At my car, he stops. "Mira."
I turn to face him, and the distance between us feels insurmountable.
"This isn't over. One setback doesn't mean we stop. It means we adjust, communicate, figure out what works and what doesn't."
"Maybe. Or maybe it means I'm not ready for this. That I need more time to figure out who I am before I let someone else start shaping me."
His jaw tightens. "I'm not trying to shape you. I'm trying to help you explore what you need."
"How do I know the difference?" The question hangs between us. "How do I know if what I'm feeling is real or just conditioning?"
"You don't. Not immediately. That's what exploration is. Testing boundaries, discovering responses, learning the difference between authentic desire and trained behavior. But you can't do that if you run every time something feels uncomfortable."
"I didn't run. I yellowed."
"And now you're leaving before we can work through it." He steps closer, and I force myself not to back away. "I get that you're scared. I understand you've been hurt. But healing isn't linear, Mira. Sometimes you take steps backward before you can move forward."
"I know that."
"Then stay. Talk to me. Let me help you process what just happened instead of driving away to overthink it alone."
For a moment, I almost do. I almost stay, almost let him talk me through the panic and confusion, almost trust that he can help me separate past from present.
Then Todd's voice echoes in my memory—exactly what I need—and I can't.
"I need space. Time to think without you influencing my processing."
Something like hurt flashes across Shaw's face before he locks it down. "Fine. Take your space. But Mira?" He waits until I meet his eyes. "Don't punish yourself for having a trauma response. And don't assume that what you felt before the trigger was fake. Your body knows the difference between authentic desire and conditioned response, even if your mind doesn't trust it yet."
I slide into my car without responding. Shaw steps back, hands in his pockets, watching as I start the engine. In my rearview mirror, he's standing in the parking lot, backlit by the bar's neon sign, not moving until my taillights disappear around the corner.
My hands shake on the steering wheel during the drive back. My body still hums with arousal cut short, pleasure that turned to panic before it could resolve. I can't tell if what I felt was real or if Shaw just knows the right words to trigger responses Todd programmed into me.
I can't tell if I yellowed because something was genuinely wrong or because I'm terrified of wanting something healthy.
I can't tell if running was self-protection or self-sabotage.
At the hotel, I park and sit in the darkness, staring at my phone.
Shaw: You home safe?
Me: Yes.
Shaw: Good. Take whatever time you need. I'm not going anywhere.
I should respond. Should say something reassuring or grateful or anything that acknowledges he handled the scene exactly right.
Instead I turn off my phone and go inside, where I can overthink everything alone.
8
SHAW
Mira doesn't answer my calls the next day. Or my texts. Or the message I leave with the front desk at her hotel.
Professional silence. The kind that saysI need spacewithout actually saying anything at all.
I know what happened. I recognize the pattern from years of running scenes at the Forge. She hit a trigger, yellowed appropriately, and now she's spiraling in her head about what it means. Questioning everything, doubting her responses, wondering if she can trust her own judgment.
