"Yellow." The word tears out of my throat. "Yellow, Sir."
His hand stops immediately. Doesn't pull away, doesn't ask questions, just freezes completely while his eyes scan my face with sharp focus.
"Talk to me. What's wrong?"
"Words you said. Todd used to say that. Exact same phrasing."
Understanding flashes across Shaw's face, followed by something that might be frustration or concern. "You're having a body-memory response."
"I don't know if I'm choosing this or if I'm just doing what I was trained to do. If I'm here because I want this or because he conditioned me to respond automatically to those specific phrases."
His hand moves from between my legs to rest on my stomach, grounding rather than sexual. "Do you want me to release the restraints?"
Do I? The cuffs make me feel trapped, but they also make me feel held. Protected. Or is that just more conditioning, more training telling me restraint equals safety because that's what Todd taught me?
"I don't know. I don't know what I want versus what I was programmed to want."
"Okay. That's information. That's you recognizing something doesn't feel right and using your safeword. That's exactly what you're supposed to do."
"But I was responding. My body was responding."
"Bodies respond to stimulus. That doesn't mean your mind consented." He shifts to sit beside me on the bed, hand still on my stomach. "You yellowed because something felt wrong. That takes awareness and courage."
Tears prick at my eyes. "I failed."
"You didn't fail. You communicated." His hand moves to cup my face, thumb brushing away a tear that escapes. "This is complicated, Mira. You're working through trauma while exploring new dynamics. Sometimes old triggers surface. That's part of healing."
"I thought I was ready."
"Maybe you are. Maybe you're not. Either way, you used your safeword when you needed to. That's what matters."
He releases my wrists from the bed restraints and removes the cuffs with gentle efficiency. I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to make myself smaller. Shaw doesn't crowd me, just sits close enough that I feel his presence without being overwhelmed by it.
"What do you need right now?"
"Space. I need to think. To figure out what's real and what's conditioning."
"Okay." No judgment in his voice, just acceptance. "Take whatever time you need."
I dress quickly, movements jerky and uncoordinated. Shaw doesn't rush me, doesn't offer platitudes. Just waits while I pull myself back together.
"I'm sorry. I wanted this to work."
"Don't apologize. You did exactly what you were supposed to do." He stands, maintaining careful distance. "You recognized something was wrong and communicated it. Not failure."
"Feels like failure."
"Feelings aren't facts." His tone is matter-of-fact, not unkind. "You're learning the difference between past conditioning and present choice. That takes time."
I nod, but belief won't come. I can't believe him when my body's still humming with arousal and shame in equal measure. I can't tell the difference between what I want and what I was trained to want.
"I need to go."
"Okay." He doesn't try to stop me. "Text me when you get back to the hotel."
"I will."
Shaw walks me through the Forge in silence. Through the main room, down the hallway, to the exit where my car waits in the darkness. Rain has stopped while we were inside, leaving the pavement slick and gleaming under streetlights.
