For him, it happened in the moment he told her the truth about her husband, brought forth by the look in her eyes when she begged for it not to be true.
(Truth be told, it may have happened somewhere in the moment when he learned that SoCo Brian had asked her out – in his disgust at the man's gall he realized that attraction, on the whole and by nature, is not governed by reason, and cannot be quelled by fact. Attraction runs wild and rampant and jealousy does not lie.)
For her, it happened much later. When he told her he was leaving. She hadn't known what she was feeling – that she was feeling anything at all – until it was to be taken away.
(When she looks back, she prefers to think it happened in the hospital, watching him lie there, helpless and vulnerable and somehow still infuriating all the more for that. But no. That was merely attachment.)
All the while he was gone, she tried not to think of him. She tried not to wonder what he was doing, where he had gone, why he had left. She tried not to make it about her. Logically she knew it couldn't be. But perhaps that was problem. In her alone-est moments, she wonders why she wasn't enough to keep him here.
He thinks of her unabashedly. Like a dream he replays in his mind, a memory that is just the slightest bit different each time it passes through. He misses many things about her but chief among them is the freedom of arguing with her. He can yell at many, he can chastise anyone. But only she fights back. He has always liked the fight of life. The challenge of breathing, the unmistakable strain of human interaction. It reminds him he's moving forward. With her, the fight a game he can't win but loves playing anyway. Maybe because he can't win, and neither can she. It is infinite.
As time passes she wonders if he ever happened to her at all. If she had just altered her own memories to make those days seem bearable. To remember something from those years besides her own personal tragedy.
When he shows back up in Broadchurch she could kill him.
He won't let her. He'll fight with her about anything else but he won't fight about that. She screams and shouts at a wall until she's satisfied. Or maybe just depleted. He picks up where they left off and there's nothing she can do about it. Her acceptance of the matter is forced but it does the job and she must do hers.
The truth is she's just so grateful to have him back that her anger and frustration seem of little consequence.
After the Trish Winterman case is closed, she's not sure she ever wants to see another man again. He's not sure he is either.
She asks him to the pub because she hasn't let her guard down in months. Has barely breathed. He says no, and she calls Beth.
No harm done. Tomorrow will be another day. He can't leave every time they close a case.
The next day he calls her into his office and it's clear she'd had a few the night before.
"I see you went to the pub," he observes.
She looks at him with her head tilted, one eye closed.
"I see you went to…nowhere," she falters, frowning as it comes out of her mouth.
He almost laughs. Doesn't.
"I hangover all too easily these days, Miller," he confesses with a wry smile. "And you're a bad influence."
"How would you know?" She retorts, flicking off the overhead light in his office. The other eye opens as the darkness settles.
"Small town," is his reply. "Word travels."
After that, she starts to wear makeup. She's not sure what brings it on, but she does know why. For her. Because she wants to. She's a single woman in her early forties and she doesn't want to be alone for the rest of her life. Charm only gets you so far in a dirty pub with poor lighting.
She wears a skirt once in a while. Not often, mind, but on occasion. She goes for a shoulder length long bob, and never leaves the house without lipstick. Sometimes that's all she has time or energy for, but she makes a pact with herself to ensure she never has to actively avoid a mirror again.
One late night at the office he makes the mistake of asking her who it's for. She says, "wouldn't you like to know," and knocks off early.
Later she texts him: I do things for myself now.
His response is suspiciously quick, as if he'd been waiting for it. Good way to get other people to do things for you.
She raises an eyebrow. Bit flirty, she thinks. And then immediately wonders if she's wrong. Such as?
Oh, she's really playing a game now, not that either of them has any idea of what that game is.
Has it really been so long you don't remember?
She nearly gasps. Cheeky bugger!
It hasn't, as a matter of fact, been so long, but he doesn't need to know that, nor should he surmise it!
She sends a text to Daisy. You home? Your dad been drinking?
Staring at his phone with a cuppa. Why?
She leaves Daisy with that, and turns back to his message. She considers not responding – that way she's sure to win. But there's a thrill traveling up and down her spine and she's loathe to let it taper off so soon.
The things I remember would curl your toes.
She throws her phone down on the couch with a giddy squeal as if it's burning. A long moment passes and the waiting becomes too much. She sends another message to Daisy: And now?
The response is like lightning: Says he's gone to shower.
She throws the phone again and bolts up off the couch without any idea why she's done it. She stands in the middle of the living room, motionless.
The response finally comes twenty minutes later, when she's changed into her pajamas and poured a glass of wine.
I'll book an interrogation room.