"Shaw." Professional acknowledgment. Nothing more.
"Mira." I don't stop working. "Get what you need?"
"Almost done. You?"
"Another hour, maybe two."
Silence stretches between us. Not comfortable partnership silence. The kind loaded with everything neither of us is saying.
Finally, Mira breaks. "I'm sorry I disappeared. It wasn't fair to you."
I look up from the debris I'm cataloging. She's watching me with something vulnerable in her expression, something that looks like regret mixed with residual fear.
"You needed space. I get it."
"But I should have communicated instead of just shutting you out."
"Yeah. You should have." I stand, brushing ash from my hands. "But you didn't. And that tells me where your head's at. You're not ready for what I'm offering. Maybe you won't be."
"Shaw—"
"It's fine, Mira. We keep this professional. Work the case together. Catch whoever's setting these fires. Then you go back to the city and I stay here, and we both move on with our lives."
"Is that what you want?"
"What I want doesn't matter if you're not ready to meet me halfway." I turn back to the evidence I'm collecting. "You yellowed. Good. That's what you should have done. But then you ran instead of processing. That's on you."
"I know."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you're still running. Still convinced that what you felt was fake or worse, that I'm manipulating you. Still unable to trust your own responses."
"I'm trying?—"
"You're trying alone. That's the problem." Frustration finally breaks through the professional veneer. "You asked me to show you what real power exchange looks like. I did. You triggered, yellowed, and I stopped immediately. Did everything exactly right. And you still don't trust me or yourself enough to work through what happened."
Her face pales. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You disappeared for days rather than have one difficult conversation. That's not processing, Mira. That's avoidance."
"I needed time to think?—"
"You needed time to convince yourself this won't work. There's a difference."
We stare at each other across charred debris and smoke-damaged concrete. The space between us feels impossibly wide, filled with everything we're not saying and everything we can't.
Finally, Mira looks away. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not ready."
"Maybe you're not."
She leaves without another word. I watch her go, hands clenched at my sides, and wonder when wanting someone became this goddamn complicated—and whether she'll ever be ready to stop running.
The answer, apparently, is not today.
I turn back to the debris field and force myself to focus on what I can control. Evidence collection. Burn patterns. Building the case against whoever's doing this.
One problem at a time. Right now, the fire investigation is the only problem I can actually solve.
9
