Fiona opened her eyes. She must have fallen asleep. It made sense considering she'd only gotten three hours the previous night. She stretched and looked around. The room was dark.

When she came downstairs, he wasn't in the lounge. She heard quiet noises in the kitchen. She peeked, and saw him stand in front of the stove. He grumbled something under his breath.

"You'll have to turn it on," he said without turning, and Fiona giggled.

"How do you do that?" She shook her head. "And what's the oven for?"

"Pies. They're frozen."

He pointed at neat uniform pies in a shallow cardboard box. Fiona edged by him and pressed the buttons. He pushed a little piece of paper towards her - with the instructions for baking - and she adjusted the temperature.

"It'll be no time," she said. "It's a very good oven."

He looked at her askance. She felt suddenly shy - but not uncomfortable - and busied herself with a kettle.

"Your phone rang," he said. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face. "There," he said and pointed at the table.

She put the kettle on the hob and picked up her Samsung.

"It's your brother," she said. "Must be worried about me," she said and threw him a cheeky glance. His face was cold, and she immediately deflated. "Sorry, I didn't mean– I'll ring him up and explain that I'm alright, and that we're–" He lifted an eyebrow. "Getting along," she finished awkwardly.

"Are we now?" he asked sarcastically, but his features softened.

Wow, she can now distinguish two emotions in him at the same time: annoyance at his brother's intrusion, and– something else, towards her. And just twenty four hours ago she compared him to a carved stone statue. And twenty five hours ago she didn't know he existed.

"Aren't we?" she asked, mimicking his tone.

His eyebrow rose even higher, and Fiona snorted.

"I drugged you with tea, you drugged me with coffee," she said. "Accidentally," she added. His lips twitched. "So I think we're getting along fabulously," she sing-songed.

The kettle started to whistle.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, and he nodded.

She checked her emails and her Instagram, and then the oven beeped signalling that the pies were ready. They once again sat down in front of each other and ate quietly - except this time the silence felt somewhat charged.

Eventually she just couldn't help it and pinned the dishevelled silky crown of his head with a stare.

"So, lovely weather we're having these days," she drew out, and his eyes flew to her face.

She gave him an innocent look. He chewed his food, keeping their eyes locked, and then swallowed. Why is this suddenly a staring contest? Fiona tried not to blink. 

"That Tom lad said there's a lake, and a skating rink apparently," she said. "I've always wanted to learn to skate."

"Everyone in the village skates," he said and popped the last piece of the pie crust in his hand into his mouth and licked the crumbs off his thumb.

Oh god. There was no question whether he affected her, anymore. What boggled her mind was how different it felt from the previous times.

"Clem has skates," he said. "You should borrow them."

"Well, I don't know..." She shied away and looked down at her tea. "I've already invaded her cottage, and–"

"She won't mind," he said with a shrug.

"And you know that– how?" she asked, giving him a teasing look.

"We're mates."

"But you aren't mates with your brother," she said.

"No," he said and took a sip of his brew.

"Why?" she asked.

How does it feel, Mr. Frederic William Holyoake, to be on the receiving end of short but pointed questions?

He watched her for a couple of seconds, but she jerked her chin up and withstood his stare.

"He envies me," he answered, narrowing his eyes.

When he was being sarcastic, the corners of his lips tensed, and she could see muscles dance on his jaw. Why did he seem intimidating before? And to think of it, that 'before' was... yesterday.

"Why?" she asked again.

She was suddenly feeling ballsy - and he definitely noticed.

"Because I can write," he finally gave in and shook his head. "I could write, to be precise. Before." Before his parents' death, she assumed. "And he thinks I've been wasting my– Gift," he intonated purposefully.

Fiona watched him drink tea.

"Our father was a writer," he suddenly said. "He wrote historical fiction. Not well," he added. She saw his eyes grow distant. "But he was respected. His brother was an editor. His wife, my Mum, and two of my Aunts worked in publishing. We grew up in it. When they left, I just couldn't–"

She saw his throat bob, and he lifted the mug to his lips again.

"They didn't leave you," Fiona said softly. "It was just their time."

He looked away from her, and a pained grimace ran his face.

"So, your brother married a writer." Fiona awkwardly tried to distract him. "It's like a crackhead marrying a dealer," she said. "He now has direct access to the source!"

He looked at her sideways and snorted, and she bit her bottom lip.

"Those who can't write publish," he said, and she giggled.

"And what did you write when you wrote?" she asked. He drank his tea, and it was obvious to them both that he wasn't going to answer. Very well, she thought, feeling uncharacteristically feisty. "Let me guess, you wrote romance. Historical, with pirate shirts, and... bodices. Something steamy, with a lot of detailed sex scenes."

He choked on his tea and gave her a bewildered look over the rim of the mug.

"No? No steamy sex scenes?" she asked. "Alright." She hummed, faking pensiveness. "Bird watching manuals? Mushroom picking guides? Dystopian pansexual urban fantasy?"

Ah, and here's the smile. God, it's beautiful.

He opened his mouth to answer, when a doorbell rang through the cottage. Fiona's smile dropped.

"Who's that?" she asked, and he shrugged. "Are we going to– hide?" she asked in a small voice, and he gave her an amused look. "What? I'm not expecting anyone," she grumbled.

He got up and picked up his cane. Fiona watched him leave towards the hall, and she finished her now lukewarm tea.

First, she heard a tense female voice, and then he answered something quietly. The front door banged, and steps approached the kitchen.

"–and I simply don't understand how you can behave like that," the woman was saying in an angry voice. "I haven't seen you in two years, not since the hospital! And after all, it's not like I–"

She stopped in the door of the kitchen, and Fiona froze with the kettle in her hand, water running into it.

The woman was tall, dark-haired - and, most definitely, his sister. She had the same brilliant blue eyes and a patrician nose. She wore an expensive looking long coat with a faux fur collar, and Fiona caught the smell of her elegant perfume.

"Hello," Fiona said.

"Good evening," the woman answered, shock on her face, and whipped her head to look at Holyoake who slowly followed her in. "Will you not introduce us, Fred?"

His face was set in the already familiar haughty, blank expression.

"I'm Fiona King, I work for your brother," Fiona said hurriedly.

The woman looked at her again.

"You work for my brother," she repeated slowly.

Suddenly, Fiona felt almost entertained. What could it possibly look like to the woman? If Fiona stayed with Frederic Holyoake and was in his employment, was she– a masseuse? A therapist? An escort? Not in these dungarees – and not with your looks, Fiona.

"I'm an illustrator in your brother John's publishing house," Fiona said.

"He invited her to stay here. Clem invited me," Holyoake finally deemed it necessary to speak.

"Oh," the woman said. "Pardon me, I'm being incredibly rude," she said, regaining her composure, and stepped to Fiona. "I'm Di. I'm John and Fred's sister."

"Yes, he mentioned you," Fiona said politely and put down the kettle to shake the woman's hand. "You live in the village."

"Well, I'm sure he didn't mention me," Di said and threw her brother a dark look. "I've only just found out he's even here. After three days! From Tom Whitlaw, of all people. Blabbering some nonsense of 'another ginger missus.' Fred," she said with a sharp reproach in her voice, "That surely wasn't good."

He said nothing.

"Would you like some tea?" Fiona said, and the brunette shifted her gaze onto her.

"I'd love to, thank you," she said.

"Nice seeing you, Di," Holyoake deadpanned and walked out of the kitchen.

His sister froze, having half taken off her coat.

"Oh for god's sake," she breathed out. "I'm so sorry about my brother," she addressed Fiona and flared her nostrils. "I can't imagine what Clementine was thinking, making you share the cottage."

"It was a miscommunication," Fiona answered. "But it's quite alright. Would you still like some tea? I imagine you meant to have it with Will, and not a random stranger."

The brunette gave Fiona a suddenly sharp look.

"You call him Will," she said.

"Well, that's his name, isn't it?" Fiona pulled out a teabag from the tin. Passive-aggressive much, Fiona?

"In the past fifteen years my brother has been introducing himself as Axe," the brunette said. "A preposterous army nickname. Axe, short for Axeman. He even has a related tattoo," she drew out derisively.

Fiona remembered the tattoo - on his right upper arm, a crossed axe and a rifle, with some words and some other shape under them. She'd only seen it briefly - when he'd jumped at her from the shower. In a tiny towel around his hips.

"And you're right, I don't want to intrude," the woman said with a sigh, and pulled the coat back onto her shoulder. "I once again apologise for barging in. And for my brother's behaviour."

Fiona suddenly felt irritated. He wasn't a naughty child, or an uncontrollable pet, who needed apologising for.

"I'm sure the misunderstanding will be resolved very soon," Di added. "I'll let John know that Fred can stay at my place."

Why do they talk about him like a burden that needs to be passed from one to another - and then act surprised when he doesn't ring them up when he's in the same village as them?

"That won't be necessary," Fiona said, squaring her shoulders. "I don't mind staying with your brother." Oh, this feels... ace! Is that how confident people feel all the time?! "He makes excellent coffee, and we've had a lovely time– together– listening to the Clash, and– other things."

Very eloquent indeed, Fiona.

When feeling lost, Di Holyoake had the same reaction as her brother - at least the one Fiona was better familiar with. Her lashes fluttered, in a series of some sort of nervous blinks - and then she pulled a polite smile onto her lips.

"Well, that's– most fortunate," she said in a choked voice. "I'll leave you to it then."

"Have a good night," Fiona said politely.

"I'll see myself out," the brunette added hastily and fled, as much as such a regal creature like her could flee.

Fiona heavily sat in her chair and sipped her tea.

"Listening to the Clash and 'other things?'" he asked, leaning on the door frame, and Fiona startled and pressed her hand to her chest.

"Blimey, how are you so silent?" she croaked, and he gave her his signature look from under his raised split eyebrow. "Right, yeah, a former soldier," she grumbled. "Well, I couldn't have possibly told her of our coffee misadventure, or the midnight tea drinking."

"Our relationship sounds rather drink-centered," he said.

Fiona gave him what she hoped looked like an exasperated glare, but then she burst into a giggle.

"Our relationship is twenty-four hours old," she pointed out.

He smirked and poured himself tea.

"You deserve a medal," he deadpanned, "for 'the long service and good conduct.'"

She giggled again.

"I'm going to need your help with the sleeping bag," she said. "And we'll need to replace your sheets again."

He took a sip and shook his head. "They'll do. Are you sure you'll be alright sleeping in the study?"

She nodded eagerly.

She wasn't alright sleeping in the study.