Before Max Winter met Miranda he was sure he knew what love was. Love was a glass of cold beer in the hot Mallorcan sun.
Love was eating cream filled cake.
Love was a pretty girl smiling at him.
It certainly wasn’t working a case throughout the night.
It wasn’t going after people who he had no right to just because his partner decided she knew best. And naturally he had to follow because of course, she did know best.
Love was not Miranda Blake smiling at him over a glass of rioja.
Love was not cheese and crisp sandwiches.
Love was not making Miranda laugh for the first time and then him spending the rest of the day and night trying to hear it again.
Love was not Miranda. It was Carmen. He loved Carmen. I mean sure it was nice to be with someone young who got his jokes, who saw the world as bright as he did.
It was nice that he had a mutual understanding or at least something of a mutual understanding with her father. He wasn’t even sure if Miranda’s Dad was still alive the lack of communication she had over that part of her life.
It was nice.
But nice was not love.
Love was dancing with Miranda, holding her body so close he could hear her heart beat.
Love was Miranda chasing after a suspect and him following because he was pretty sure she could smile at him once and he’d jump off a cliff for her if she asked.
Love was Miranda being so defiant in being irritated at him and not Jens when a gun was pressed against her skull.
Love was Miranda surprising him at her knowledge of culinary arts, literature, horses. Love spending his days with her and his nights longing for her.
Love was his language and he thought he spoke it fluently.
But then Miranda Blake came to call, and he realised he only held the lock to love and she held the key.