Calling the police means waiting here while they respond. It means giving statements. It means Sullivan learning exactly where I'm staying, who I'm with, details he could use later when rage overrides self-preservation.
It means Shaw finding out someone got close enough to grab me before I could react.
I back toward my car, keeping the pepper spray trained on Sullivan until I'm behind the wheel with the engine running and the doors locked. Only then do my hands start shaking. Only then does the delayed reaction hit hard enough to make breathing difficult.
I drive, following the directions Shaw gave me. Watching mirrors for any vehicle that might be following. Making absolutely certain nobody tracks me back to Shaw's house before I finally pull into his driveway.
Safe.
I sit in the car for several minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache. Adrenaline ebbs slowly, leaving shakiness and the metallic taste of fear coating my tongue. Sullivan grabbed me. He actually grabbed me in a parking lot, and if I hadn't reacted fast enough, if that self-defense training hadn't kicked in automatically?—
No. I won't spiral. I handled it. I used what I knew. I disabled the threat and got myself to safety. That's what matters.
I grab my grocery bag from the passenger seat and head inside.
Shaw stands in the kitchen with a mug in his hand, shoulders rigid. He looks up when I enter, and the look he gives me is pure accusation until he sees my face.
"What happened?"
"Sullivan." One word, and everything spills out. The parking lot. The grab. The knee strike and pepper spray and the satisfying sound of his knee giving way under my heel. "He's probably still lying there. I didn't call the police. I just... I left."
Shaw goes completely still for a beat. Then his jaw locks, tension radiating through his shoulders. When he speaks, his voice is too controlled. Dangerously quiet. "Where?"
"Cascade Shopping Center. Back corner near the dumpsters." I set the groceries on the counter with hands that still want to shake. "I handled it. He won't be following anyone for a while. That knee won't support his weight for weeks at minimum."
"You handled it." He repeats the words like he's tasting them, testing them. His hands flatten on the counter, knuckles white. "You went to the store. Alone. After I told you to stay put until I got back."
My spine straightens. "We needed groceries."
"We needed groceries." The dangerous quiet cracks, voice rising. "Your hotel room was searched and you’ve beenthreatened. And you decided groceries were worth risking your life?"
"I didn't think?—"
"No. You didn't." Shaw pushes off the counter, running both hands through his hair. Not moving toward me, but the controlled violence simmers just beneath his surface. "You didn't think about what could've happened if that training hadn't kicked in. If he'd had a weapon. If he'd gotten you into a vehicle before you could fight back."
Heat flashes through me—part shame, part defiance. "But he didn't. I disabled him."
"This time." Shaw's eyes lock on mine, and I see fear underneath the anger. Raw, barely contained fear. "What about next time? What happens when Sullivan comes at you with a gun instead of his bare hands? When he's smarter about the approach? You got lucky tonight, Mira. Fucking lucky. And luck runs out."
The words hit harder than I want to admit. He's right. I know he's right. But admitting it feels like giving up the independence I fought to reclaim.
"I'm not helpless," I say, hating how defensive I sound.
"I never said you were." Shaw moves closer now, but stops just outside arm's reach.
His jaw works, tension radiating through his frame. That’s it. The tension is there in his body language, but he's not telegraphing his internal struggle like some emotional trainwreck. He's controlled even when he's barely holding it together—that's what makes him Shaw.
"You proved tonight you can handle yourself in a fight,” he continues. “That's not the point. The point is you shouldn't have been alone in the first place."
"I can't live my life waiting for permission to leave the house."
"That's not what I'm asking." His voice drops back to that dangerous quiet. "I'm asking you to use your goddamn head. To recognize when you're at risk and take basic precautions. Like not going out alone at night when there's a fucking arsonist targeting you specifically."
Silence stretches between us. My pulse pounds in my ears, adrenaline from the attack mixing with the confrontation until I'm shaking again.
Shaw sees it. His expression shifts, anger bleeding into something else. He closes the distance, his hands settling on my shoulders, searching my face for injury or shock. "You okay?"
The switch from fury to concern makes my throat tight. "Shaking. But yes." There's no point lying to Shaw about my state when he reads body language like breathing. "Training kicked in before I could panic. I disabled him. I got out."
