Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Sorry; personal call,” Miranda said quietly, frowning down at her phone screen as her chest tightened and the blood rapidly left her extremities, her fingertips now frozen. The number was withheld, but she had a good idea who it was, and a terrible feeling that this was going to be the call no one wants to have. She needed to be by herself to deal with this.

She swiftly disappeared round the corner of the building where she and Max had just finished interviewing a witness in a breaking and entering case, leaving her curious compañero to wait for her.

...

At the sound of Miranda’s footsteps approaching, Max’s head snapped up from reading messages on his phone. He took in her set expression and the stiffness of her movements. “You ok?” he asked. “You look pale. Well, paler than usual, Maulwurf.” He needn’t have bothered with the attempt at humour for all the reaction it elicited.

“Hmm? Fine,” she lied, her voice flat. The mole insult he’d copied from a terrible estate agent they’d once met didn’t even register. Normally that would have at least earned a glare, but Miranda had far bigger things to think about now.

“You look the total opposite of fine,” Max pressed, his eyes sweeping her face with unconcealed concern.

“It’s nothing,” she said dismissively, looking past his shoulder to the wall behind him. If she met his eye now, she knew she might very well crumble, and she couldn’t have that; this was her burden to shoulder, in private.

“Don’t pull that,” Max insisted. “I know you.”

“Just drop it,” she sighed. She wished the call had come at a time when he hadn’t been there; she felt drained enough without the effort of bickering with him.

“I can’t,” he replied. “You’ve seemed off for a little while, now I think about it. You need to tell me!” He reached a hand out and placed it on her upper arm.

She shrugged him off quickly and took a half-step backwards. “For god’s sake, Max!” She glared fiercely up at him.

“I’m your compañero; you can tell me anything,” he pleaded.

Miranda shook her head sadly. “It’s better you don’t know.”

“I don’t believe that. Look, it’s the end of the day and even better, it’s Friday; we’re going back to mine, I’m opening a bottle of wine and you’re going to talk to me,” he stated firmly, trying to get her to meet his gaze.

She blinked slowly. “Max...”

“Please? I want to help, whatever it is.” He looked perturbed now; lately she’d been letting him in more quickly than this.

“I’m not sure anyone can help,” she half-whispered. “It’s beyond that.”

He rubbed a hand down his cheek. “Scheisse. You’re really worrying me.”

Miranda grimaced. “Sorry.”

“Less apologising, more letting me in! Ok?” He quickly grabbed her hand and squeezed it, letting it go before she had time to protest.

She thought for a few seconds. Maybe a couple of glasses of wine to help with the shock would be what she needed, after all. She hadn’t planned on sharing the news with anyone, not until she really had to, but maybe one confidant was sensible, just in case she needed his help. He’d be the first to figure out something was really wrong anyway, since she’d probably be needing quite a lot of time off work soon.

“Ok,” she agreed at last. “But you absolutely have to promise me that you won’t say anything to anybody,” she added sternly as he beamed at her submission.

“It’s a secret?” he checked.

“For now,” she nodded. “I’ll tell other people when I’m ready. So not a word, right?”

“Promise.” He solemnly mimed zipping his mouth shut.

...

Max came into his living room carrying a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew and two large glasses. He poured the drinks and handed Miranda her glass.

“Thanks,” she said as she unwrapped an arm from around her knees, which were huddled up to her chest as she sat on one of his sofas. She took the wine and had a large swig, not caring about how it tasted.

He sat opposite her, on the other couch. Perching on the edge, he took a sip and studied her over the top of his glass. “So, are you going to tell me now?”

She shook her head. “Let me drink this first,” she requested, raising her wine. “Talk about something happy for a while, please.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “How am I meant to do that when you’ve got me so worried?”

She frowned. “Please. Give me some time to gather my thoughts. Talk about your holiday with Christian or something.”

Max reluctantly launched into an account of his recent trip to the Basque Country with his old friend, telling her about the fantastic food they’d eaten, the cider house they’d visited, the winery tour they’d gone on, the beautiful scenery, and the damp and dreary weather. Miranda couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t sound anywhere near as enthusiastic as the last time he’d talked about the holiday. He really was concerned for her, that was obvious. He always was though; nobody in her adult life had cared so much, or looked at her with such compassion in their eyes, such... love?

The thought of hurting this sweet man with her devastating news was suddenly overwhelming. He clearly wasn’t going to let her pretend everything was ok now, but she’d have to do whatever she could to protect him in the months ahead, to shield him from the worst of the pain, if that were possible.

Miranda drained her wine, put her feet back on the floor, and carefully placed the empty glass on the coffee table between them. Max fell silent, put his own glass down and looked across at her expectantly, his fingers gripping his thighs so anxiously that the tips turned white.

She leaned forward and put her head in her hands, her nails digging into her scalp slightly as she tried to steady her breathing. It was all so much to take in, and now she had to consider how Max would react too. There was no good way to say it though, or none that she could think of. She’d just have to come out with it and go from there. She snapped her head up and looked him in the eyes, forcing herself not to break the contact. She swallowed nervously.

“I...” Her mouth felt suddenly dry. Every tiny sound around them was magnified, not least the depressing tick of the clock on the wall, reminding her even more of her tenuous mortality. “I... Max, I have cancer.” Her lip wobbled and her eyes brimmed with tears. She blinked them back; crying wouldn’t help her now. She had to face this with courage.

Max took a sharp breath. His face drained of colour as he edged backwards in his seat, shaking his head. “No. No no no no. No. Scheisse, Miranda!”

“Yeah...” she whispered, staring down at her depleted wine glass.

“That’s what the appointments were recently,” he said quietly. He drummed his fingertips on his knees.

“Mm,” she confirmed. “I was hoping they’d say it was nothing, or just benign. They told me it wasn’t last week, but they’ve only just given me an idea of the prognosis now.” Her voice wavered as the oncologist’s unwelcome words replayed in her head.

“Is... is it serious then?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“Oh god,” he groaned, running a hand through his curls. “How serious?”

She took a deep breath. She had to tell him the truth; giving him false hope would be cruel. “Terminal.”

“Fuck!” he exclaimed. His eyes roved around the room as if seeking some sign to tell him it wasn’t happening. He thumped his fist on the arm of the sofa.

“Yeah. The oncologist wants to see me soon to discuss treatment. He says they can delay things, but that’s it,” she continued as calmly as she could.

“Oh god, oh god. Oh fuck,” Max moaned. “I can’t believe this. This can’t be happening. Not you. Please, not you.” His voice faltered as the emotion caught in his throat.

“I wish it wasn’t,” she replied bitterly. The world seemed very unfair to her.

“I’m sorry, the shock; how are you feeling?” Max enquired gently.

“Shit.”

He nodded, then stood up. He moved round the coffee table and grabbed her hands, pulling her to her feet in front of him. “I know you don’t generally like to, but I think we both need this,” he said softly as he wrapped his arms round her.

Miranda froze for a moment, then allowed herself to properly accept his heartfelt gesture of solace. She relaxed in his embrace and slowly reached her hands up to his back, feeling some of her tension ebb away with his solid warmth against her cheek.

After a few seconds like this, the dam of both their tears suddenly broke. Neither of them could contain the sadness and anger they were feeling for any longer and they clung to each other for support. Eventually, Miranda found herself too tired to stand any longer, so she patted Max on the back and pulled herself away, slumping back down in her seat.

They spent the rest of the evening sitting beside each other on the sofa, quietly talking until the wine bottle was drained and likewise their emotional reserves. It was too late and wet outside for Miranda to walk home by this point and Max was in no state to drive her, so they curled up together, fully-clothed on his bed. Amazed at the sudden increase in intimacy between them, Max cradled her in his arms as she allowed herself this initial time to be vulnerable. Once the weekend was past she would be strong again.

...

The next day, once he had made them both brunch after they woke late in the morning, Max dropped Miranda off at her home in El Molinar, making her promise as she got out of his car to call him if she needed anything at all. She agreed, though they both knew that she was unlikely to ask.

Normally she would have spent Saturday morning exercising and completing household chores, but today Miranda had no interest in either. She wasn’t usually one for emotional eating, but the quarter-full tub of ice cream left in the freezer from when she’d had Max round for dinner a few weeks back was calling to her. She strode purposefully into the kitchen, grabbed the tub and a spoon, then went back to the living room, where she flopped down on the sofa. She pulled a blanket over her knees and dug the spoon into the ice cream.

As she finished the tub, she let herself grieve for the life that she had taken for granted would go on for many years to come. She should have been approaching middle age now, not the end of her days. What had she done to deserve it? Why her? Why now?

She thought back over her life. So much of it had been spent on study and work. After all that ambition and struggle, she’d only found the time to make it to DS so far. Now there would be no more promotions. Had it been worth it? Would she have served herself better by putting her energies into other areas? What else was there though? She wasn’t sure she knew any other way to be. She had always felt a duty to use her skills to make her little corner of the world a slightly better place, and she felt she had made some sort of difference — that was something to be proud of, wasn’t it? It hadn’t been a total waste of a life, even if others might deem it rather empty, with no partner or children, no large circle of friends, not even a loyal pet.

What did she have to look forward to now? Drawing out the time that remained with treatments that would make those days full of suffering that might be worse than the actual disease? How long would she get before the end, and how much of it would she still be fully herself for?

Her future looked so unremittingly bleak that she couldn’t control her emotions any more. Heaving sobs began to rack her body as burning tears flooded her cheeks and dripped onto her chest. She brought her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms round her legs, wishing Max were there to lend his comforting support again.

Max, the one true regret of her life, it now turned out. Max, the only person she’d ever felt such a deep connection to. Max, the one she’d now never get to be with. It seemed so stupid in hindsight that she’d been prevaricating for so long over letting him know how she felt, especially when her suspicion that he returned her feelings had almost turned into certainty of late. If only she’d grasped just how limited their time was, maybe she’d have told him, and just maybe she’d have finally found out how it felt to kiss him. She’d been wishing she could have done that ever since that surprising night in Cazador. Sadly, she ran through her other most cherished moments with him in her head, the tears slowly subsiding at the memories.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She could feel a headache starting already and an unsettled feeling in her stomach was making her regret the ice cream. That was enough wallowing for now. She realised that she was in a sort of limbo until she could get an idea of how long she might have left in order to make plans. In the meantime, she would have to keep busy to distract herself. Work would help with that when Monday came around, but until then, she would put her brain to use and research everything she could think of to do with her illness, possible treatments, and what she needed to organise to get her affairs in order. Practicality would be her crutch in crisis again, as it had been many times before.

...

While they waited for her next hospital appointment, Max and Miranda acted like everything was normal when they were around others. Without more information, Miranda was unwilling to share her diagnosis even with Inés. Her main symptom during this time was lethargy, which she was able to hide or pass off as just working too hard again. None of their colleagues or friends seemed to notice anything was amiss.

In private, they both avoided talking about her illness. Neither of them wanted to have to face it yet, and until they could find out more about what was to come and what to expect, it seemed like a needlessly depressing topic of conversation. They instead tried to keep things light, sticking to topics that could not be linked to what was always preying on their minds.

Max quietly began preparing extra meals and bringing them round for Miranda in the evenings. For the first few days he just handed the food over and then left her to it after stopping for a chat and making sure she was ok, until one night she told him he might as well just start cooking and eating at her place, if he was going to keep the private chef service up. Max’s delight at this was obvious and he needed no second invitation.

“What?” Miranda asked suspiciously one evening when she caught him staring at her across the dinner table.

He grinned. “I was just thinking... this is my favourite part of the day now.”

She softened and returned the smile. “Mine too.”

...

It was a Friday night, a couple of weeks after the terrible phone call. The meeting at the hospital was a few days away still. Max had made them both an early dinner, then left to meet Christian for a few beers. Miranda found she had got so used to his company in the evenings that she couldn’t decide what to do with her time now that he wasn’t there, chattering away, taking her out of herself. After failing to get into a new book, she retired to her bed for an early night.

She lay there lonely, wondering what Max was up to. She’d been on enough nights out with him and Christian to know how raucous they could get if they were in the mood to really go for it. Would he be at the stage of launching into song already? Or would they be reminiscing again over the good old days of their youth in Munich?

The thought suddenly struck her that perhaps her illness would mean Max would be struggling to enjoy himself as much as he usually would. He’d been putting on a brave face most of the time, but he was obviously feeling the devastating news deeply — he was too much of an open book to completely hide it from her. How unfair it all was, that her disease should affect him too, and so acutely. Or was it more that she was the one being unfair, not the disease, by involving him in her problems?

He should be free to go out and have fun, and whenever he wanted. How selfish she felt. How ridiculous. Who was she to need him so much, and to give him nothing in return? She wasn’t worth bothering with, wasn’t worth wasting his time and effort on. She felt foolish and pathetic for becoming the object of his pity. He must already be so fed up of feeling he had to prop her up. How could she let him carry on when surely all he was getting out of their friendship now was pain and unasked for responsibility? She had to stop it.

In that moment of self-loathing clarity, her mind was made up: she would push him away for his own benefit. Hadn’t that been what she’d wanted to do right from the start, only giving in because he wore her down when she was in shock? Her first thought had been the right one and now it was time to correct things between them. He need feel no obligation to her.

Max was due back tomorrow afternoon; he’d said he wanted to cook something special for a Saturday night treat. She would tell him then, say whatever she needed to put some distance between them and protect him. His care and attention lately had been comforting, but she didn’t deserve it. It was time to go back to looking after herself. She had chosen to spend so much of her life alone, and now that would be how she would end it, independent to the last.

...

The bright Saturday afternoon sun blazed round Max, lending him a halo as he stood at Miranda’s door. “Hi!” he greeted her brightly. “How are you feeling today?”

“Just a bit tired,” she shrugged. “Fine really.” She stayed where she was, not stepping aside to let him in, although from his body language it was clear he was expecting to be allowed inside as usual.

He lifted the carrier bag he was holding in one hand. “I hope you’re not too tired to stay awake for dinner because I’ve got-”

“I’m not hungry,” she interrupted.

Max was taken aback. Her tone had been hurried and unfriendly. “Oh. Ok... I’ll cook it anyway and you can put your portion in the fridge for later.” He began to move forward slightly, but stopped as she failed to permit him ingress.

“No.” She folded her arms across her chest.

He frowned. “What do you mean, no?”

She cocked her head to one side, steeling herself not to give in: she was doing this for him. “I mean, I need you to stop this.”

“What?” He looked confused.

Miranda tipped her head back to look up at the doorframe and sighed, then lowered it and met his gaze levelly. “You’re just always here, taking up space, being too noisy. It’s too much.”

“Oh. Sorry,” he replied meekly.

It pained Miranda that he looked hurt by her words, but a small amount of upset now would be far better than putting him through what would be coming. “I prefer to be alone. You know I’m an introvert. You need to respect that,” she added, her voice sharp.

He seemed to shrink before her. “I didn’t realise I was annoying you. How about we just make it a couple of times a week I come round then?” he suggested with hope in his expression.

Miranda threw her arms up. He was really making it difficult for her to do this — the phrase about kicking a puppy came to mind. “No! No. Sorry, but I think we should go back to how it was — professional partners and friends who don’t live in each other’s pockets.”

“I just wanted to help. I like spending time with you and looking after you,” he explained.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I don’t need looking after!”

“You’re ill,” he said simply.

“Oh, am I?! Thanks, I’d completely forgotten that I’m dying!” she spat back sarcastically at him.

“Ok, ok,” he said, putting his hands up defensively. “I’ll give you your space in future.”

“Starting with now,” she insisted. “Please leave me alone. I don’t need babying.”

“Ok. I’ll guess I’ll leave you in peace then.” He ran his free hand through his dark waves, then turned to glance at where his car was parked in the street behind him.

She nodded. “Good.”

There was an awkward pause. It seemed to Miranda that Max was struggling to tear himself away. His compassion and desire to help were hard things for him to put aside. “See you on Monday morning then,” he told her, subdued by her brusqueness.

“Yep. See you at work.” She stepped back and hurriedly shut the door, not even waiting for him to walk away.

When the sound of his car engine told her he was going, she collapsed onto the sofa and dissolved into a mess of snivelling tears. She wished it didn’t have to be this way.

...

It was Sunday afternoon now and Miranda was feeling so alone. She had freed herself of her guilt over Max looking after her and getting too close to the tragedy of her circumstances, but a new remorse at having to be unkind to him yesterday weighed upon her. She would just have to hope that time would heal things between them and their friendship wouldn’t be irreparably damaged. She knew he wouldn’t want to make things difficult when she was so ill; hopefully he’d do what he normally did when they argued — go off and get drunk and indignant, and then talk a way through it with her when he’d sobered up.

She was idly wondering what she had the energy and appetite to make for a solitary dinner when the doorbell demanded her attention. She wasn’t expecting anyone and she was hardly in the mood for talking. If it was cold callers they’d be getting short shrift.

She opened the door. It was Max, wearing sunglasses and a determined expression. “What are you doing here?” she asked in surprise. Surely she wasn’t going to have to go through the wrench of sending him away again?

“I haven’t stopped thinking about what you said,” he remarked calmly and just a little coldly as he removed his shades, folded them and dropped them into his shirt pocket. “You really hurt me, you know that?”

“That was unfortunate, but I needed to set some boundaries,” she responded, avoiding his steady gaze.

He folded his arms, leaning back slightly as he studied her. “I know what you’re up to.”

She blinked rapidly. “What?”

He smirked. “You’re doing that thing again where you hate being vulnerable and you think you don’t deserve people caring about you. So you’re pushing me away, even though you need me.”

“No, I told you, I just like being alone,” she lied. She was good at it most of the time; she had to hope now wasn’t one of the times her acting abilities failed her.

“I don’t believe you,” he replied firmly. “You probably think you’re protecting me, sparing me from a difficult situation or something like that. You’re wrong though,” he told her triumphantly.

She frowned. “Am I?”

“Very,” he confirmed. “You see, if you don’t let me stick around and care for you, I’ll spend all my time wondering if you’re ok and beating myself up because I want to be here looking after you — I’d be letting you down if I didn’t. Do you really want to make things even worse for me?”

“No...” She squirmed under his scrutiny. His point of view hadn’t occurred to her. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to assume she knew what was best for him.

With no further protest immediately forthcoming from her, Max grinned and stood up straighter. “Great, so we’re agreed you’re letting me in, physically and metaphorically. You’re going to need me around.”

“I don’t think-” she began, wanting to give him a chance to change his mind and escape.

He put his hand on her arm and gently moved her aside so he could enter. “We’re having lamb tonight. That’s what I was going to cook for you yesterday because I know it’s your favourite.” He walked past her on his way to the kitchen.

She turned to him, the front door still wide open. “Max, I-”

He whirled around at the top of the short flight of stairs to the living room. He raised his eyebrows. “Am so grateful you’re here and so sorry for pushing you away?” He stuck his tongue out at her, showing her that things would be ok between them.

She shook her head in bemusement. “You’re impossible!”

“And so are you.” He shot her a wink before heading to the kitchen again. “Now, time to get dinner started. You can chop the veg,” he called loudly over his shoulder.

...

Max sat with Miranda in the waiting room at the hospital, having insisted on driving her to her appointment, which had happily fallen on a day they both had off. They sat in tense silence until Miranda’s name was called after about fifteen minutes.

“Do you want me to wait outside or...?” Max asked as she stood up.

“Ye- actually, no,” she decided. “Come with me?” Her eyes betrayed her inner fear that she was about to be told she had very little time left. She might need him at her side — even she had a limit to how fiercely she wanted to be purely self-reliant.

“Of course. Whatever you want,” he said, springing to his feet.

...

“So, how long do you think, you know, before... the end?” Miranda asked hesitantly. The question had been on her mind the whole time the consultant had been speaking.

“Without the treatments I’ve gone over, months. Probably six at the most. With the treatments — if they are successful — we can hopefully extend that, perhaps up to two years,” the oncologist explained.

“Two years and that’s it,” Miranda repeated flatly. She stared at the floor, feeling numb. Her vision began to swirl, as if her eyes were suddenly working independently of each other.

Max reached sideways and took her hand in his. She didn’t even consider pushing him away; his dependable comfort was her anchor in the turbid sea of the distressing discussion.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you any better news than that,” the doctor told her kindly.

“It’s not your fault,” she replied in a small voice.

“You can have a little more time to think about it if you like, but would you like to start treatment as soon as possible? Bearing in mind the side effects,” the consultant continued.

Miranda tried to remember what he’d run through earlier, and what she’d read in her own diligent research. The side effects for some of the treatments had sounded so much worse than the symptoms of the disease they were trying to treat. Would it be better to have a shorter time with less pain and sickness?

She looked to Max. His expression told her immediately that he wanted her to go for the option that gave her longer. She knew he wouldn’t say it though — he’d learnt over the course of their partnership that when it came to personal matters, she’d rather he wait to be asked his opinion. She took in the tears beginning to form in his bright blue eyes. His pain was clear and it hurt her. If he wanted her to stick around, she would just have to get through for his sake.

She turned back to the oncologist, waiting patiently for her answer. “Yes. Thank you,” she responded.

...

Back at Miranda’s home after a wordless journey from the hospital through the drizzly streets of Palma, Max made them both tea to Miranda’s specifications — a method he’d long ago committed to memory. He brought the mugs into the living room, where she was sitting on the sofa staring distantly. He put the drinks down on the coffee table and sat next to her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

“Terrific,” she muttered, barely registering that he was sitting right beside her.

He put his hand on her shoulder. “No, really.”

The physical contact brought her out of her pensiveness and she turned towards him, the look in her eyes bleak. “I mean, about as miserable as I’ve ever been,” she shared.

“You and me both,” he replied, removing his hand from where it rested on her upper arm and dragging it across his mouth. He looked defeated.

She shook her head; she was putting too much on him by getting him involved so heavily in her personal catastrophe. “Oh, no, Max. It’s for me to worry about. It’s my life, or lack of it, and anxiety is kind of my speciality. I’m better at being unhappy than you too — you’re the sunshine one people actually like and care about.” She shot him a lopsided smile.

Max rolled his eyes. “First, that’s at least five Euro you owe the self-deprecation jar. Second, how can I not worry?”

Miranda shrugged. “I wish I knew that secret.”

They sat in silence for a minute, each lost in their thoughts. Miranda was wondering how to spare Max the worst of what was to come; he’d been good to her, a real friend from the moment they met, and he didn’t deserve the fallout of her illness. If things hadn’t been quite so serious, she’d almost certainly have pushed him away for his own good again, but she had to admit that she needed him now.

“We’ve got to find something at least vaguely positive to focus on,” Max announced, interrupting Miranda’s train of thought.

“Err, like what?” she queried, looking at him with confusion. How could anything seem positive right now?

“I was thinking, maybe if we came up with a list of all the things you still want to do, we could make sure they happen. Make the most of things while we can?” he suggested.

Miranda noticed an eager light in his eyes. Perhaps she could go along with it if it made him feel useful and helped him get through. “A bucket list, you mean?” she checked.

“Yes. I need something positive to focus on, and I think it might help you too. What do you think?” He smiled.

Miranda nodded slowly. “I’m not sure what I’d put on it though. I’m not exactly one for skydiving and swimming with dolphins, or Disney nonsense,” she told him with a cynical expression.

“You don’t want to go crazy, do something you’ve never done before? If you wanted to try a little light crime, now would be the time,” he joked.

“Max! We’re police officers!” she scolded him, her face a picture of outrage at his suggestion.

He grinned at her predictable reaction. “Come on, just something mild, like get a load of parking tickets and never pay them off. That would be pretty wild for you.”

“I’d have to use your car, so you’d be the one stung for my spree,” she pointed out.

“Hey! Ok, so strictly legit stuff then...” he agreed, briefly patting her knee. “I’m sure we can come up with some good ideas. You might as well spend your money enjoying yourself now because it’s pointless having it otherwise.”

“Alright, we can talk about it later tonight,” she agreed. “I think I’d just like to sleep for a little while.” The emotional toll of the hospital visit was in full effect now she was at home and the tiredness was too much for her to fight any longer.

Max nodded his understanding. “I’ll get dinner prepared, then I might join you, if that’s ok? I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Ok.” She hauled herself to her feet and headed for the stairs, sorry that she had almost certainly been the cause of his restlessness.

Even in her lethargic state, a small part of her was excited that Max would later be coming to lie beside her. She berated herself again for not doing anything about her feelings for him before now, when life had been so much less complicated than it had seemed at the time. How callous the universe was: first pairing her up with someone unavailable with whom she felt an intense spark of attraction, then once the flame had grown into love and he’d finally become single, cursing her with an illness she would never recover from, just when she’d been plucking up the courage to risk making her feelings known. Now it was too late to find out for sure whether it had been reciprocated; time had most definitely turned out not to be on her side.

...

Miranda woke a couple of hours later to Max curled round her, his arm tight across her middle, holding her to him. His chest moving behind her as he breathed reminded her that she was still alive. He was right: she still had some time left and she should be making the most of it.

Night had begun to fall by now and the last of the orange glow of sunset was all that illuminated the room. She lay in the gloom, cherishing the closeness with Max. If this was all they could ever have, then she would just have to be grateful for it; some people never got to even meet their life’s great love, let alone become such good friends with them.

After a few precious minutes, she slowly began to move, turning onto her back and then rocking his shoulder to rouse him. He smiled when his eyes flicked open and he saw her face before him in the soft crepuscular light.

...

“So, have you thought of anything for your list?” Max enquired as they ate the dinner he had started several hours earlier.

Miranda put her cutlery down against the rim of her plate and rested her chin on her hands. “Honestly, there’s not loads of big stuff I feel like I’ve missed out on,” she told him. She held back the end of that thought: except a proper love, except you.

He took a bite from his fork and thought while he chewed. “It doesn’t have to be big, I suppose. Just whatever you want.”

“I just want more of, well, this,” she shrugged simply.

He frowned. “This?”

“Just us, having dinner, talking, sitting on the balcony watching the sea and the sunset,” she said quietly. It sounded silly now she’d told him. All the things in the world she could want and here she was requesting everyday mundanity with him. It must sound like the most boring bucket list ever to him, but to her it was everything that mattered.

“We can do all of that every night as far as I’m concerned,” he replied with seriousness.

“No, not every night. I’m not asking you to give up your life for my daft whims,” she insisted. She was meant to be shielding him and here she was making him feel he had to spend all his time with her.

He reached across the table and squeezed her forearm. “You’re not making me; I’m offering freely. I want to spend my time with you. Just tell me what else you want and I’ll do whatever I can.” He smiled as he withdrew his hand.

“Well... I always thought I’d like to see more of the Mediterranean: maybe Italy, Greece, Croatia, some of the other islands. I still haven’t been to Menorca even.” She hesitated, thinking she should’ve curbed her imagination since reality couldn’t live up to it. “I can’t go far though — the DVT risk from flying is too great for me now. But I’d like to see the rest of Mallorca. I haven’t been out and about all that much, apart from for work. Just the places we’ve been together really, and I got the train to Sóller a couple of times.”

“We can definitely drive wherever you’d like on the island,” he promised keenly. “I know some places you’ve probably never been. We can explore a bit, get some nice meals... And I can see from the look on your face that you’re about to tell me again that I shouldn’t waste my free time on you, or some nonsense like that, so I’m going to stop you there!” He held his palm out to halt her.

“You know me too well.” Better than anyone, she thought. So much better.

“Yep,” he grinned. “If we can find a window in your treatment, why don’t we book a little cruise, since you can’t fly? I’m sure we’ve both got plenty of holidays left to take. You always have.” He shot her a nagging look, familiar to her from the many occasions when he’d told her off for being a workaholic.

“You want to go on holiday with me?” she queried awkwardly. She hadn’t seriously expected the offer. It seemed unreal that he’d want to spend that much time in her company, especially given the depressing circumstances.

“Yeah. Friends do do that, you know,” he replied with a slight teasing tone.

She thought about his suggestion. She’d always assumed cruises were more for retired people, but if flying was out of the question she couldn’t be too picky. “Won’t it be expensive?” she checked.

“I’ve been pretty careful with my spending lately and I know you’ve got savings, Señora Sensible, so why not use some?” he asked, his head cocked to the side.

She sat back in her chair. “You’re right; not like I’ve got to keep it back for when I retire.”

Max shot her a sympathetic look. “I’ll find us one that’s not all old people. Something classy.”

She nodded. “Ok, see what you can come up with and I’ll think about it. I’d have liked to go back to Wales too, but I can’t face the train or driving.”

“I’m sorry you won’t get to do that, although if you decide you can cope with being driven I would do that for you,” he offered. Something in his eyes told Miranda it wasn’t an idle sentiment. “I’d have liked to show you round Munich sometime too,” he added.

Miranda was surprised to hear him say that. “Would you really?”

“Yeah, course,” he told her enthusiastically. “My dad’s been asking about you for ages.”

“Oh, you tell him about me?” Her brow furrowed as she wondered what that meant.

“Well, you know, on the rare occasions we chat he asks about work and my friends...” he said a little hurriedly, not looking her in the eye as he resumed eating.

“Hmm.” Was she imagining it or did he seem a bit flustered? Like he’d revealed something he hadn’t meant to?

...

Inés looked up to see Miranda entering her office as expected, with Max following. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting Winter when you said it was personal,” she remarked with surprise.

Miranda tried to keep her face neutral for the difficult conversation ahead. “He knows all about it and he’s sort of involved, plus it will start to affect our work together soon,” she explained. Only after the words had come out did she realise that the meaning was vague enough for Inés to interpret them in a very different way to how they were intended.

Inés’s eyebrow shot up. “Oh? Do enlighten me,” she insisted, her gaze flitting back and forth between the two of them as they each took a seat.

Miranda swallowed nervously. Max shot his hand out and grabbed hers, interlinking their fingers. She smiled for a second, then cleared her throat and began. “You know I had a couple of medical appointments?”

“Yes,” Inés confirmed. Her expression changed from one that indicated her thoughts were on the nature of her officers’ relationship to clear concern for Miranda. “Everything ok?”

“No. It’s not, as it happens. I- I...” Miranda’s voice trailed off as her throat suddenly felt like it was closing up. Words failed to form. Her skin felt cold despite the office being a pleasant temperature. Telling Max had been difficult enough, but this felt official, giving a legitimacy to the situation she wished she hadn’t found herself in.

“Do you want me to?” Max asked softly. He’d only waited a couple of seconds before coming to her aid.

Miranda nodded gratefully. She was so glad he’d offered to be there.

Max took a deep breath and looked steadily at Inés. “Miranda has cancer. It’s pretty advanced.”

Inés’s eyes widened. She slammed her palms down on her desk. “¡Dios mío! No! Miranda!”

“She’s going to start treatment soon,” Max continued.

“Well, that’s good,” Inés responded, as Miranda remained silent. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes and no,” Max replied delicately. “It can only delay things for a while.”

“¡Mierda!” Inés exclaimed. “Do they know how long?”

“Up to two years, if it works,” Max informed her, his tone morose.

Inés nodded. Her face seemed to have drained of colour. She turned to look at her other officer, sitting staring ahead with her expression blank. “Miranda, I’m so sorry,” she said with feeling, making it clear that despite their past differences, she really did care about her. She glanced briefly back to Max. “And for you too, Max... Of course we will do whatever we can to support you, Miranda. Take whatever time you need for treatments, of course. Let me talk to HR about it for you.”

“Thank you,” Miranda whispered, her eyes now brimming at the kindness her boss was showing.

“I wish I could do much more,” Inés shrugged helplessly.

“There is something, actually,” Max chipped in. “Miranda said I was involved — I’ve been looking after her. I was hoping that as her closest friend on the island, you’d let me have time off to take her to appointments and that sort of thing?” He looked hopefully at their boss.

“Yes,” Inés agreed quickly. “We can discuss the details later, but in principle, of course I want to support you both.” She smiled compassionately at them.

“Thanks,” Miranda told her. She paused for a second while she organised her thoughts and found her voice. “Can we keep all this quiet for now? I don’t mind people knowing I’m ill because they’ll probably work that out soon anyway, but I’d rather not have them treat me like I’m dying. Not yet. I’d like to carry on as normally as possible while I can.”

“Of course,” Inés assured her. “I understand — I would probably be the same myself.”

Miranda nodded. “Good. Well. Let’s get back to it then,” she said to Max. “Plenty to do today.”

Max let go of her hand and they both rose and turned to leave. Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda caught Inés reaching for her box of tissues.

...

Miranda’s first cycle of treatment began soon enough. Max tried to insist on driving her to and from the hospital for each session, but she refused to let him take that much time out to help her, so after much back and forth they agreed that she would make her own way there as long as she was strong enough, and he would pick her up afterwards. Miranda was secretly glad he’d fought so much to assist her as she soon found out just how draining the treatment was.

On the days she spent at the hospital and those immediately following them, Max became a fixed feature in Miranda’s home. The exhaustion was so obvious that there was no point her even attempting to hide it. She wearily let him look after, not having the fight in her to stop him and send him back to his own place, as much as she still felt she shouldn’t be bothering him.

After Max had taken her home, he would make sure she ate something. Most of the time Miranda was too nauseated to want anything, but Max always had something nutritious prepared that she would force herself to take a few bites of, knowing that she needed to keep her strength up. She would then usually go straight to bed and sleep for a long time, lost in a deep, dreamless slumber. While she slept, he busied himself keeping her home tidy, the way he knew she liked it. He would not allow her to lift a finger and she lacked the fight to battle him over it.

If she had the energy and wasn’t too drowsy, Max would put on a film and they would spend the evening quietly together on the sofa. When Miranda just wanted to sit and not concentrate, they would go up to the balcony and watch the dark waves endlessly washing in and out beneath the starry skies. These nights usually finished with Max staying over, since he wanted to make sure she was ok and that he was there should she need anything. Soon enough he had a side of the bed and half a drawer for his clothes. His flamenco dancer toothbrush made its flamboyant way into her bathroom cabinet.

...

The exhausted Miranda had a welcome break of a few weeks before her next treatment cycle. After a period of little else but sleep and then a relatively easy reintroduction to work, she found herself feeling almost normal again. She and Max spent a happy Saturday in the mountain village of Valldemossa, then drove back to Miranda’s place, where Max planned to cook something nourishing and tasty.

Miranda sat on a stool in the kitchen as he pottered about washing and chopping vegetables. While he busied himself, a wave of guilt suddenly hit her once again. Why was he here on a Saturday night when he should be out with his friends, having beers with Christian and the others in their crowd? She was stealing his precious leisure time. Despite what he had said before about wanting to be there with her, he surely must find her such an encumbrance. He must feel duty-bound towards her because she didn’t really have anyone else. She couldn’t stand his charity or her neediness. She had to offer him a way out again. Even if he only agreed to lessen his support just a little, she could feel she wasn’t trapping him quite so much.

“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” she blurted out.

“What? I’m hungry and you’re a mediocre cook,” he shot over his shoulder as he diced a red pepper.

“No, I mean all of it: take me to appointments, cook for me, get my shopping, take me on day trips, try to cheer me up...” she explained.

He put the knife down and whirled round to look her in the eyes. “I disagree.”

She shook her head at him. “You really don’t have to. You’ve got your own life to live,” she insisted, wincing internally at the phrasing that reminded her that hers was running out. “I can manage, especially when it’s not a treatment day.”

“I want to,” he replied simply as he took a step towards her. His crystal blue eyes pleaded with her. “Don’t push me away again, Miranda; the first time was bad enough. Let me be here for you. Nobody should go through this alone.”

She blinked her eyes shut for a second, screwing them up hard to banish the image of his sincere expression while her words formed. She snapped them open again, but chose not to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to do any of this,” she reiterated firmly. “I’m taking up all your time and dragging you down. You don’t need this. There’s nothing that obligates you to look after me — it’s not like you’re my boyfriend or anything!” She dug her nails into her palms, wondering why she’d said that last part. She felt exposed, as if by saying what he wasn’t she had revealed what she dearly wished he could be.

A tense silence filled the air after Miranda finished speaking. Max had moved his head slightly to stare out of the window. His eyes seemed to be wandering back and forth as if he was wrestling with some dilemma. Miranda internally berated herself for even using the word ‘boyfriend’ in relation to him, now that she had put aside all hopes of that ever being the case. Her illness had made her too emotional and made her usual filters falter at times. She didn’t like it.

Just as Miranda was going to break the silence by changing the subject to what Max was cooking for them both, he looked back at her. His eyes were piercing, raw. “What if I told you that I want to be your boyfriend?” he said in a low voice.

Her stomach flipped. Nothing in his tone sounded anything but entirely truthful, but Miranda couldn’t quite accept what he’d said; he was surely just feeling sorry for her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she sighed, breaking the eye contact to study the ingredients heaped up on the worktop behind him.

“Ridiculous?!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. He stepped even closer to her, close enough that he could have touched her if he’d wanted. He bent slightly to force himself into her eye line. “I’m trying to tell you I’m in love with you!”

Miranda’s vision swam for a second. She managed to focus on his eyes. He plainly meant it. “Oh. Really?” she managed to croak out.

“Yes, really!” he told her tenderly. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you sooner. I wish I had. I guess I thought we had plenty of time.”

“Why are you telling me this? It can’t happen,” she told him firmly, though she badly wanted to say the opposite.

His eyes flitted back and forth across her face, searching for signs of her true feelings. “Why not? You don’t feel the same? I kind of thought...?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She took a moment, pressing her hands to her face while she wondered what she could say to him. She decided he deserved the truth. “No... I mean, I, I do feel that way, but... I’m dying, Max!” Her eyes pleaded with him to let the conversation go.

He snorted. “I do realise that.”

She nodded and gave him a small, lopsided smile of regret. “So you see why this can’t happen.”

His brow furrowed. “No, I think that means it’s even more important to stop wasting time. We should take what joy we can in life, while we’re still able to.”

“That’s the problem: I don’t have life left to live. I won’t pull you into my mess,” she insisted.

“I’m already in deep,” he told her with a fond smile. “You really don’t want to try? For there to be an ‘us’ at last?” He raised his hand and touched it to her cheek. When she didn’t flinch or duck away, he stroked his thumb across her soft skin.

With reluctance, Miranda carefully pulled his hand away and let it drop, as if she hadn’t relished the electric thrill she’d just felt. “I’d rather leave you grieving just a friend than grieving a, a... girlfriend.” The word sounded strange applied to her and she had struggled to voice it.

“Why is that just up to you?” he complained. “I can make my own choices. And we were never really just friends. I think we both know that,” he said softly.

“I can’t put you through the extra pain. It wouldn’t be fair,” she reasoned. She had already failed in protecting him earlier; she couldn’t go and make it even worse now.

Max sighed a deep, frustrated sigh. “Not ever getting to be with you would be the greatest pain. Do you want me to spend the rest of my days wondering? Torturing myself, wishing we’d taken the chance?” he pleaded, holding her captive with the intensity of his gaze.

A tear ran down her cheek at the thought of him pining over what might have been. “I don’t want you to torture yourself, of course not! Being together would mean you having to look after me though, and I can’t ask you to do that. It’s too much!”

He gently rolled his eyes at her. “Miranda, what am I doing now? I’m fully aware of how things might go. I know it’s not going to be easy. My mum, remember?” He looked down at his feet sadly for a moment.

She hadn’t recalled his family circumstances in light of her own troubles. She felt horrible for suggesting he didn’t know what he was talking about. “Sorry, yes. I forgot,” she told him contritely. “I just don’t want to be a burden to you for however long I’ve got left, and then leave you...”

“If you call yourself a burden one more time, I will actually scream! I choose to have this time with you, properly with you, even if it means it’s worse when you’re... when you’re gone. It’s my choice to make,” he said bravely.

She silently took him in as he stood there waiting for her response. Everything about what he was saying, how he was saying it, the way he was looking at her... it all seemed sincere and free of doubt. “Are you really sure?” she checked hesitantly.

He took both her hands in his, caressing the backs of them with his thumbs. “I’ve never been more sure of anything. Would you like to try? Have a chance at some happiness?” He smiled eagerly at her.

He looked so excited that she seemed to be about to agree. If it was what they both wanted, perhaps she should give it a chance. How long she had wanted this. How wonderful it could be. Before they went too far, she had to let him know that he shouldn’t feel tied to her just because she was dying though; she wanted this relationship to be as normal as it could be. “If we do this, you can back out at any point, and I’ll understand. You don’t have to stay because I’m not well,” she urged him. “Don’t worry about me — I’ll cope. I’m always ok on my own.”

His face lit up: it was going to happen. He so rarely managed to persuade her to his way of thinking and he was clearly immensely glad that this occasion was one of the exceptions. “Oh Schatz, not a chance! You’re stuck with me now. So... do you feel up to a first kiss?” His eyes danced with excitement.

“I feel almost normal today,” she told him. She heard the blood thundering in her ears. Adrenaline coursed through her, making her stomach flutter. A kiss between them had been a long time coming.

“Then let’s have a normal evening together — the new normal where I’m allowed to kiss you,” he beamed. He moved to put his arms round her, his palms on her lower back.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and looked up at him, her pulse racing. Her cheeks felt on fire. “And maybe more, if you’re lucky...” she told him boldly. There was no point holding back now.

He dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “I like the sound of that. A lot.”

He moved his lips and gently touched them to her neck, trailing soft kisses along her jaw, up to her cheek and finally over to the corner of her mouth, not quite meeting her lips. Miranda had closed her eyes to enjoy the intoxicating sensation. She slowly opened them when she realised he had stopped.

Max was staring lovingly at her, his face only a few centimetres from hers. She moved one of her hands from his strong shoulder to stroke it down his cheek. He covered it with his own, holding her warm palm to him for a few seconds while they stared at each other with desire. He let it go and stroked her hair behind her ear where it had fallen out of place. Next he slowly tilted her chin towards him. Miranda could take the waiting no longer. She forced herself up and pressed her lips to his, holding his gaze all the while. He responded tenderly at first, then more hungrily as she began to push her body against his, her tongue slipping between his lips.

As the kiss went on, Max picked Miranda up and she wrapped her legs round his waist. He pulled his head back just far enough to look at her properly. He flicked his eyes up to the ceiling. She nodded, giggling. Dinner could wait.

...

The glow of newly-admitted love and the elation of starting their relationship gave Miranda an extra strength. Getting through each treatment meant more time with Max, time she felt somehow owed after such a long wait. The thought of him willing her to carry on and to maintain her health as far as possible helped her through the trials and side effects.

Every checkup at the hospital was positive — with the oncology team’s targeted efforts, each time Miranda was fortunate enough to get the best possible outcome. She didn’t believe in luck, but it seemed that perhaps it believed in her.

“That’s such good news,” Max beamed after Miranda shared the latest encouraging update from her specialist on their way home.

“Yes, I’m glad it’s been worth it so far,” she agreed.

“Me too. I’ve hated seeing you go through it all.” He shot a glance sideways and briefly patted his hand on her knee.

“Sorry,” she told him with a grimace. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering how soon it would be that she would have to give bleaker updates. Her chest felt heavy with the weight of the misery that would inflict upon him.

Max tutted. “Stop apologising and thinking that you’re a burden or that you’re forcing me to be around you! In fact, I’m banning the word ‘burden’; from now on, I don’t even want you thinking it!” He gave her a warning glare.

“Sorry,” she replied mischievously.

“Very funny,” he smiled. He swung the car out onto the road that ran parallel to the marina. A pertinent memory popped up at the sight of all the boats moored in rows. “Hey, why don’t we celebrate with that cruise? I could book tonight if we can pick our favourite.”

“I’d like that. One last holiday.” Her first with him though — first and only, she rued.

“I hope it won’t be,” Max replied. “Even if we can just get a few little breaks away. Doesn’t have to be far, as long as it’s a change of scene.”

Miranda had to admire his optimism, though privately she was worried about letting him down. He might put so much store on taking her away somewhere new only to find that she was too sick to go, or worse, that her time sadly did not extend to the booking date. She would have to pray that that would not be the case with the cruise at least; he needed something to look forward to in all this.

...

In between her cycles at the hospital and the recovery days she spent resting and sleeping, Miranda threw herself into her cases. Max wouldn’t let her stay late anymore, but during the working day, she was as focused and efficient as she had ever been. Burying herself in something that made her feel useful and like her old self was the distraction she badly needed.

Miranda was trying so hard to be normal that Inés often appeared worried for her. Her concerns were always promptly dismissed however: telling Miranda that they managed to catch plenty of criminals without her and she should focus on her health did little, since Miranda knew from the data that she made a difference. All Inés could do to help was give her and Max some of the less taxing cases in terms of footwork and travel.

...

A few months down the line, Miranda was still feeling as much like herself as she could in between her times at the hospital. Both she and Max clung to their happiness together, doing their best to set aside their fears for her health when they could. Max put his efforts into surprising her with loving gestures: bunches of flowers, her favourite chocolates, soft blankets and jumpers for when the treatments made her extra sensitive to rougher fabrics and the cold. When she was feeling well, he would often drive them around the island to somewhere she hadn’t been before, or treat her to a meal out.

One night he had booked them a place at a smart restaurant with a terrace dotted with tables looking out over the adjacent sea. Candles flickered in the gentle breeze as the setting sun coloured the mirror of the bay. While they waited for dessert to come, Miranda thought to herself that it was an incredibly romantic setting he had brought them to. Perhaps she should finally bring up the subject she’d been thinking about for a few weeks now.

She caught Max’s eye and cleared her throat. “This is going to sound like the least romantic thing, but I’ve been thinking and I want to make things as easy as possible for you, you know, legally and financially, when I’m... gone...” she trailed off at the difficulty of keeping herself on an even keel and at finding the right words — maybe she should have rehearsed this. “But it’s not the only reason, obviously, I do want this, I really do, just now there’s extra reason to do it and soon, so...” she rambled on, wishing she was expressing herself better.

Max looked a mixture of confused and amused. It wasn’t like her to not be direct. “You’re going to have to fill in some details here.”

She opened her mouth, then quickly shut it, looking down at the table. Time to just come out with it. She looked back up at him. “Max, what I’m trying to say is, will you marry me? I understand if you don’t want to, I just th-” She stopped: Max was grinning broadly. He began to chuckle. “Why are you laughing?” she demanded. “Do you think this is a joke?!”

Realising she was upset with him, Max quickly put up his hands and adopted a more serious expression. “No, no!” he reassured her. “I’m laughing because, well, look!” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. He held it up. “I got it a couple of weeks ago. I was going to ask you tonight. You beat me to it.” He smiled across the table at her, love in his eyes.

Miranda relaxed. “Max,” she smiled back. She couldn’t believe her good fortune in finding him.

“Ask me again,” he insisted excitedly.

This time Miranda was far more confident since she knew his answer would be exactly what she wanted to hear. “Will you marry me?”

He thumped his palm on the table. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” He opened the box and took out the ring, then slid it onto the finger of her outstretched hand. “Even though you totally just stole my thunder.”

She admired the engagement ring in its new home on her finger, sparkling in the candlelight. It was so beautiful. “I’m sorry it won’t be a long marriage,” she murmured sadly.

“Don’t be sorry. I get to marry you.” Max reached for her hands, lifted them both and kissed the back of each one.

“Can we make it soon?” she requested. “I want to be able to celebrate while I still have good days. And some of the therapies that are coming might make my hair fall out.” She took a hand back and tucked a strand behind her ear, conscious of what she might loose sooner or later.

“Of course,” he agreed readily with a squeeze of her other palm. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

She smiled gratefully. “I’m glad you made me book the cruise because that’s the honeymoon sorted.”

“I’m full of these great ideas, you know.” He shot her a wink. “One amazing wedding coming up, Schatz.”

...

Miranda happily let Max take charge of their wedding preparations. Having something so joyous to occupy him was what he needed. She made sure to keep an eye on what he was up to though — normally organisation was more her area of expertise. It turned out, however, that Max was very capable when he properly focused, especially when the task was planning a celebration. Throwing a party was very much in Max’s wheelhouse.

Before Miranda knew it, he had booked a possessió — one of the many old stone manor houses dotted about on Mallorca. The grand venue along the coast past Deià, in the mountainous west of the island, was theirs for a few days and would house them and all their closest friends and family. Catering, music and officiants were all quickly organised with a little help from Max’s contacts and his charm. Miranda had little to do beyond finding a dress and shoes for herself. Under normal circumstances she would have found this an unbearable loss of control, but now she was happy to have her load lightened and to let Max’s enthusiasm run riot.

...

The wedding was entirely perfect in Miranda’s opinion. Everyone she wanted there had come, the ceremony was sweet and simple, the weather warm and bright, and the food and entertainment just right. The possessió was beautifully decorated and its situation breathtaking: from the large stone terrace there was a wide view over the steep terraced hills that tumbled down and then out across the beguiling expanse of the Mediterranean beyond. Strings of lights were decked out over the terrace for the guests to dance the evening away in their soft glow.

“Do you remember the first time we danced?” Max asked Miranda as they stepped and swayed to the music together.

“How could I forget? I’ve replayed it enough times,” she replied.

“Me too,” he shared with a cheeky grin. “Definitely the most exciting dance I’ve had — sexual tension off the scale!”

“So unexpected,” she added as he twirled her round.

He pulled her back close to him. “When you replayed it, did it ever end differently?” he enquired with keen interest.

“Yes.” She left it at that, teasing him.

His eyebrow twitched up inquisitively. “Go on.”

She smiled at him, her dimples appearing. “Maybe I’ll tell you upstairs.”

“I look forward to it very much!” he grinned. “Talking of upstairs, I so wanted to talk to you again when we were back on our balconies after the dance.”

“Me too. I went back out after we talked about the case, but you weren’t there.”

“No way! So did I. We must’ve just missed each other.” He shook his head.

“What would you have done if we hadn’t?” She’d often wondered what she would have done herself. Hearing that he had had a similar urge was very interesting.

He thought for a second. “I don’t know — it was all new to me then. Maybe I’d have suggested a drink, or invited myself to your room on a pretext?”

“Probably good we didn’t see each other then: Carmen,” she said seriously. She had never wanted her friend to be hurt and she had been a large part of the reason she had hidden her feelings for so long. Even when she and Max had broken up, Miranda had resolved to hold back for quite some time out of respect.

“You’re right,” he agreed. A lustful look crossed his face. “How about we go upstairs now and you show me how the paso doble ends in your head?”

“Only if you promise not to stamp on my foot,” she told him, pulling him by the hand after her.

...

The honeymoon cruising around the coasts of Italy and Greece passed as blissfully as the wedding had done. Miranda had only one day where she felt unable to leave their room and it was a day when they were at sea anyway, so they didn’t miss out on anything. The rest of the time her lethargy was thankfully at a level that it only occasionally limited what they could do, mostly affecting her in the evenings, after they had been ashore and explored the sights already.

They arrived back in Palma after their time away feeling refreshed. Both of them had sorely needed to be pulled out of their situation for a carefree break. Max immediately began to look into trips they could take elsewhere by ferry; any respite from having to think about cancer and its terrible hold on their lives would be grasped with both hands.

...

The months went by and Max and Miranda found they had settled quickly into a harmonious married life. Max had given up his apartment in the city centre and officially moved into Miranda’s place, since she had told him that she wanted to end her days by the sea. Watching out over the Mediterranean brought her a tranquility that she needed in her darker moments. When she was able, she would go for a run along the promenade that passed their home, clearing her head in the way she had always preferred. It was with sadness that she realised that it wouldn’t be long before the runs became ever shorter and more infrequent, until eventually they would have to stop altogether.

The black spectre of Miranda’s illness hung always in the background of their lives, but they were able to keep their focus elsewhere much of the time, especially when there was a break in her treatment. Occasionally though, one of them would say something careless, like unthinkingly expressing a wish for a future they couldn’t have, and they would catch each other’s eye with regret and fear.

The treatments continued to take a toll on Miranda, and her hair began to fall out in clumps. The nausea was intense at times and even the softest of clothing could feel jagged against her skin; Max bought her a supply of cashmere socks and soft jersey cardigans to keep her warm and comfortable. Every checkup with the oncologist was positive still though; it seemed the indignity and physical stress were not in vain.

As time marched on, Miranda made it her goal to get beyond the upper limit of two years that she had been given at the start. If she could beat that, she would be able to feel she had had even the smallest victory: she would have cheated the illness for longer than she should. She had to do it for Max: he deserved all the time she could give him.

Each fiesta, each celebration that she took part in now left Miranda wondering if it would be her last. Max did his best to make them all extra special, but always there was a deep, sinking sadness in the pit of her stomach that she could not ignore for long. She made sure that for birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas she got Max the best presents she could think of so that he would have things to remember her by, knowing that he could be rather sentimental. She knew that she couldn’t take her money with her, though she still exercised some restraint since she felt a responsibility to ensure Max at least didn’t have financial worries after she was gone — he’d have enough to cope with.

...

More than a year had passed since the prognosis had been given and Miranda worried for Max. Although he still seemed almost his usual upbeat, jokey self, she had woken more than once in the night to the bed shaking as he silently wept next to her. She was concerned that he was bottling things up for her sake and that he steadfastly refused to discuss anything beyond her predicted lifetime. She resolved to do everything she could to help him get some sort of respite from his suffering.

Without telling Max, she quietly arranged with Christian that at least once a fortnight he would insist on meeting Max for a beer or two. She felt the release of an evening away from her and in the company of his oldest friend would be important for him, and she was proved right. Once he was convinced that she would cope without him and would call him the second he was needed, he began to be able enjoy himself on his free nights, and Miranda was gratified each time to see him cheerier the following day.

...

Aware of her time dwindling, Miranda determinedly started a new routine for whiling away the hours of her treatment: instead of reading or listening to podcasts, she set about her ultimate project, organising it on her laptop and in a folder. Her legacy to Max would be in three parts: all her memories and their good times together gathered for him to remember, everything surrounding her death and estate thoroughly organised, and a plan to help him through his first months without her.

After drawing up a checklist, she took care of some of the easy stuff first. She transferred all the utilities to Max’s name and organised all the information in one section of the binder. She added her birth certificate and put together details of her bank accounts and savings. She had already had a payout from her critical illness cover, and after keeping a small amount aside for emergencies, she had placed it in a high-interest account for Max.

Next she gave instructions to back up what she would tell him in person: she would be donating her body to the biomedical school for scientific research, meaning they would deal with her cremation once they had made use of her gift, and there would be no traditional funeral. She made a list of everything that needed to be done in the days following her death, providing all the numbers he needed to call and details of the paperwork he would have to complete, along with the information of the solicitor who was dealing with her will.

She wrote out all her wishes for the memorial service she would request Max hold instead of a funeral, stipulating that she wanted it to be a celebration; the thought of asking Max to be miserable over her was too much to contemplate. She put together a playlist of some of her favourite songs and wrote some suggestions for catering.

When she was satisfied the more practical parts of her task were dealt with as far as was possible in advance, she moved on to the sentimental items on her to-do list. She set up a new account and wrote the details in the folder with a stipulation that what he would find in it was for him to occasionally reminisce, not to continually torture himself with.

First she organised her photos and videos of their time together and ordered them with those she had forwarded from his phone when he’d been asleep one night. They stretched right back to the selfie she’d told him off for just before their ill-advised crashing of Niall Taylor’s supposed wake; Max had insisted on the photo because they both ‘looked fantastic’ and he wanted to remember it. She added in pictures and clips that their friends and colleagues had sent her when she’d asked after the wedding, as well as plenty of photos of their honeymoon, and of the shorter trips Max had organised to Menorca and Valencia. She hoped that there would still be some happy memories to come that would join the collection.

Next, she began writing out all her favourite moments they’d spent together: times he’d made her laugh, meals and drinks out they’d shared, cases they’d solved as partners, and the many treasured examples of the romantic flame that had grown between them over the years. She would leave him her diary to read if he so wished as well.

Her final task was the hardest. How to guide him through living without her was a hugely difficult task. She had never seen him deal with someone so close to him dying and he didn’t talk much about what had happened after his mother’s passing, so how he would handle the aftermath of her own demise was completely unknown. She could only do her best and guess at what might help him. Hopefully it wouldn’t make things worse — that was the last thing she wanted.

...

Max put his book down, turned off his bedside lamp and rolled over to face Miranda, who was sitting up scribbling in a book, which she had propped up on her knees. “What is it you’re writing at night sometimes? You’re pretty secretive about it,” he enquired.

She finished her sentence, then swiftly shut the volume before he had a chance to read anything inside it. “My diary, and no, you cannot read it,” she told him sternly. She had been at pains to hide it from him and often got it out only when he wasn’t around.

He poked his tongue out at her. “Spoilsport. Is it about me? I bet it’s about me.” Mischief danced in his eyes.

“I started it a few days after I arrived here, so you’re in it from the beginning and that’s all I’m saying.” He’d find out what she’d written if he wanted, when she was no longer around to ban him, but for now she wanted something that was just hers. It was the one place she could be totally honest and not feel the need to be brave.

Max pouted. “Ohhhh, but I want to know what it says!”

“I’ve left everything to you in my will, so it’ll be yours anyway,” she told him calmly.

His expression changed to surprise. “Oh, your will is all finalised? I hate having to talk like this, by the way.” Sadness began to cloud his features.

She slid down in the bed to lie facing him. “I know, it’s tough. But remember there are people worse off than us.”

“I was reading a story about someone who had exactly what you have, same prognosis and everything, and the therapies worked for her. She ended up still being around five years later,” he informed her brightly.

Miranda felt sick for him. She had to let him down before he got carried away. “Max, that’s just incredibly rare. It’s not going to happen for me, ok? I can feel myself going starting to go downhill.”

He nodded, the light going out of his eyes.

“You can hope that it will be, say, six months and not three, but years... I don’t have years, Max,” she told him gently. She felt like crying and she could see he was close to it too.

“Sorry, I, I just don’t want-” He sniffed and blinked back his tears.

She rubbed his arm. ”I know. I know...” She softly kissed his cheek, wondering at his ability to keep even a little optimism going.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re so strong. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I don’t know any other way to be. Partly I’m just terrible at expressing emotion, I suppose,” she supplied, self-deprecating as always.

“Another Euro for the jar!” he told her.

“I think it’s full,” she said with a wry smile, before turning the subject back to more serious matters. “Max, it’s been eighteen months now and I think it’s time to talk about the end and what comes after that.”

He frowned. “Ok... Like what? Funeral things?”

“That and how to sort everything out when I’m gone. Death comes with a lot of admin.” She reached out to stroke the curls off his face, then took his hand and linked their fingers.

“Bit morbid,” he grimaced.

“Well, it would be if I wasn’t actually about to die,” she said softly. “I’m just being practical.”

“As always,” he smiled, as bravely as he could. “So what do you want to talk about then?”

“You know the bag I take when I’ve got long sessions at the hospital?”

“Yeah, the one with your books and snacks and stuff,” he answered.

“I’ve been busy,” she told him. “In there is a folder with everything you need to know, and I’ve been getting other things organised on my laptop too. It’s not quite ready yet though, so don’t look now, ok?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Ok..”

“I mean it!” She poked a finger in his ribs. “I won’t need a proper funeral because I’m donating my body, but I think you should have a memorial — not for me since I’ll be gone, but for you to have a sense of closure. Niall Taylor’s fake wake gave me some ideas, so I have one thing to thank the bastard for,” she smirked.

“Umm, and for bringing you to Mallorca where you met the handsomest man you ever set eyes on,” he replied solemnly.

She rolled her eyes. “Uh huh... Anyway, I don’t want you to be gloomy, when you’ve gone through enough already. I want you to put your suit on, have a drink, think of the good times, and dance. Have at least a few hours trying to enjoy yourself and remember me happy.”

Max looked conflicted. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to enjoy myself.”

“It’s my dying wish, so you’d better try,” she smiled. “I don’t want you wallowing the whole time.”

He nodded, his eyes moist. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. I’ve written some ideas down and I’ve got a few songs on a playlist,” she shared.

He gave a little laugh. “Organising me even when you’re gone. So efficient, Schatz.”

“Of course! Think of it as a Miranda-theme party. Do your dreadful dancing to my favourite song and picture me watching and laughing,” she requested gently.

“Broken? I will be.” His mouth turned down miserably.

She pulled him to her, his head on her chest and her hand on his cheek. “Broken like me,” she said quietly, kissing the top of his head.

...

Miranda felt herself growing weaker as time wore on, and she withdrew from being in public much of the time out of embarrassment and a desire to avoid pitying looks. Whenever she saw herself in the bathroom mirror, she was shocked by the changes in her appearance. Her hair had all but fallen out and the treatments often left her face pale and puffy. She barely recognised herself; where was the fit, healthy woman in her prime that she had been not so long ago?

Her decline had been mental as well as physical, to her dismay. She found her thinking more and more clouded and sluggish, and her memory less reliable, to the point where more than once she accused Max of losing her keys, only to find she had simply forgotten moving them. Max tried to cheer her up by telling her that at least he might now be able to win some of their arguments for a change, but his attempt at humour failed; the gradual loss of her self was distressing. If her mind was going, what was she?

She knew the inevitable could not be put off forever, no matter how much she willed it or how many treatment cycles she went through. Her time limit was not far away now. She needed Max more and more as the cancer advanced and sapped her reserves. The frustration she experienced at her body letting her down was intense and she felt the loss of her independence keenly. How cruel a disease, she often found herself thinking.

One afternoon when Max was at work, she suddenly felt dizzy as she carried a glass of water back from the kitchen. Her knees buckled and she collapsed on the living room floor, the glass smashing on the hard tiles. Try as she might, she couldn’t get up. Her body just wouldn’t cooperate and she lay for some time surrounded by shards of glass, a small pool of water to her side. After a while, she managed to crawl very slowly towards the sofa and eventually sat up with her back against it, panting from the effort. She noticed she was bleeding slightly from having cut her hands on the glass. There was no hope of her lifting herself or dealing with the blood. All she could do was remain as she was until Max came home and helped her — her phone was too far away for her to get to, so she could not call him.

In the hour and a half she waited for him to return, her thoughts spiralled. When things were going well it was easier to put her condition to the back of her mind, but now, helpless as a newborn, there was no distraction. Hot, angry tears sprang up and fell down her cheeks as she grieved for herself and for the life that was slowly being stolen from her. She sobbed for Max, dear, sweet Max, who was living a half-life while she diminished before his eyes. They should have been growing old together, but instead they had only months left.

She knew he had not gone into their relationship lightly or unknowingly, yet she still felt guilty, as if she had caged him somehow. She could only hope now that he would be able to live well after she had gone. Perhaps he would get to do the things she would never be able to: be in love again, start a family and watch them grow, plan for and enjoy retirement, maybe welcome some grandchildren.

Her thoughts turned bleaker and she instead pictured him miserable, bawling at her memorial, pining the years away in darkness and never regaining his zest for life, a shadow of his former fun-loving self. She couldn’t bear it. He had to go on for her. Would any of the legacy she was leaving help him at all? She hoped it wouldn’t backfire and needlessly tie him to her memory. She sat silently waiting for him, wondering what would happen to him and how he would cope without her.

When he returned from work, Max quickly took in the mess and her slumped figure against the sofa and cried out. He helped her up and held her to him, looking scared as she reassured him that she was just feeling weak and not in pain.

From then on, he made her keep her phone on her at all times and, with Inés’s consent, he managed to slip away from the office every lunchtime she wasn’t at work to check on her. Miranda was grateful for the increase in his cheerful presence, but worried that he was not prepared for things to get worse still. Every so often he would phrase a sentence in a way that hinted he thought there was a glimmer of a chance that she would recover, or at least far outlive the oncologist’s prediction. She hoped he wasn’t really in denial still; that would make her passing all the harder when it came.

...

Max spent more and more time nursing Miranda as she grew sicker, and both of them were grateful for Inés’s understanding that work had become so much less important in their lives. With each occasion she found she needed Max’s help for something she had previously done herself without a second thought, Miranda felt a little more defeated. Helplessness and needing others did not come naturally to her and she found she did not care for it. She had no choice though; she was no longer in full control of her life and the aches and pains she felt were daily reminders of this.

One morning when Max brought her a cup of tea in bed, it was obvious from her expression that she was in torment. Her skin was pale and glistening with perspiration as she struggled through the stabbing sensation that cut through her like a vicious knife. Max put the mug down on the bedside table and sat on the bed beside her.

“It’s a bad day, isn’t it?” he asked with concern. “Have you taken something for it?”

She nodded. “Yes, hopefully starts... working in... a minute,” she told him haltingly. “Always someone worse off... than me. Shouldn’t complain.”

He looked at her with tender admiration. “You always say that.”

“Always true,” she said, matter of fact.

“You’re allowed to complain,” he told her, stroking her hand. “You don’t have to be so stoic.”

“Don’t want to moan all the time...” she replied. She repositioned herself as the analgesia finally began to take effect and the pain subsided a little. “I’m fed up of the hospital though. Just papering over cracks and feeling so ill afterwards. How much time is it even buying me? And if it’s time in pain, feeling sick to my stomach, unable to move...” She trailed off as she thought back over the days following her last course of therapy.

Max lay down beside her and put his arm round her. “Do you want to stop the treatment? It’s your choice,” he reminded her quietly.

She thought about it. Knowing there would be no more side effects would be more than welcome, but if it meant not making it to the two years she had set herself, she wouldn’t do it. Both of them needed more time before she could let go. “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to leave you yet.”

He kissed her forehead. “Don’t hold on just for me.”

Miranda saw that his eyes were wet; the kindness cost him. “I’m not ready yet,” she whispered fiercely, gripping his upper arm tightly.

...

As the two year point from her prognosis neared, Miranda knew she was declining more quickly now. Her pain and tiredness increased and each treatment was slower and harder to recover from. The amount of time she was able to work had dwindled to almost nothing. Eventually, when she could barely recall the last time she had been at the station, she and Inés mutually agreed that she would formally give up. True to her word, Inés handled everything she could on Miranda’s behalf. She left Max without a partner, knowing that he would struggle with Miranda being replaced. She also assigned him mostly desk duties, meaning that he wouldn’t be far away if Miranda needed him, and also that he was able to work from home some days.

Much of Miranda’s time now was spent either in bed reading or listening to podcasts if it was a bad day, or, on better days, sitting on her balcony with a blanket draped across her, drinking tea and gazing out over the bay, watching the colours of the sea and sky change in tandem. There was solace for her in the beauty of nature, and in knowing that it would all go on without her, there for Max to enjoy for what she hoped was a long and happy life to come.

...

“You’ve done very well to last beyond two years,” the oncologist spoke gently.

Miranda knew what was coming. “But I won’t get much longer will I? That’s what all the pain is?” Max clutched her hand.

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed. “I’m sorry. We should think in terms of palliative care now. You understand what that means?”

She nodded. “It means the end is close and all that can be done is to make me as comfortable as possible.” Tears pricked in her eyes.

“That’s right. We can talk about pain management at home and later hospice care,” the specialist went on.

“How long?” Max asked. There was desperation in his tone.

The oncologist faced him with a kind expression. “I’m sorry to say, but I think you should be thinking in terms of weeks and not months. Six to eight weeks at most.”

“Is that all?!” Max exclaimed incredulously, his face pale and drawn.

“Yes, I wish I could give you more positive news,” the consultant replied, looking between the two of them.

“You bought me much more time than I would have had otherwise, so thank you,” Miranda told him in a small voice.

...

Miranda felt numb. She said nothing on the journey home. She couldn’t even cry, though she could tell Max was as he drove them back to El Molinar. She rested her hand on his knee in the hope of giving him some kind of comfort, and stared out at the passing scenery, wondering which parts she might be seeing for the very last time.

Back at home, Max wiped his eyes with his hands and asked Miranda to come upstairs. He pulled her on to the bed and wrapped her up in his arms, cradling her.

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to believe it,” he told her, murmuring into her hair. “At least you’ll have no more bad days, my love.”

“No days at all,” she replied. With her head against his warm chest in the safety and privacy of their bedroom, she finally broke down.

Max began crying again. They lay together sobbing for each other, for the cruelty of what they were going through, and the future they should have had. Their chests heaved as they struggled to breathe and Max’s shirt grew wet beneath Miranda’s face. They stayed like this for a long time, clinging to one another, wishing things could be different for them.

When the tears began to subside a little, Miranda sniffed and looked up at Max. “I know this is a cliché, but I want you to find someone else, when you’re ready. You’ve had love before me and you’ll have it again,” she told him tenderly.

Max tightened his grip on her, shaking his head. “Nothing like this though.”

“You forgetting that you asked Carmen to marry you?” she reminded him with a ghost of a smile.

“I think that was partly to deflect from how I was starting to feel about you, to be honest,” he shared. “Thank god she didn’t say yes, because it wouldn’t have been right.” He stroked his forefinger down her cheek. “This is right.”

She looked deep into his eyes. “Promise me you’ll move on and try again?”

It was obvious he didn’t want to think along these lines. “Miranda...” he tried forlornly.

“Promise me,” she instructed him fiercely. She couldn’t have him holding onto her for the rest of his days. He deserved a life after her.

He sighed. “I can’t imagine it ever happening, but if you insist... ok, I won’t close myself off forever,” he agreed.

“Good. I want you to be happy.” She gave him a bittersweet smile.

“I’ve been so happy with you,” he told her. Tears were welling in his eyes again.

She kissed him softly. “The happiest time of my life.”

...

While Miranda slept off the emotional exhaustion of the day, Max called Inés.

“Winter? How was the appointment?” she asked.

“It’s not good,” he replied weakly. “Weeks. Six to eight maybe.”

“¡Mierda! I’m so sorry. How are you both?” she enquired.

“Devastated,” he told her with a sigh.

“I can imagine,” she responded sympathetically. “I have spoken to HR about what we do for you now. I’m putting you on a leave of absence. Just look after her and don’t think about work, ok?”

“Oh, thank you. That’s better than I expected. When from?”

“Tomorrow,” she confirmed. “You can come in and pick up anything you need and sort out the paperwork. I also think it might be wise to take Miranda’s things home now. I don’t want you having to deal with that after... you know...”

“Yes, right. That, that makes sense,” he admitted as he took in what she was saying.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then. Just come in when you can.”

...

Miranda began to fade quickly. Only a few days on from the latest news and she was unable to stomach most foods. Everything except two simple comfort foods turned her stomach. As soon as she told him, Max went to the British supermarket and bought up all their cream crackers and fishfingers for her. He explained to the manager about the situation and came away with his card so that he could call up and reserve some of the next lot of stock should Miranda run out. He immediately stopped cooking for himself when he realised that the smell was making her feel ill — from then on at home he ate only cold things like sandwiches and salads, out of consideration.

As the cancer progressed ever more aggressively, Miranda’s pain increased. The analgesics she had been given could only dull it slightly and she would often lie in bed at night curled into whatever position gave her even the slightest relief, gripping the sheets in her hand, listening to a podcast or an audiobook in a vain attempt to distract herself from her agony. Max would usually want to hold her in his arms or cuddle himself round her, but sometimes she couldn’t stand to be touched. She could tell that although he understood, it upset him not to be able to offer her comfort.

Despite not wanting to be remembered in her weakened state, Miranda instructed Max to let their friends know that if they wanted to see her one last time, they ought to do it soon. First Inés, then Carmen and Joan, and Roberto and Luisa, and finally Christian, came to see her. She could tell how upsetting it was for them to see her so unwell, but her reading on the subject had told her it was important to have the chance to say goodbye. More than that though, Miranda had a greater purpose behind the visits: each one of the guests went away having been made to promise they would look after Max.

...

A month after the last hospital visit, things were worsening rapidly. The palliative care team had left emergency contact details and a vial of morphine with Miranda: if the pain ever got to be unbearable, she or Max was to call the emergency number and a nurse would come immediately to administer the opiate. Several nights Miranda had come close to asking Max to make the call, but each time she told herself to just hang on and ride it out and eventually it had subsided enough that she could manage to sleep a little.

One night, however, Miranda woke at two o’clock in excruciating pain. The agony seared through her body so that it was all she could think of. It was such merciless torment that it took her some minutes to be able to move and to wake Max.

“Max... Hurts,” she gasped as he stirred next to her.

“How bad out of ten?” he requested urgently, panic in his voice. She had never said more than eight so far, even when he was sure she was in the kind of pain that he would rate as a nine and a half, minimum.

“Ten,” she whispered back.

Max did not need telling twice. He leapt out of bed and grabbed his phone. The emergency number was already saved and he made the call immediately, racing to get the morphine and unlock the front door as soon as he’d hung up.

The fifteen minutes they had to wait for the nurse to arrive seemed like the longest quarter of an hour either of them had ever had to get through. Max held Miranda’s hand tightly as she writhed on the bed, her body racked with the intensity of what she was suffering. She bit her lip as she lay there in a cold sweat.

The moment the morphine took effect was sweet relief to both of them. When the nurse had left, Max watched over Miranda until she finally drifted into sleep, pale and limp, but resting at last.

...

A week or so later, Miranda again had to wake Max to call for help, and then again a few days after that. Reluctantly, they both had to face it that she would now have to move into a hospice, where there would be nurses around all the time to help ease her suffering.

With Miranda’s instruction, a tearful Max gathered up everything she would need to take with her into a hold-all. He packed a bag for himself; however long it took, he would not be leaving her side if he could help it.

Miranda requested one last cup of tea together on the balcony. She wanted to memorise that view she loved so much — the view that Max had known would impress her when he’d first brought her to see the place he’d found for her. They sat together, side by side with a blanket wrapped round them both. Feeling the salt-laden breeze on their faces, they sipped their tea, saying little and trying to be content just to grasp this one last slice of normality.

...

The hospice Miranda had been given a place in was pleasant and calm. She was lucky enough to have a room with a sea view, though it was nowhere near as magnificent as the one she had just left behind.

For the first couple of days, pain management was the focus of their lives. The nurses made sure that their new patient was given what she needed to cope. Miranda was glad that they were there; Max had looked after her admirably, but he deserved not to have to shoulder everything himself anymore. She thought about sending him home to get some proper rest since the folding chair-bed he was sleeping on looked uncomfortable for his tall frame, but she knew he wouldn’t go. He was her rock and he would always be there, right to the end.

As the days progressed, Miranda slept more and more. The lethargy was so great that she could only stay awake in increasingly short spells. She found herself more and more confused and disoriented, and she could tell from the worry on Max’s face that her speech was slow and unclear at times. She frequently felt unable to make sense and communicate quite as she wanted to.

After a week in the hospice, Miranda was only able to stay conscious for a few minutes at a time. She was just able to grasp that it meant her time was up. Max told her more than once that if she wanted to go, she could, and that he would be ok.

One morning, she woke after many hours of sleep to bright sunlight flooding the room. Max was beside her as always, her constant comfort. He looked weary, but he smiled at her nonetheless. Something about the weakness of her body and the slowness of her mind told her that it was almost her end. She had one final thing to do though, before she would submit to the eternal sleep that was calling her. With her last lucid thoughts, she grabbed for Max’s arm. He understood and held both her hands tightly, looking into her eyes as she fought the fog to express herself.

“You make... make me ver-very happy,” she mumbled as she struggled to keep her gaze fixed on him.

He smiled sadly, his eyes nearly overflowing and his lip wobbling. “You make me very happy too, Schatz,” he whispered back.

She nodded with difficulty. “Love you, Max,” she told him softly. “I love you.”

Tears rolled down Max’s face. “I love you too, Schatz. Forever, Miranda, forever and always.”

Miranda took one last moment gazing into his glistening blue eyes before her lids were too heavy to hold open any longer. She lay smiling quietly, Max still holding her hands as her body slowly shut down over the next hour and little by little she slipped away.

Finally, she let go. There was nothing but peace, endless peace.