautious look at him, but he was definitely in deep slumber. She sat on the edge of the bed, exhaled, and pushed her feet into the pants of his boxer briefs. They made excellent shorts for her, just as she'd known they would. She then quickly dressed in his shirt, lifted a corner of his duvet, and slid into the cloud of his warmth. She curled into his right side, and he snuffled in his sleep - and the fingers of his right hand twitched on the sheet and found hers.

Viola closed her eyes. Sleep didn't come, just some sort of lethargy rolled heavily over her body. Rhys' hot dry hand was wrapped around hers, and she lay in his bed counting her breaths.

A memory came - of sleeping in the same bed as Rhys for the first time. It had been just a fortnight after they'd started dating, in the flat she'd been renting with her three friends. They'd all gone back to their families for Christmas, and she'd lied to her parents that she'd had some lab work to finish, which had been so unlike her - and she'd stayed for extra two nights, and he'd come over. The first evening, they hadn't even finished their dinner. They'd made love for five hours straight, and she didn't remember how they'd fallen asleep. They'd spent the next day in bed, and by the nightfall they'd been so exhausted that they'd ordered take-away despite both of them being utterly broke. He'd started nodding off while still chewing that pizza, and suddenly, she'd found herself sharing a bed with a man. She'd been lying near him, her fist tucked under her cheek, watching his relaxed face.

Viola turned slightly and looked at the man near her. There hadn't been a beard then, nor the wrinkles near the corners of his eyes. His features had been softer, youthful, fresh, but already strong and willful. Rhys Holyoake had never been baby-faced, except perhaps when he was a baby. His full bottom lip had lost some of its plumpness since that day in her tiny drafty flat, and the upper one was currently hiding under the dark whiskers, and she wondered how the firm curved line of it had changed. There was now a small scar on his left cheekbone. She didn't remember it, it must have happened after the divorce. To some, his face could seem too craggy and rough-hewn, with its rugged, harsh features. It was face made for scowling, gnashing his teeth; or for a dark frown, muscles dancing on his jaw - but Viola had seen a tender smile play on his lips, and the vulnerable softness when he looked at people he loved. There was more to Rhys Holyoake than the self-proclaimed tosser and the wanker John so often called him.

Some sort of half-formed philosophical musings lazily swirled in her mind, but Viola was too practical for the melodramatic considerations of how difficult it was to love a man like him, and whether he needed her love at all. And of course, it went without saying that she would love him again, if she stayed with him. She was half in love with him already.

Another half an hour passed, and if anything, Viola felt only more exhausted. She tried not to move too much, although she doubted he'd wake even if she decided to dance a foxtrot on his bed, and now all her muscles felt stiff. She sighed and decided there was no point in wasting her time. She carefully shifted to the edge of the bed, planning to slowly lower her feet on the floor, when he groaned, rolled over his right side, and pressed into her.

"Stay, Vi," he muttered.

His body was hot, heavy, and she felt his hairy leg scratch at her calf.

"I can't sleep," she said, and he burrowed his face into her side.

"Alright, just give me–" Another rumbly grunt bubbled in his throat. "I'll wake up, give me a mo–"

"You don't have to wake up," she said quickly. "You need to sleep. I'll just–"

"Is this my shirt?" he interrupted her, and then rolled on his back. His eyes slowly opened.

"Rhys, go back to sleep. It's only been two hours, and you need–"

She choked on her words because he unceremoniously pushed his hand under the duvet and brushed his palm to her hip.

"And my pants." He wasn't asking.

"I don't have any clean clothes here," she grumbled.

Their eyes met. His gaze was wide awake and sharp now. Against all reason, Viola's cheeks flamed up.

"What? I've done it before," she gritted through her teeth. "Why is this suddenly important? We both know they fit and make excellent pyjamas for me. Why are you–" she spluttered, and then she felt his rough palm on her thigh.

"Vi," he murmured.

"What?" she said with a pout.

Of course she knew what he wanted to say. What he was asking for. They were in his bed, she was wearing his clothes. It was intimate, cosy, and raw. She suddenly thought that she was disheveled and had no makeup on, and the unusual unease from looking anything but perfectly put-together flooded her.

He wasn't moving or saying anything, just watching her - and she would've appreciated that he was letting her decide and allowed her all possible control over the situation - except she had no bloody idea what she wanted!

"Rhys, I don't–" she exhaled, and then she shifted and, which was rather noteworthy, instead of putting some distance between them, hid her face into his healthy shoulder.

"It's alright, love," he said in a low affectionate voice. "We've talked about it, remember? You take all the time you need."

Viola sniffled - and consequently gulped lungfuls of his smell. Something as if loudly popped in her head. Viola sharply sat up and pinned him with a firm glare.

"I can't have sex if I think I don't look perfect," she said firmly.

He gave her a confused look. She sighed. Is this really a good time, Viola?

"When you and I started dating," she said, "you weren't my first, but I truly knew nothing about it before I met you. You probably don't remember, and it hardly matters right now, I'd had a boyfriend before uni, and it was just all awkward, boring, and even unpleasant at times. And then, what we had was– all I knew. We had great sex, you and I," she said. "Don't get me wrong. But it was solely based on your prior experience, you were the one in charge." She quickly pondered how to explain it to him. "Most men don't analyse it. You just do what comes naturally."

He drew his eyebrows together, but it seems more a gesture of concentration rather than displeasure.

"Meanwhile, many women, including me, have trouble letting go and simply enjoying it without constantly monitoring what it looks like from outside. It's part of my body image issues. It has always been like that. And it worked well in my marriage with Hani, because we experimented a lot, and some of it was... non-traditional. There was an element of performance to it. What it means is that I can't just... do it," she said. "Unless I've had a fair share of alcohol, then my inhibitions are low. Like in your car, remember? Otherwise, I need to wear the lingerie that makes me feel confident, and my hair needs to be styled, and–"

"You need to style your hair to have sex," he repeated slowly.

Viola sighed again.

"No, it's not–" She chuckled joylessly and shook her head. "I'm not explaining it well."

"You probably are, but I don't get it," he said.

He groaned, and awkwardly sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. The duvet slid down, baring his chest. Viola cowardly looked aside.

"Do you mean it needs to be all set up? Like, candles and rose petals or something?" he asked tentatively, and she suddenly felt fiercely grateful for how much he was trying.

"It's not about the circumstances of it," she said. "I just don't get relaxed. I keep looking at myself 'from outside.' What my facial expression is, what noises I make. I watch my body as if from outside, instead of being in it and enjoying sex. A lot of women have the same issues. It's because we're taught to look at sex from the male point of view. In porn, for example."

He gave it a thought for at least five seconds, and then said, "Can you give me an example? Vi, I know it's like I'm being daft, but–"

"Alright," she said with a nervous laugh. It felt oddly liberating to talk about her issues - but it was mind-boggling that it was him she was talking to! "Say, right now, we're in bed. You're naked, I'm wearing your underwear. So, you naturally think of sex. I don't want to assume, but I reckon you aren't actually thinking anything. Your blood has travelled South, and you might have some vague memory of how ace it was, and now you just want to get on with it. Right?" she asked, and he nodded. "Meanwhile, I'm thinking my hair looks like a mop," she said. "That I shaved my legs yesterday, so they aren't perfectly smooth. And then it's like those slides in a projector in my head. I remember the positions you preferred, and I can't help but sort of plan what I'm going to do if you do this or that, and how I now have some new moves, and how many of them I should show to you, considering it's our first time. That's what's going on in my head instead of me just enjoying the fact that I'm in bed with a man I'd very much like to shag," she finished and realised she sounded annoyed at the end.

How many times in her life had she wondered what it would feel to be free of all these anxieties, insecurities, and restrictions?

They stayed silent for a moment, and then he asked, "So what do we do then?" He paused, and then asked earnestly, "What do I do to help, Vi?"