Standard trauma response. Give her time, give her space, let her work through it.
Except space means she's working through it alone, without accurate information, probably convincing herself that what happened at the Forge was a mistake rather than a step in the healing process.
By the second day, frustration starts edging into genuine concern.
Ironside Customs smells like motor oil and metal shavings when I arrive. Familiar scents that usually settle my mind.Today they're just background noise to thoughts that won't stop circling.
Cole finds me elbow-deep in rebuilding a carburetor that doesn't actually need rebuilding. Busy work to keep my hands occupied. The metal is cool under my fingers, each component familiar enough to disassemble blind. Something I can control.
Unlike Mira, who's locked herself away to overthink every goddamn second of what happened between us.
"You look like hell," Cole observes, leaning against the workbench.
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." He crosses his arms. "You've got that look you get when something's eating at you. This about the insurance investigator?"
I don't answer, which is answer enough.
Cole's quiet for a moment. "She's still working the case. Called Mike yesterday about following up on vendor contracts. Professional, focused, all business."
"But avoiding me."
"Yeah."
I set down the wrench harder than necessary. The clang echoes through the shop. "We had a scene at the Forge. She yellowed partway through. Body-memory trigger from her ex. She handled it exactly right—communicated, used her safeword, stopped when something felt wrong."
"So what's the problem?"
"The problem is she left before we could talk it through. Before I could help her see that yellowing doesn't mean failure. Now she's avoiding me, probably convincing herself that her ex was right about her, that wanting submission makes her damaged."
Cole studies me with the careful assessment of someone who's known me for years. "You frustrated because she's notprocessing it the way you think she should, or because she's not letting you help?"
Both. Neither. I don't know anymore.
"She's spiraling alone. Making decisions based on fear and conditioning instead of accurate information. And I can't do anything about it because she won't talk to me."
"Can't or won't?"
"What's the difference?"
"Can't means she's not capable. Won't means she's choosing not to." Cole shifts his weight. "If she's choosing space, that's her right. Even if you don't agree with the choice."
The logic is sound. Doesn't make it less frustrating.
I turn back to the carburetor, fingers working through the familiar motions of disassembly. Remove the float bowl. Check the jets. Clean components that are already clean. Anything to keep my hands busy, to channel the frustration into something productive.
"This is why I don't get involved with people who haven't done their work," I say. "Too complicated. Too much old baggage interfering with present dynamics."
"Then why are you involved with her?"
Good question. One I've been asking myself since Mira walked into that first fire scene and challenged every assumption I'd made about insurance investigators.
"Because she's worth the complication. Because when she's not spiraling in trauma responses, she's brilliant and brave and exactly the kind of partner I'd choose if I was choosing. Because watching her discover what she's capable of felt like the most important thing I've done in years."
"Then give her time."
"How much time?"
