Chapter 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 says I need space without 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.
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 not processing 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?"
Cole shrugs. "However much she needs. You can't force someone to process trauma on your timeline, Shaw. You know that."
I do know that. I spent years at the Forge teaching exactly that principle—healing isn't linear, everyone moves at their own pace, pressure creates resistance rather than progress.
Knowing it intellectually doesn't make living it easier.
The carburetor sits in pieces on my workbench, components arranged in precise order.
I could reassemble it in my sleep. Could rebuild this entire engine blindfolded.
Can't fix whatever's happening in Mira's head, can't force her to trust me or herself, can't make her understand that what she felt was real.
Control is an illusion. Always has been.
I teach people that at the Forge—real power exchange isn't about control, it's about trust and communication and choosing to surrender.
Right now, watching Mira shut me out, I'd give anything for the kind of control that could reach through her walls and pull her back.
The third day brings no change. No texts, no calls, no acknowledgment that anything happened between us at all.
I'm reviewing fire reports at my desk when dispatch radios about an insurance investigator requesting access to evidence storage.
Marshal Davis is handling it, they say. Should be wrapped up within the hour.
I know who it is before I look up and see her through the station windows.
She's there to review evidence with Marshal Davis, professional and focused in her pressed jeans and sweater. Hair pulled back, minimal makeup, nothing about her appearance suggests she spent the last three days avoiding me—until she sees me across the parking lot and her whole body goes rigid.
I change direction, heading toward her before she can escape inside. "Mira."
"Shaw." Polite. Professional. Distant as hell.
"You've been avoiding me."
"I've been working the case. Following up on vendor contracts, building financial profiles, doing my job."
"While ignoring my calls."
"I needed space. To think."
"To spiral alone, you mean." Frustration bleeds into my voice before I can control it. "To convince yourself that what happened at the Forge was a failure instead of you doing exactly what you were supposed to do."
Her jaw tightens. "You don't know what I'm thinking."
"Don't I? You hit a trigger, yellowed like you should, and now you're second-guessing everything. Whether what you felt was real. Whether you can trust yourself. Whether wanting what you want makes you broken." I step closer, watching her pupils dilate. "Am I wrong?"
"That's not—" She stops, because she can't lie convincingly. "I'm working through it."
"You're beating yourself up. There's a difference."
"I'm being careful. Making sure I don't make the same mistakes."
"By shutting out anyone who might help? That's not careful, Mira. That's running scared."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm protecting myself. Maybe I need to figure out what I actually want before someone else tells me."
"I'm not telling you what you want. I'm showing you what's possible."
"How do I know the difference?" Her voice cracks slightly. "How do I know if what I feel with you is real or if you're just better at this than Todd was?"
The comparison hits harder than it should. I know it's fear talking, know she's lashing out because she's scared and can't tell past from present. Doesn't make it sting less.
Something cold settles in my chest. Something that whispers I should have known better than to get involved with someone still so deep in their shit that they can't separate me from their ex.
"If that's what you think I'm doing, then maybe you're right to keep your distance." I step back, hands in my pockets. "Take all the space you need, Mira. But don't expect me to chase you. When you're ready to stop running from yourself, you know where to find me."
I turn and walk away before she can respond. Before I say something I'll regret. Before frustration overrides better judgment and I push when I should be giving space.
Inside the fire station, I head straight for my office and close the door.
Cole's right. She needs time to process. Needs space to separate past from present, conditioning from authentic desire, fear from reality. Doesn't mean I have to like it. Doesn't mean walking away from her doesn't feel like losing something before we even had a chance to figure out what it was.
By the time Friday night rolls around, I've almost convinced myself I'm handling this professionally. Almost. Then I'm behind the bar at Ironside, pouring drinks for the usual crowd, and every time the door opens my pulse jumps with stupid hope.
The place is busy—Friday night crowd filling booths and claiming bar stools. Noise and motion that usually settles my mind, gives me something to focus on besides thoughts that won't stop circling.
Tonight it's just noise.
I pour bourbon for a regular, slide a beer down the bar to another.
The motions are automatic, muscle memory from years behind this counter.
Pour, serve, collect payment, repeat. Simple transactions that don't require thinking or feeling or wondering whether I made a mistake getting involved with someone who might never be ready.
"You want to talk about it?" Will asks during a lull.
"No."
"Going to anyway." He leans against the bar, crossing his arms. "You're distracted. Making mistakes you don't normally make. Whatever's going on with you and the insurance investigator, it's affecting your focus."
"It's handled."
"Doesn't look handled."
I pour two whiskeys and slide them down the bar without responding. Will doesn't push, just watches with that steady assessment that means he's cataloging everything for later discussion.
My phone buzzes. For a moment, I hope it's Mira.
Just Davis with an update on accelerant analysis from the latest fire.
I respond with the information he needs and pocket the phone.