"Because it's Sunday," Max said simply, "and some griefs have a rhythm, even years later." He held out his hand. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
"Max, I'm not exactly dressed for,"
"You're perfect," he said, and something in his voice made her stop arguing.
He took her to the small overlook above the harbor where he'd once, years ago, brought her for their very first real conversation that hadn't involved hospital paperwork or the careful language of a business arrangement back when neither of them had fully admitted, even to themselves, that something real was growing between them.
The city spread out below them in the fading afternoon light, and Max stood beside her at the railing, quiet for a long moment before he finally spoke.
"I brought you here the week after your mother's treatment started working," he said. "Do you remember?"
