#methylholicfixation

Description: After a rough night and a worse morning, you find yourself tangled between work, lingering dreams, and an unexpected night out. There’s tequila, bad exes, and even worse neighbors, but when Rudy shows up, the night shifts and the past starts bleeding into the present in ways you can’t ignore. Word Count: 4.3k

I’m back in the dark room.

Not really, but it feels like it. It always does in dreams. Cold metal hums under my bare feet, and something wet trickles down from a place I can’t see. There’s no voice this time, just the sheer presence of someone watching. And then, like it’s whispered into my skull:

Angel.

I jolt awake with my nails digging into my palm.

“You okay?” Debra’s voice slices through the haze, pulling me back to her living room and out of my skull. She’s sitting cross-legged across from me, smoking her cigarette and watching the news on TV, like I didn’t just wake up gasping for air right next to her.

I nod slowly. “Just a dream.”

She doesn’t press. Instead, she smirks over her cup and tilts her head. “Rudy really likes you, you know.”

I glance over at her, head cocked sideways. “Yeah?”

“He said you’ve got this... vibe, like you’re familiar. You’ve probably met before or something.”

I try to smile. “You okay with your boyfriend liking someone else?” I ignore the rest of her sentence and instead change the topic.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be weird. It’s a compliment. I think he’s just interested in who I spend my free time with.”

I nod again, slower this time, but the weight in my chest hasn’t left. I decide to go outside to get some air, maybe stop reliving this nightmare. It’s silly to think, though, how nightmares have a funny way of reaching me, and this time it’s him.

Rudy.

Leaning against his car, a plastic bag in hand. He looks up like he knew I’d come out. Like he’s been waiting for me. He comes up to me by the front door. "Couldn't sleep?" he asks me.

“What makes you think that?” I say, hugging my arms around myself despite the warm morning.

“You’re at Debra’s house, and it’s 9 am,” he says plainly. “It’s a little early for a sleepover, don’t you think?”

“Maybe we were watching the sunset together or something, you know.”

He chuckles and looks down. “Checks out.” He looks back up at me. “So what was it? Bad dream?”

I hesitate. “…I don’t really remember.”

“Sure you do,” he says, but it’s gentle. Not pushing. “You just don’t want to talk about it.”

I glance up at him. “Do you always show up like this?” I ask. “Mysteriously waiting by people’s houses and offering unsolicited advice.”

His eyes narrow just slightly, but the smile lingers this time. “Only for women who are worth it.”

There’s a pause. My chest feels tight, and not entirely from discomfort.

“…Deb’s inside.” I say.

He steps just a little closer, still casual. “But you’re out here.”

And maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but something about him, maybe the way he always seems to know more than he should, makes me feel like I should say something. So I do.

“…Because it’s freezing inside.” I say, half-joking in a desperate attempt to diffuse the tension in the air. He doesn’t laugh or respond though. Just smiles at me and walks inside the house. I sigh in relief. Fuck, what even was that? Man, he’s so sexy… What the fuck am I talking about? Debra is gonna kill me and turn my skin into a jacket.

I walk back into the house and catch them both mid-makeout session. “If you guys keep going like this, you’re not gonna have faces anymore.” I say, rolling my eyes and looking over Deb’s kitchen table for my hair clip.

Debra snorts mid-kiss and pushes him off, wiping her mouth. “Sorry, I forgot we had company.”

Rudy straightens his shirt; it makes me wonder if he’s ever actually been flustered in his life. “Can’t help it,” he says, glancing at her. “She tastes like cinnamon today.”

“Gross,” I mutter, grabbing the clip and twisting my hair up. “I hope you tell your dentist everything.”

Debra laughs, oblivious, while Rudy just leans back on the counter, arms crossed. I can feel him watching me, even when I’m not looking. “You sticking around for breakfast?” Debra asks me, pulling orange juice and pancake mix out of the bag Rudy brought.

I shake my head. “Nah. I should get home. I’ve got work later, and…” I trail off because Rudy’s still looking at me. “Stuff... yeah, stuff to do.”

“You should be doing less stuff…” Rudy says, slow and deliberate, then adds with a faint smirk, “…and more people.” He tilts his head slightly. Like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but it slipped. He smiles, all warmth and white teeth.

Debra’s laugh carries in the room. “Okay, Freud. Ease up on the horny philosophy.”

I smile at her. “He gets one cinnamon kiss and thinks he’s Casanova.”

Rudy just chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender—but that glint in his eyes? Still there. Deb’s voice cuts through. “He’s exactly right. You need to loosen up! I heard Masuka is really good with his hands.” She jokes, and Rudy joins her, although he’s quieter, less performative.

“Yuck. Like I’d do anything with that perv.” I say, scoffing.

Debra snorts. “C’mon, you’re too picky.”

“I’m not picky,” I protest. “I just have standards.”

“Masuka’s harmless,” she says through a grin, pouring the juice.

“Masuka probably has a collection of hentai in his desk drawer.” I reply.

That gets Rudy to laugh; it’s low, but it rumbles out of him like it’s genuine. I glance at him without meaning to, and he’s already looking back at me. In the same flirty way. Deb hums to herself while flipping a pancake in the pan, and I suddenly feel like I’ve walked into someone else’s life.

My phone buzzes on the counter. A text from Doakes. Crime scene. A… park? “I really do have to go,” I say, grabbing my phone. “I’ll tell Masuka to keep his hands to himself.”

Debra blows me a kiss. “Tell Dex I said it wouldn’t kill him to check on his sister.” And Rudy just lifts a mug and nods at me, same smile, same flirty air.

As I walk out of the house, I think about what Debra and Rudy say about ‘doing someone.’ I never actually thought about having a love life since my work consumed me fully. As time went on, loneliness felt more like solitude; that’s just how I coped with things. Yet having the company of Debra has been increasingly better for at least my mental well-being. I hadn’t loved anyone since my parents left me, and even that day was bitterly heartbreaking. It’s easier to spend your nights cleaning blood off your work shoes than wondering why someone isn’t texting you back.

Maybe I need something reckless. Not love, not even sex, just noise. A reason to get out of my own head. Maybe even a night where I don’t drink shady liquor store bought vodka and watch true crime till paranoia seeps its way into my floorboards. I drive fast. Once I’m at the crime scene in the park, and somehow made a 20-minute drive in 15 minutes, I wait patiently there and observe the body being picked up and put into the ambulance van. I pull the phone out of my pocket and scroll down to Deb’s contact.

‘Deb Cakes.’

It’s so stupid and corny it’s kind of funny. I type out a few messages, testing which one will make me sound less robotic.

‘Hey girlfriend you wanna go out 2nite?’ That doesn’t sound like me.

‘Ty for letting me crash at your place, let me repay you with a night out?’ I sound like a sad man.

‘Feeling like mojitos tn? On me.’ Sounds casual enough, but we are past casual.

‘Club after work? Or do I have to convince you to have fun with me?’ Send.

I start cleaning up the scene once all the evidence and everything is gone. Blood drips from blades of grass, seeping into the ground, and fragments of skin are still left on the wet soil. I finish up, and as I begin to take my gloves off, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I nod to the other TCST, signalling my leave, and slip into my car.

‘Fuck yeah! Meet at Sol Noche, 9 PM?’ I type out "yes" and put my phone down on the passenger seat.

By the time I’m home, the sunset is kissing the rooftop of my apartment, but a car sits in my parking spot. That fucking loser is letting his girlfriend park here. I sigh and, reluctantly, park 3 spaces down the block. When I walk up the stairs this time, I’m not heading to my house but to my neighbor’s. I knock, not aggressively, but still loud.

The door swings open, and a slender girl hangs in the doorway. Her makeup looks ruined but in a good way, short shorts hug her legs, and the baby tee she wears stretches over her like it was tailor-made—insane because it once was mine. “Did ya’ need something?” She says questioningly. I grit my teeth.

“Your car is in my parking spot.” I say plainly, no longer upset about the car and instead about why this woman has my old shirt on.

“My boyfriend said it’s fine there.” She says, twirling her hair. She looks young, like 20.

“Your boyfriend is wrong.” I say to her, and I know he is. I know he’s doing this out of spite. One night stand gone wrong, now I can’t even have common courtesy.

“Oh, well, I’ll move it in the morning then.” I should argue with her, but I don’t; I just walk away. I don’t hear her close the door until I’ve opened my own.

I strip my shirt off in the entrance and unclip my hair, running my fingers through it to relieve the stress building in my bones. I go into my bedroom, peer into my closet, and hopefully find something that I don’t feel ill-fitting in.

I slip into a sheer, olive-green handkerchief skirt, with delicate embroidery near the slits. It moves when I walk and kisses the backs of my calves. The matching cami clings to my ribs and has a faded look, like it came from a thrift rack with stories baked into the threading. I cinch it all with a double-looped leather belt that sits low on my hips.

I slip on chunky resin bangles in olive, moss, and gold and big amber earrings. A round, olive-toned pendant hangs from a suede cord at my throat, resting right between my collarbones. Right below the scar of my past that continues to haunt me. I grab my Blumarine sunglasses and slip on my pistachio-coloured Coach platforms. They’re clunky and a little worn, but I love them anyway.

I give myself one last look in the mirror. I’m not deathly tonight. I’m sunlit and unreadable. My mascara is soft on my face, lips brown and pink, eyes shimmery, and cheeks tinged pink. I look alive.

I go to my kitchen, deciding to have just one free drink before I blow $70 and then some just buying more drinks. I pour gin into an opaque-pink shot glass, received on my 21st birthday from a random lady who worked with me some years ago; it's tacky and says ‘Florida!’ on a white sign with a beachy background. I decide to cut a lime just to chase the drink, and when I open the drawer, my blood runs cold.

There’s a knife that isn’t mine.

It’s similar—about the same weight, same shape—but it’s cleaner. Sleek. Navy blue. I frown, holding it up to the light. And that’s when I see it. Text that’s etched faintly along the blade, near the hilt, just subtle enough to miss:

‘I could’ve carved love into your throat.’

I drop the knife and stumble backwards. Before I can fully process everything that’s just occurred, my phone begins to buzz on the counter, Debra.

‘Free drinks all night!’ I can’t even question her or react properly in excitement. I down the shot of gin and recollect myself, then walk out the door.

When I stop outside Sol Noche, the sun’s almost fully gone, and the purple, hazy light emitting from inside is already bleeding onto the sidewalk. The club is nestled between a shuttered pawn shop and a shady tarot place that smells like burnt-out incense. There’s a velvet rope, but Debra’s waving me in like it doesn’t exist.

Inside, it’s all flashing lights and bodies too close together. Cigarette smoke clings to the ceiling, and the bass sounds like it’s beating at the same rhythm and tempo as my own heartbeat. My heels stick slightly to the floor as I walk toward the bar, and the air smells like sweat and ecstasy.

Deb throws her arms around me. “Finally!” she shouts over the music. “You look sooo hot!”

I smile, but it’s tight. “I’m surprised I even made it.”

She laughs like she didn’t hear me, already ordering tequila shots. Then I see him behind her, arm snaked around her waist and a grin plastered over his face as he looks down on me. “I didn’t know he’d be joining us.” I say to Deb, putting a cool smile on display. She looks back from the bar at me.

“What else did you think free drinks meant?” She grins and kisses Rudy with full force, parading themselves into a makeout session right in front of me. I fake laugh and leave them to it while sitting on a bar chair.

“Give me the strongest mojito you have, preferably with Marienburg 90.” The bartender looks at me with that look, but she shrugs and starts to make some concoction. It’s not what I asked for, but when she finishes and places the brightly coloured drink in front of me, I can’t help but try it. Fucking god, it hits me like a train. In a matter of hazy minutes, and two of whatever the hell she gave me later, I’m pulling Deb to the dance floor.

Seconds are spun into minutes and minutes into hours, while the glassiness of the floor begins to morph into itself. I stumble off of the lit-up dance floor and over to where I was last. I ask the bartender for water to sober myself up a bit, and she passes me one readily.

A voice cuts through the noise behind me.

“You clean up well.”

I turn, and it’s Rudy.

Dressed in black. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the suggestion of collarbone. My stomach drops, and I don't know if it’s from excitement or nausea.

I glance around. “So, Deb brought you to buy us drinks.”

He smirks, sipping from his clear plastic cup. “She said you invited her. I’m just tagging along.”

Of course he is.

I roll my eyes and take another sip. “You looked like you were having fun out there,” he says, leaning in slightly to be heard. “Didn’t expect that from you.”

“I didn’t either,” I say, trying not to mirror his closeness. “Just felt like letting go.” I say, although it sounds more like I'm questioning myself. He puts his drink down and looks over his shoulder. Debra signaled to him to come and dance. He reluctantly goes over, not sparing a second glance back at me. When he does get over, she eyes him down, and not in a friendly way.

“Excuse me, miss.” I hear an all too familiar voice next to me. I turn around.

“Zach.” Aka, my shitty neighbour. I give him a bitch face and sigh outwardly to further express how pissed I am to see him.

“You knew it was me. Guess I never leave your mind.” Zach grins and leans against the bar top, dangerously close. His eyes wander. “Last I saw, you were all dark and morbid,” he says, grinning like it’s meant to be charming. “Now you’re glowing. “What, finally decided to quit that shitty blood job?”

I stare at him blankly, sip my drink, and tilt my head. “And last I saw you, you were banging some coked-up chick next door. and wouldn’t give me my clothes back.”

Zach laughs, low and forced, like he doesn’t want to admit that stung. “Still a mouth on you.”

I arch a brow. “Still a parasite.”

He’s about to say something else that’s probably gross, and then I’ll regret not throwing a drink over it, but a hand casually laces itself around my waist and pulls me in. “Everything alright here?” Rudy’s voice cuts into the conversation and carries just enough weight to make Zach glance up and stiffen. I don’t even need to look to know Rudy’s smiling that same too-calm, too-clean smile.

“Yeah, uh, everything’s fine. Just wanted to talk to this pretty lady.” Zach says, suddenly gripping my wrist like he’s trying to assert some last pathetic dominance. It’s not tight, but it’s enough.

Before I can say anything, Rudy moves. Not chaotically. Not even quickly. Just… deliberately. His hand releases my waist only to grab Zach’s hand, fingers clamping around his wrist. I hear Zach’s breath catch and the subtle crack of pressure building where bone meets bone.

Rudy’s smile doesn’t change.

“I’m afraid she’s already talking to someone,” he says softly.

Zach tries to pull away, but Rudy doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in closer, like he’s telling a secret just for him. “You’ve had your moment. Don’t make it awkward.”

Zach nods, barely, and Rudy lets go. Zach steps back, rubbing his wrist with a forced chuckle. “Didn’t know you brought your watchdog,” he says to me.

I smile, baring my teeth. “Goodnight, Zach…” and tell that chick at your place to take my fucking shirt off.” He disappears into the crowd, and it’s like the loudness of the room goes with him.

I turn back to Rudy. “Thanks,” I murmur, more breath than voice.

He shrugs, as if nothing happened. But something did. His hand is still warm against the curve of my waist when he touches me again, gently this time, thumb dragging slowly along the fabric of my shirt, just above my hipbone.

“You alright?” He asks, his voice dipped in genuine concern, but his eyes are unreadable.

“I am now.” I say.

He studies me for a second, like he’s debating something. “Dance with me?” he says, not a question, not a suggestion. A gentle command. When I nod, slow, almost hesitant, he pulls me through the crowd, into the pulse of the music, the dark, and the heat. Right there, his hands find my hips, and mine find his shoulders, and for a moment, I forget about the knife, the scar, and the way "angel" floated so effortlessly off his lips. My hips roll with the beat, slow and instinctive, and I feel the way his breath stutters once against the shell of my ear. He spins me, and I lay my back against his chest.

I tilt my head back just a little, eyes fluttering, letting myself move with him, and that’s when the familiarity suddenly makes sense. His grip, his eyes staring into mine, and the way he drags his hand down my throat and stops just above my pendant, right where the scar is.

And it hits me.

A flicker of my existence, or what could’ve been the end of it, a version of himself, and a knife held at my throat. It’s navy blue. Then everything vanishes as fast as it comes.

I tense, every part of me screaming to run, but I don’t move. Not with his fingers ghosting over the scar like it’s still fresh. “Trying to hide this from me?” he murmurs. I nod before I can lie. He brings his face just inches from mine, and I swear, I can feel his smile. Not the fake one. Not the charm. The one beneath it. The wolfish one. “You were talking so much a while ago; what now?”

His hands slowly glide over my thighs and torso, not in the seductive way, but in the sizing-me-up way. Like snakes preparing their prey. My body betrays my better thinking, and I arch myself into his touch, knowing that I’m walking that thin line between lust and morality. Sin and sinning. He turns me to face him again, and this time I’m seeing him for real. Under dim light and heavy-lidded eyes, I’m putting pieces of a puzzle together, but they’re just becoming even more scrambled.

“You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll think you’re actually into me.” He says to me, a breathy laugh escapes his lips. I see it as a challenge.

“So what if I do?” I say it with intensity, before the thoughts of Stockholm syndrome can hit me. He leans in again, closer this time, but not to kiss me. No, he’s more careful than that.

He presses his mouth beside my ear, “Goodnight, Angel.” He says it and dissolves into the crowd of people around us. I’m standing by myself in the middle of the dance dancefloor, stunned and nonplussed. I was stuck in a fog, in a memory, but when he left suddenly the room looked brighter and sounded louder, and Debra, smiling at me and weaving through the crowd, beamed 10 times over.

“Do you know where Rudy is? I can’t find him anywhere.” She asks me.

“I think he went to the bathroom over there.” I say, not even looking in that general direction. She walks past me, and maybe it’s the smell of her perfume that makes my eyes sting or the big drunk guy who keeps hitting my shoulder, but I think it’s time I went home.

The walk back to my car is a blur, and I don’t remember saying goodbye to Deb or even if the bouncer gave me a second glance. I only remember the sound of grown men yelling outside and homeless people sleeping on the pavement and how suddenly cold it got outside when the sun was kissing the moon. When I get home, my throat is dry and my chest is hollow. I leave the lights off, lock the door, and walk into darkness, like I’m afraid to see something I’m not ready for.

I drop my platforms by the door; my accessories and pendant hit the floor next. I don't even look at the knife again since I left it where it landed. On the tile. Near the cutting board. I’m afraid if I pick it up, I’ll read it again. I shower in silence, with cold water and only the emptiness of the house to accompany me. I scrub until my skin is tender, like I can wash the memory off me.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. Everything feels unfamiliar, off, since I know now that the person who’s been in my house is so close yet so far out of my reach. The AC kicks in with a loud whine, and I flinch like it’s a scream. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, tracing the outline of the darkness and where my lamplight diminishes it.

And still, he’s under my skin.

When I finally do sleep, I dream I’m back in the dark room again. Not the club. Not Deb’s place. But the real one. The one with metal floors and a voice I can’t place taunting me. I say something; I can’t remember what, but I do remember light but rough hands grazing my hair and tugging with clumsy force. I remember blisters on my bottom lip after my parents rushed to my side and screamed, “Where did you go?” and “What happened to you?”

I remember a picture of me in a local newspaper; my parents threw it into a fire, and I’d forgotten it ever existed. Fire was how you escaped a bad memory, and that’s how I remembered them.

In that fire.

The screaming of the neighbourhood—

When I wake up, it isn’t screaming, though. It’s sirens.

Not the blaring kind that wails down the street and vanishes into someone else’s nightmare. No, these are parked. Stationery. Flashing red and blue bleeding through the blinds, pulsing right outside. I sit up slowly, migraine throbbing in my head and body heavy with remnants of alcohol. I move to the window and peel the blinds open with two fingers. Two cop cars. One unmarked. Caution tape was already being strung up like party décor next door.

“Fucking Zach, what did you do to that girl?” I step outside the door barefoot, everything about me still soaked in the afterglow of sweat and regret. A female officer eyes me but doesn’t say anything.

And then I see her.

That girl from last night. Standing outside in one of those tacky robes that you can buy secondhand for $12. Makeup in ruins, and arms crossed. Her baby tee—my baby tee—is balled up in her fist.

She’s crying, saying, "I didn’t do anything." I woke up, and he was just… gone like that.” Her voice cracks. “I thought he was asleep.”

But the EMTs aren’t rushing; they’re quiet, professional…slow.

Because he’s dead.

Zach’s body is wheeled out under a pale blue sheet, and for a moment the wind picks up just enough for me to see the outline of his neck. It's too clean. Like a warning.

I take a step back inside and close my door, locking it, and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor in my underwear, mouth dry, heart racing.

That girl is going to be blamed. She's young, she's hysterical, and she's easy to write off, but I know it wasn’t her.

I know the difference between a messy mistake and a message.

And Rudy would never leave a loose end.

some otp questions i found on pinterest for reader & bri as a little treat before the big update.

one: definitely reader pulling brian close when she thinks about the fire or when she dreams about being alone again. on the flipside, brian probably clings onto her like shes the only thing left in the world that's truly his due to his lack of true intimacy.

two: reader probably taking up all the middle space on the bed and brian slightly sprawled out on his side with their legs somewhat tangled, and the blanket looking like it went through fifteen rounds of tug of war during the night.

three: 'pulp fiction' or 'leon the professional.' brian thinks both are classics, but you just like how relaxed he seems to be when he watches them with you.

four: you're always the one to make the dumb puns to brian, regardless if they're corny or not. sometimes he laughs, sometimes he just looks at you with adoration in his eyes and a half smile.

five: brian wastes no time telling her how beautiful she looks, all the time, everyday he can. her, on the other hand, gives him space to work and leaves him notes when she gets the chance to.

six: brian is already thinking of how fast he can remove it once he sees it on her once, regardless if it's a blazer or lingerie. when brian wears a new outfit reader is discreetly feeling him up or complimenting him. from a hand lingering on his bicep too long when she gives him coffee at the table, to a visit to his job because he 'forgot his lunch.'

seven: reader constantly tries to scare brian, it doesn't work, but he gives her a kiss and thanks her for trying anyways.

eight: usually the frozen section is more of their go to, especially since reader likes to crack jokes about brian's 'part time job.' sometimes though, they like to go to the international foods section and throw tons of random ingredients into the cart.

nine: reader makes him a meal and spends the day giving him her undivided attention, especially if he's stressed. brian will buy the biggest bouquet of wildflower lillies he can find and if he works, everything reader could possibly ask for, (and i mean this literally) will be there for her at the front door.

ten: brian runs because reader most likely doesn't see him from far away until he's literally almost in front of her.

eleven: what reminds reader of brian is, 'wanted you' by joji and for what reminds brian of reader is, 'summertime' by mareux

twelve: brian does it purely out of force of habit of wanting to smell what reader has on and as a teasing way to say he wants a kiss in a semi public setting.

thirteen: brian loves that reader absolutely lights up when she gets to talk about a book she’s reading to someone she meets at a cafe or the library and when she goes on about how her love for forensics started when she’s chit chatting over the phone with someone from miami metro. reader adores when brian makes his prosthetics, he’s focused and calm and he enters a headspace that not even she can break him out of.

fourteen: skipped.

The morning starts quietly, with small talk that feels heavier than it should. Memories of the past resurface, but the answers never come clean. The day passes slowly, filled with routine tasks and conversations that don’t quite settle. A late-night exchange brings tension to the surface, but nothing is truly resolved. By the time the group returns to Miami, things feel different, though no one says exactly why. Word Count: 2k A/N: heyyy guys i'm sorry I've been so dead so mcuh has been going on and I promise I'm gonna try nto to let that effect me too much, the brian x reader x dexter one-shot should also be posted by the week or weekend and if it's not i'll give you guys and extra 1k words per day im late <3

I wake up on the air mattress at roughly 9 a.m., neck sore and spine slightly bent from the way I curled myself into the corner during the night. A silent yawn escapes as I sit up, blinking against the soft light bleeding through the blinds. Deb’s still knocked out across the living room. I stretch, rubbing the sleep from my face with both hands. I move quietly through the house, footsteps muffled on the hardwood.

The kitchen is empty, but a pot of coffee sits hot on the machine; it seems like someone was here just moments ago. I walk in barefoot, about to reach for a mug, when a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Morning.”

I spin on my heels and nearly knock into Rudy; he’s leaning against the kitchen doorway. Where the fuck did he come from? His grey button-up was unbuttoned at the top, his hair was slightly messy, and there was a faint hint of sleep still in his voice.

“Oh. Hi,” I pause, heart skipping. “Morning... You’re up early.”

He steps past me without a word and picks up two mugs from the counter, pouring coffee into both, then he slides one gently toward me, his fingers brushing the ceramic just as I reach out.

“Still warm,” he says quietly.

I wrap my hands around the mug and sink slowly into the chair at the kitchen table, watching him over the rim. “Where’d Dex go?” I say, noticing the door next to me being ajar. He looks down into his coffee and slightly frowns into the rim.

“The morgue.” he says, the words lingering a little too long in the air between us.

I blink, slow. “…oookay.. how fun.”

Rudy doesn’t laugh, but there’s a curl at the edge of his lip like he thought about it. He lifts his mug again and the silence settles. I sip mine, eyes flicking toward the window, then back to the coffee in my hands. “It must be hard,” I say after a beat, “Losing a father… especially if you never knew he existed… If that really is his dad, I guess.” He doesn’t respond right away and just sets his mug down gently. “You ever lose someone like that?” I ask.

He looks at me then. Really looks. “Not a father,” he answers softly. “But I know the feeling of something missing,” he says. “That weird kind of aching to have them again…”

There’s a quiet hum from the fridge, and somewhere down the hallway, a door creaks faintly, but no one comes out. I lean back in the chair, turning the mug between my hands. “I used to think I’d never forget what my mother’s voice sounded like,” I say, “But now, I’m not sure if the version I hear in my head is even hers.”

He doesn’t comment, just let’s me continue.

“I had this dream once,” I continue. “I was in my childhood bedroom, the wallpaper all scorched and peeling, and there was this boy just standing…. outside the window. He had this calm look on his face, it felt like he knew he wasn’t supposed to be there, but he wasn’t scared of me seeing him either. Then then I woke up in a heat flash.”

I look up slowly.

“It was more memory than dream honestly.” I finish. Rudy’s eyes don’t leave mine, but I can tell something in his face changes.

“I think the mind holds onto what it can,” he says, voice quieter now. “Even when we’re not ready to face it.”

The air in the kitchen feels heavier now, like the conversation thickened it. The silence sits and its comfortable for a few seconds, then suddenly suffocating. I open my mouth to say something else, maybe to ask why he said that, maybe to finally ask about last night, “Were you—”

“God, this floor is fucking cold.”

Debra’s voice cuts through everything, slicing the stillness in half. She shuffles in from the living room, wrapped in a blanket and squinting at us with puffy eyes. “Why are you two up so early this morning, not like you work.”

Rudy lets out a casual laugh and turns back to the counter. The moment is gone, and with it any chance of clarity I could’ve gotten. I glance down at my coffee cup, looking for answers and hope in the swirls of mocha and milk, but I don’t get anything.

“I figured I’d start helping with the house,” I say, clearing my throat. “Probably time to wake Rita up too.” Debra mumbles something about needing to find aspirin and disappears down the hall. I get up and stand next to Rudy at the sink, pouring the small remainder of my coffee down the drain. Rudy leans close enough to rinse his mug and his arm grazes mine when he reaches across the counter.

“You didn’t look comfortable on the floor,” he murmurs. “I should’ve taken the couch.”

I let out a short laugh, and smile down to myself. “And let me owe you? Absolutely not.”

“You kind of do.” He says but his tone doesn’t match his face, I wait for a smile or crack like a bad joke and just when I think he won’t, he smirks at me. “I’m joking, you don’t have to keep score with me.” he rinses his mug and sets it upside down in the rack.

“Rudy.” I say abruptly somewhat cutting him off, “Do you know about a fire…? Sometime in 1981.” He gives me a double take, but his demeanor remains neutral.

“There’s a lot of fires every year Y/N, I wouldn’t know about one random one.” He says coolly, body now turned towards me as he leans against the sink.

“Right, what about someone named Brian Moser?” I swear I seen his eye twitch but it leaves just as fast as I see it. He clears his throat and his eyes don’t move from mine, though his jaw ticks faintly. He leans a little closer, lowering his voice so that it blends with the hum of the fridge.

“Where did you hear that name?”

“Some old case files. I’m looking into something, maybe something you’d know about?” Rudy holds eye contact with me, eyes are levelled and I can’t even feel his breathing against my cheek anymore.

“I didn’t know you were a detective now along with your day job.” The tension dissipates from the air. “You’ve been looking into things you shouldn’t,” Rudy says finally, voice low, but edged with a warning.

I tilt my head, refusing to drop his gaze. “That’s not the answer I’m looking for. You know what I’m talking about…. Brian.” The way his jaw tightens tells me enough, even if his words don’t. His coffee mug sits abandoned on the counter, fingers flexing once against the ceramic before letting go, then his chest rises once, deep, before he lets out a soft laugh that isn’t laughter at all.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Rita comes into the kitchen clutching a robe around her arms and smiling softly. “I realized Dex was gone, do you guys know where he may have went?”

“Morgue.” I say, looking Rudy straight in the eyes, then glancing over at Rita. “We saved you and Debra some coffee, I’m going to finish packing the garage.” Then I disappear out the front door.

The garage is damp and smells of oil and old age, light filters in through the run down garage door and dust clings to the air, swirling in every step I take as I push aside boxes stacked like a warehouse. I hear laughter faintly from inside the house, Deb’s voice, Rita’s next but much softer, and Rudy’s once before fading out. I keep my hands busy, but my head is still stuck in the kitchen, still stuck on Brian Moser. I promise myself that im going to look into it more once we’re back on the road but something tells me that I may find out theres more to it than Rudy’s half-baked lies.

I go through papers, newspapers, and letters, grabbing them by the handful and shoving them in the trash bag on the floor. One newspaper falls out and when I pick it up some pieces of text catch my eye, ‘shipping container bloodbath’ and ‘Laura Moser.’ I take a quick picture and shove my phone back into my pocket, throwing the newspaper away while I’m at it. This isn’t the place nor time to be trying to debunk my own case.

The day drags on, more packing in the living room, Deb and Brian and Rita dancing around, me and Dexter in the awkward midst of it all, then the next day when Debra and Dex find out that this house really DID belong to Dexter’s dad, and him and Rudy coming home suspiciously late in the night. I find myself confronting Rudy once he’s outside alone and Dexter has made his way back inside and likely coddled up next to Rita. The space is silent, we’re standing next to each other leaning against the hood of his car, and looking up at the moon cutting through the clouds in the sky.

“So, are you gonna tell me your big secret yet?” I ask him, not looking at him and crossing my arms.

“What’s there to tell?” He replies, the cool wind catching on our faces.

“Stop dancing around the truth Brian, I mean Rudy- I mean, ugh whatever your name is.”

For a moment, he turns and studies me like he’s weighing something, then he leans closer, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. “I’ve known you a lot longer than you think.”

My arms tighten across my chest and the moonlight makes the lines on his face sharper. “What are you talking about?” I search in his eyes for familiarity but I can’t find any.

He tilts his head toward me, “You ever wonder why you’ve survived everything you have? The kidnapping? The fire? The orphanage? Maybe you’re not as alone in that as you think.” His words hang heavy in the air, I can’t think of anything to say before he pushes himself off of the car hood and starts towards the front door. What the fuck is wrong with me, actually no, what the fuck is wrong with him? It takes me a minute to compose myself before going inside and putting my stuff together for going back home tomorrow.

The drive back the next morning feels longer than it should. Rudy and Deb chatter up front about restaurants they’ve passed, and I stare out the window like I’m not really in the car at all. Rudy drives with one hand, the other draped lazily over the wheel, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Every time his reflection catches me in the rearview, I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking.

Then back in Miami, the group scatters. Rita and Dexter go to check on her kids, Deb rushes to her apartment for a shower, and suddenly it’s just me and Rudy standing in the parking lot of Deb’s place. “Need a ride home?” he asks, keys dangling from his finger. My head says no, but my lips betray me with a nod. The hum of the car engine feels like a heartbeat, steady and low, filling the spaces I should be filling with words. My hand curls around the door handle like muscle memory, an instinct to leave, but I don’t, and then when he finally pulls up outside my apartment, he doesn’t unlock the doors right away. His hand stays steady on the gearshift, and his eyes turn to me. “Get some rest, Angel. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

By the time I step out of the car, I feel both lighter and more suffocated, and his engine rumbles low, then fades into the distance, leaving me staring at my building, but I’m not sure it’s really mine anymore.

On your day off, you drift through Miami like a ghost, haunted by the weight of memory and a growing sense of danger. A visit from Debra offers a flicker of comfort, but it’s fleeting. The past creeps in through the cracks — your parents’ death, the fire, the boy who saved you. When Rudy arrives uninvited with lilies in hand, you begins to wonder if he’s always been there… and if he ever truly left. Word Count: 6.3k A/N: hey guys so I know this chapter was supposed to be released last week but it wasn't finished and I also had quite and interesting last few weeks. I got throw-up drunk on tuesday after a birthday dinner and I speed wrote down everything I could think of last night and revised it today. I also spent like all my paycheck money on very dumb things. Moral of the story, stay home and write fanfiction. I wanted to do another 4k word chapter but i figured to do an extra 500 or so for every day I missed so enjoy this extra long one! The goal was 10k but I'm sure this A/N is long enough as is. (edit: IM ALSO LOOKING FOR A PROOFREADER SO DM ME IF UR INTERESTED <3) XOXO INEI <3

I didn’t sleep. Not fully anyway.

I lay there with my arms over my eyes until the light coming through the blinds turned from gold rays to dimly lit streetlights. I swing my legs over my bed and invite the cold into my body from the floor.

I still don’t touch the knife; it’s become a staple on my kitchen floor now. Instead, I step over it and pour myself a glass of water and debate what I should do with my day off. Work distracts me from thinking about things, and for the first time I have nothing at all to do. The sirens are gone. The girl next door is gone, too. Just a taped-up doorframe now, I watched them drive off with her in the backseat, tears spilling out of her eyes.

I sink into the couch in nothing but my underwear and a button-up that smells like the back of my closet. The TV has a telenovela playing quietly while I try to convince myself I didn’t imagine any of last night, or yesterday at all for that matter. I try not to focus on the recognition in Rudy’s hands and his movements.

When I go to check the news on my phone, I realize it isn’t on me; I must’ve left it in my bedroom. I trudged over to my bedroom and grabbed it off the dresser, but not before noticing a glint from the corner of my eye. It’s a small glass jewelry box that looks like it hasn’t been touched for years, and that’s probably because it hasn’t.

Two rings.

My parents’.

I stare at it for a while; it shouldn’t be opened. Hell, I have no reason to unpack that box of trauma. I open it anyways, maybe out of weakness or missing home. The rings look lost to time in the dim lights of my bedroom. One being a split shank silver ring with a 2.3 carat, light pink, pear-shaped diamond, and the other a simple silver band with an eternity Celtic knot going around it.

My mother’s ring smells faintly of cherry lotion and strawberries, and my father’s of ash and smoke. I used to think that was what “home” smelled like. Sweetness and ignition.

She’d bake strawberry cream cakes for dessert, humming while she worked. Then she’d wash them clean, lotion them up, and leave after dark. “Selling cherries,” she’d say, smiling like it was a joke. I didn’t get it back then, but now I know. She was kind and pretty and with a man whose eyes wandered often, so she sold herself to feel wanted; at least it’d be for money or maybe the thrill. Could be both.

I reach for the second ring. My father’s. I used to pretend it meant something, like one day they’d both walk me down an aisle and I’d finally be loved the way I was, not in the way they handcrafted me.

He was scarily loud. Not outwardly aggressive, but enough that there was never a question of ‘would he?’ but ‘when will he?’ Despite the number of cigarette packs I’d seen him go through and how often he would smoke, he had a charming off-white smile, and his demeanor changed in front of the right people. “You look prettier today.” He’d say when I looked in the mirror, cigarette in one hand and caressing my shoulder with the other. Aftershave and smoke lingered in my nose when he walked out of the room.

I’d sit by the counter with my knees swinging off the stool, pretending not to notice when they fought between bites. They weren’t good parents, but they were mine. Then after they were gone, the only thing that stuck with me was that smell… and the sound of fire.

The house fire happened so fast I don’t remember anything but heat brushing its hands against my legs and kissing my cheeks and screaming tainted with panic and worry. It wasn’t my parents’, though; it was the neighbors’. My name was in their mouths when I came staggering out of the wreckage, as if I were some walking miracle.

“The girl who survived.” They said.

“She must’ve had a guardian angel.” They whispered.

They didn’t say that when I stopped talking for months, when my eyebags suddenly looked more like black eyes, or when I flinched every time someone struck a match. They said it when they could point a camera at me.

Eventually, the story faded, and with it, the sympathy. The relatives who took me in got tired of the therapy bills and the nightmares and generally didn’t have a use for me after my stardom was obliterated. I got passed around, then left alone. That’s when I started doing stupid shit just to see if anyone would stop me.

Little did I know that no one would.

Now I just keep the rings to remind myself that love can burn a house down, and theirs did.

I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the rings, but eventually, I get up and throw on clothes. A cotton tank, a loose skirt, and the only sandals I can find in the midst of papers strewn about and the abandoned clothes from last night. When I reach the front door, I realize that I don’t know where I’m going. I just leave.

The streets are warm but breezy; it’s actually quieter and more serene without the working crowd and the nightlife. It makes Miami feel smaller and calmer. I should take more days off. I walk into a bookshop café I used to kill time in back when I couldn’t afford real coffee. The bell on the door jingles when I enter. I order an iced Americano, then sit at the corner table, my keys, phone, and sunglasses splayed over the table next to the coffee.

People’s conversation and chatter filter in like background noise.

There’s a girl resting her head on a guy’s shoulder, laughing into her straw. Two men sitting side by side reading the same book, holding highlighters. A woman with gray braids feeding cake to another woman with a ‘lost in love’ look in their eyes. My brain starts playing pretend again, sorting through memories of when that used to be me like it’s going through a file cabinet.

In one of them, I’m still with Liam. We’re complaining together about how bitter the espresso is, trying to avoid the moody barista’s gaze and stealing bites from each other’s plates. We’re trading pecks back and forth, and it reminds me of when I was still someone’s first choice, someone’s favorite girl, no matter that tragic backstory.

I close my eyes and see his mouth. I remember his voice; it’s deep but not volatile… It’s kind, and the way he said goodbye that day at the airport was like it was only momentary, like I’d see him again in a few months and not never again.

“Don’t forget about me,” he said.

“As if I ever could,” I replied, hand on his chest and longing eye contact just screaming, “Stay with me.”

I open my eyes again, and the café is back to now. The couple near the window kisses softly, and suddenly, for a second, it’s not Liam I imagine across from me. It’s Rudy.

His hands are bigger, not as delicate but definitely stronger. They’re soft but also ever so slightly rugged. He’s sipping black coffee, eyes tracking me the way they always do, and then he smirks and says something that’s probably really clever, but I don’t hear him. His knee brushes mine under the table, he mouths out an empty promise to me, and his thumb grazes the inside of my wrist.

I blink and shake the thought away like it came from someone else’s brain. What the fuck am I thinking about? I toss the coffee in the trash and walk out before I let it get worse.

I walk the side streets, past murals and cracked sidewalks and corner stores with gangs of men sitting around sharing stories of lives unlived on the side of the building. I stop in front of a nail salon I used to go to when I thought my looks were my best asset. The neon signs buzz softly, pink and flickering, and I watch a kid argue with his mom over a jacket in the parking lot.

I stop at a gas station and go inside; the man at the front looks me up and down when I enter, but I’m not paying much attention. When I reach the freezers, I yank a water bottle out and give the guy a $5 bill for the water when he asks for cash or card. When I walk outside, I lean against the wall and take a sip, then pull out a cigarette I didn’t know I still had. I don’t even light it, just hold it. It reminds me of my dad, because he always looked so calm with one of these in his hand; even when the world was shit, he had something to do. I press the filter to my lips and pretend to speak silent pleasantries into the orange filter. Eventually, I head toward the beach.

Not the touristy one though, the little one tucked behind the nicer condos, the one where you can still find seaweed upon the sand and the water looks more green than blue. I sit in the sand underneath the sun, not tanning, not even lounging. Just there with my feet buried under warm grains, eyes half-closed, and every now and then, I look up to watch people walk by.

Two kids are digging a hole, a man throws a frisbee too far, and the woman next to him walks with a dog who goes to chase it. I wonder what life is like when it looks like that. Is it peaceful? Sweet? I smile when the kids look my way and they smile back; I imagine my own picket fence life.

I fish through my phone and pull up an old photo of Liam. Just to prove to myself that he was real and that he instilled me with love I can’t replicate. It’s an image of him leaving the dentist with a kid’s sticker and thumbs up. The lighting’s bad, so is the angle, his smile is soft, his eyes are sparkling, and I remember his affinity with always keeping me around no matter the occasion. Happy, bright…alive. God, I miss living.

I lock the screen.

On the way back to my house, I think about Rudy. Not on purpose, and not in detail, it just happens. His cheeky smiles, the way he pulled me away from Zach without raising his voice, how he danced, and the way he held me like I was already his.

Back home, I don’t go inside right away. I sit on the porch step with the key in my hand and let the fading sun warm my knees. I watch a dragonfly hover over a patch of overgrown grass and think about what it must be like to only live for a few weeks, to not have time to regret anything. It doesn’t take long until I hear a car pulling up to the street. I steadily eye it from the window reflection and turn when I hear the car door close.

“Can I come in?” Rudy says, bouquet of stargazer lilies in hand, my favorite, and strolls up the walkway.

“What are you, a vampire?” I say to him, cracking my door partially open.

“I could be.” He says it absolutely flat but is still smiling up at me. I wave him in and disappear into the house. I can hear his footsteps pace up the stairs, and I quickly assess my living room and kitchen, picking the knife off the floor finally and setting it on the counter near the sink. He comes in the front and closes the door behind him.

“Sorry for your loss,” he says to me. He reaches the bouquet out and grins. I take the flowers wordlessly and put them on the living room table.

“Make yourself at home, though… I’m sure you’ll find your way around.” He’s still by the door; he can’t see me, but I know he heard me. He walks up next to me and looks in my eyes, with that stupid fake smile on his face. His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than necessary, then he softens just slightly.

“Do I seem that predictable?” he says, his fingers trailing my arm and swaying over my skin in soft, repeated motions. “Thought you’d connect dots faster…” His eyes linger on my neck; the scar matches the measure of my breathing.

I turn and push him away from me ever so slightly, my heightening anxiety of him staying in my home any longer than necessary and the lust between my legs fighting for control of my next actions.

“Why are you here?” I ask, finally.

“To see you? Can’t let Debra’s friend be all moody.” He says, raising an eyebrow.

“You should’ve called,” I mutter.

“You wouldn’t have answered,” he replies. I say nothing. He strolls over next to me by the coffee table and looks around the living room like he’s never been here before.

“Stargazer lilies,” I nod toward the flowers. “These aren’t for mourning.”

He tilts his head at me. “They mean devotion.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Not yet,” he says, then smiles like we’re in on something together. The way people do when they’ve already decided where the night is heading, even if one of them hasn’t caught up yet.

He sits down on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, and looks at me. “Are you going to sit?” I hover near the table for a second too long before finally lowering onto the opposite end of the couch. I don’t lean back or manage to relax, and I definitely don’t miss the way his eyes trace the slope of my legs, the curve of my knees beneath the hem of my skirt.

He notices me noticing, doesn’t apologize or acknowledge it, but instead he just smiles and looks up into space. “You smell like the beach,” he says, voice quiet now. “And cigarettes.”

“I quit,” I mumbled, crossing my arms over my chest, a defensive gesture I immediately regretted. The scent of stargazer lilies, heavy and sweet, seemed to thicken the air between us, cloying and invasive. He simply watched me, his eyes dark and unreadable, a sliver of a smile ghosting over his mouth.

“Do you ever truly quit anything, Y/N?” he mused, his voice a low hum that vibrated through the quiet room. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the top of the couch, his posture annoyingly casual. My eyes trailed the motion, stupidly catching on the shape of his bicep under that damn shirt. My stomach clenched, a mix of unease and something far more primal.

“So maybe… It’s just a pause,” he started, his eyes now fixed on mine, too knowing. “A moment to catch your breath. He paused, then tilted his head. “That’s usually when things get good.”

I shifted, the worn fabric of the couch scratching uncomfortably against my legs. “You sound like a fortune cookie.” I say deadpan, the growing irritation fitting on my face.

“Do I?” He chuckled softly, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Or are you just not listening, pretty girl?” His gaze dropped, lingering on the scar at my throat, then slowly traced a path down to where my skirt rode up slightly above my knees. The air crackled, thick with unspoken things. I felt exposed, seen in a way I hadn't been in years, and the urge to kick him out was a test against my resolve. My eyes, despite myself, flickered to his lips, then back to him. He caught the movement, a subtle shift.

“Curious?” he asked, the word a soft challenge.

“Wary.” I countered, my voice low.

“Smart girl.”

I should ask him to leave. I should. Instead I found my gaze drawn back to his lips, and it was the smallest shift in his expression, the way his smile slipped and his brows softened, that told me he was thinking about mine too.

“Rudy,” I said, a warning in my tone, but my voice didn’t come out sharp enough.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he said. “Unless you want me to.”

“And if I do?”

“Then I will,” he said, low. “Don’t worry, I’m gentle.” An easy smile smooths across his face.

There was something deliberate in how he said it, like he knew too well what it meant to be rough. Maybe he was thinking about the past and trying not to give himself away. I stared at him a long moment, the weight of his words settling between us, then I stood.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” I said, voice lower than I meant it to be. “I just know I keep having these nightmares and… and you’re always looking at me like I’m some kind of porcelain doll and saying all the right things at the wrong time.” I calm myself down and sit back on the couch, a little closer this time.

“Rudy, if you know something about me that I don’t, can you please just tell me? I’m…” I pause and look him in the eyes, then straight at my hands fidgeting with each other in their own little dance. “I’m scared.”

He watches me, chest rising a little slower now, like he’s waiting for me to act. “What’s scaring you?” He says.

“I haven’t told Debra, or anyone for that matter. Someone is watching me or following me. I’m worried, but I guess I just figure that they haven’t harmed me, so I technically have nothing to report….” I watch him for a reaction; he must not know I’m talking about him. Is that why he’s so relaxed about this?

“Yet.” He says plainly.

“What?” I subconsciously scoot backwards into the armrest of the couch.

“They haven’t harmed you yet.” He scans my face, then places his hand on mine. “I’m sure you’ll be fine though. You always were resilient.”

“I—” Rudy gets up from where he’s sitting, the haziness of the moment going with him. He straightens his shirt and goes to my kitchen and fills a water bottle with water, then he places it on the counter and grabs the flowers off the coffee table. He places them inside and makes it look nice and pretty.

“You don’t own a vase. Fix that.” Before he wanders out of the kitchen, he stops at the utensils drawer and taps the counter. Locks eyes with me. His fingers trail off the marble. He doesn’t open the drawer; he doesn’t need to. He already knows about the knife; he probably always did.

“You lock your door, right?” he asks casually, like we’re still talking about vases and flowers.

“Yeah,” I answer; it comes out unsure.

“Good.” He pauses, right by the couch, towering just slightly above me now. Wouldn’t want anything happening to you. Debra would have a fit.” It’s said sweet, too sweet… like honey masking poison.

I blink, and he’s already leaning in, hand ghosting along the back of the couch behind my head, never touching, just there. I can smell the cologne ghosting his clothing and see the light freckles dotting his cheeks, and the intimacy of the space is almost claustrophobic. “Yeah. Especially if her boyfriend is flirting with another girl.” I say coldly, but he doesn’t move.

“What if that girl likes him?” His eyes train themselves to never forget what my lips look like, and I bite my tongue. “You’re not arguing back.” He moves back quickly, as if he hadn’t closed the distance between us in the first place, and somehow makes the cool AC air feel like steam building in the room.

He makes his way to the door again and doesn’t look back until his hand’s on the knob. “By the way,” he says, like an afterthought. “I think I like you too.”

Then he leaves. The door clicks behind him, and it sounds like a clock ticking louder than it should. I exhale, finally, and speed-walk to the door to lock it. I softly toss my head against the wall; I don’t know if I want him to fuck me or fuck off.

I go in the kitchen and grab the knife; I wash it like it’ll wash any trace of him off. I repeat his name to myself, trying to get myself to remember him in any way, shape, or form. No matter what way I say it, though, it never rings any bells. I look over at the flowers. How would he even know my favorite flowers?... It makes no sense to ask Debra… and only Liam and Zach would know that.

Only Liam and Zach.

I go back to sit at the edge of the couch and pull my laptop out from underneath the coffee table. It's dusty and honestly kind of forgotten. I don’t even know what I’m looking for—answers? Names? Proof that I’m not crazy for thinking he knows more than he should?

I search: “Miami missing girls 1981.” Then “Miami Beach unsolved crime archives.” Then just “Rudy Cooper.” Nothing relevant, but I keep going, clicking through old reports, falling into the void of dead links and really weird websites. One image stops me; the rest of the images on the site won’t load except for one of a charred bedroom with a stuffed angel plush lying on the floor. The picture flickers, and the computer dies.

“Fuck!” I shout out and slap the computer shut. I rummage through the papers underneath the table for the charger, plug it in, and put it to the side. I lean back and rub my eyes. I breathe in that fucking cologne of his still lingering in the air; it’s stuck in my clothes, threading itself into my skin. At some point I fall asleep, at least it feels like I do.

I’m in my bedroom, or a cleaner version of it at least. The light is unnatural, and the flowers Rudy brought are on my nightstand. I look over at the door that’s ajar, and like some cruel joke, he’s walking through it in minutes. He’s shirtless, lean muscle pulled tight over bone and definition, especially in his arms. His hair’s messy; little streaks from the lamplight fall over it and show dark brown, his mouth tilts as he sees me looking, and I feel stupid for pretending I wasn’t.

The air smells like iron. “You’re beautiful,” he says, voice gentle, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. “You always were.” I try to speak, but he pushes me gently down onto the bed, not with force…no…but with scary caution and diligence. He leaves a trail of kisses down from my jawline and down my scar, where he lets his lips linger a little longer. He moves to the soft skin of my neck, and I can faintly feel teeth, but it doesn’t hurt, not until I feel the cold of a knife being lightly dragged across my hip. It doesn’t cut into me, but the contact makes a breath hitch in my throat. His eyes stare into mine, tension so thick you could drown in it. He leans in to kiss my lips.

I wake up gasping for air. Stupid fucking wet dream.

It’s still dark out, and I yawn, then rub my eyes with my hand. I reopen the laptop, and when it turns on, the bedroom image is gone. I click on another link. Something about a teen escaping from a mental hospital—no relevance. I lift the laptop and take it with me to the bedroom, and I continue reading. Blah blah, October 3rd, blah blah, shipping yard, blah blah, picture of the teen once he was returned to the hospital. I stop. The teen looks frenzied in the image, but there’s something about his eyes I can’t shake. They’re staring back at me. I drop the laptop on the bed, and finally the fear sets in.

They look like Rudy’s.

Brian Moser…? Who the hell is that?

I close the laptop once again and shove it under the bed. For the first time, that knife feels less like a danger and more like it’s protecting me. I go to grab it and then sit on the edge of my bed with the knife in my hand, just holding it like a lifeline, like it might start whispering answers if I’m patient enough.

My heart won’t stop thudding against my ribs, and the air feels too thick to breathe. I try not to replay the dream. I fail. His mouth, his hands, the slow kiss down my scar like he’s drinking in the pain I’m soaked in. The knife never cut me, but I felt it.

I check the time: 4:03 AM.

It's too early for coffee and too late to call anyone.

I get up and walk the apartment because something in me needs to move, or else I’ll explode. My fingertips trace the hallway walls, and I turn on lights as I pass them, then back off every switch like a security checkpoint.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, half expecting to see someone else behind me, but there’s no one. Just me, looking more undone than I ever remember.

I dry my face, then move back to the living room. I pull out the knife and stare at it for a long time.

It’s not just a knife anymore.

It’s a boundary that was crossed.

A symbol of someone’s reckless view of love.

A reminder that if I’m not careful, I’ll end up just like the angel plush on the floor of a burned room.

I grab a pen and paper. Maybe if I write this shit down in ink, it’ll feel less like madness and more like evidence. I list what I know, or think I know:

Rudy knows my favorite flower.

He knew about the knife.

He showed up unannounced, again.

He lingers too long, stares too closely

He’s charming on cue, but only when he wants something.

I keep dreaming about him, like a perv…

His eyes look like the boy from the hospital photo.

I stop writing, and I underline that last point until the pen nearly tears the paper.

I grab a phonebook. It’s ancient and yellowed, but I haven’t thrown it out. I flip through pages, looking for anything that stands out. It’s pointless, but I’m grasping for straws that I pray will pull me out of my frenzy.

I call Debra. It rings twice, then voicemail. I hang up. What would I even say? “Hey, your boyfriend might be stalking me. Also, I had a dream where he kissed me and slid a knife down my body.” Yeah, that’d go over well.

I sit back down on the couch, the paper still in my lap, the room now glowing with morning light. I haven’t blinked in what feels like hours, but I can’t stop feeling like something’s wrong. I can feel it in my body, in the way my pulse doesn’t settle. When I finally drift off again, it’s not sleep. It’s something closer to passing out.

And when I wake up, the house is still. I’m completely restless and drained of whatever life a walking body is supposed to have. My phone blares to life. It’s Doakes.

I don’t answer the call; in fact, I watch the screen until it dims, then set the phone face-down on the table and stare at the knife in my hand. My palm is curved around the handle like it belongs there. I stare at the edge of the blade; you’d think it’d be janky, rusted, and old by now. I guess he took really good care of it. Then a memory clicks.

I remember a different room with hazy, diffused, white lighting and cheap, peeling wallpaper.

I was maybe 14. They’d placed me in some temporary home with linoleum floors and a kitchen that smelled like dirty mop water and lemon-scented cleaner. The woman who watched me… I don’t remember her name, only that she had long fingernails and red rosy cheeks that made her face look swollen.

There was a man there, too. Wasn’t hers, but he came around quite often. I think he fixed the heater or dropped off boxes. One day, I don’t remember what made me hide; I just remember knowing I had to.

I’d seen a knife on the counter—a steak knife, thin and sharp. I snuck it into my pocket before slipping into the tiny hall closet. It smelled like coats and old cologne and the gross damp closet smell that builds up worse over time. I crawled behind the vacuum and pressed my knees to my chest.

My hand never left the handle. My fingers ached from gripping it; I was more scared of being caught than I was of having to use it. I listened; footsteps, voices, and laughter that didn’t sound right followed. At last… footsteps again. Just one set; they were slower and much, much closer. Right past the closet door.

I remember holding my breath until my lungs gave up. I remember thinking, if I die, no one will come looking for me. That thought didn’t scare me as much as it should have. They didn’t find me that night, whoever they were. I don’t remember what happened after. Only that I kept the knife under my pillow for weeks until the rosy-cheeked lady noticed and took it away. She said it ‘wasn’t safe,’ as if anything else was in her house.

Back in my apartment now, I let the memory settle over me. I press the flat side of the blade to my palm and stare at the faint reflection in the steel. I’m not scared like I was then. I’m just… biding my time. I don’t think I know what for, though.

The silence is heavier than it should be. It’s like a weighted blanket, and I feel like something is about to shift and hasn’t decided whether it’ll be good or bad yet. Then there’s a knock on the front door. It’s not loud or aggressive, but it's sudden enough that I flinch and almost drop the knife.

I become deathly silent, my heart pausing with me. Then another knock, twice this time, followed by a muffled voice.

“Y/N? You home?” Debra’s voice rings a little clearer when I sit still, and I’m brought back to my senses.

I swipe the knife off the table and shove it into a drawer, not even bothering to close it properly. I tug the closest sweater off the back of a chair and shrug it on, trying not to look like someone who spent the last day and morning fucking spiraling. I smell, not horribly, but I pray it isn’t noticeable. I yank my hair back in a thrown-together ponytail, and when I open the door, Debra’s standing there with a plastic bag of takeout and a suspicious squint in her eyes.

“Jesus, you look like shit, and not in the party girl way,” she says. “Did I catch you sleeping, or are you the next crime scene?”

“Both.” I mutter, stepping aside so she can come in.

She kicks off her boots by the door, casually. She’s only been here three times or so, but I guess I can’t really judge since I crash so many nights at her house. She drops the bag on the counter. “I brought tacos. Figured you could use carbs and a friend to eat them with.”

I try to smile. It only works halfway. She doesn’t sit yet, just stands there, eyes flicking over my apartment like she’s checking for something. Does she know about Rudy, and is this when she jumps me in my house?

“Everything okay?” she asks, voice gentler now.

I nod. “Yeah, just tired. Kinda restless.” I force a laugh. It’s not a complete lie.

“Mm-hmm.” She leans against the counter. “You didn’t answer my texts.” I didn’t see them. I don’t say that, because she’ll ask why, and honestly I don’t want to explain how I spent my morning Googling burnt houses and seeing my face in the pictures of the corpses.

I open the takeout bag just to avoid her eyes. “You been home all day?” she asks; it’s casual.

I nod again. “Took a walk yesterday. Just woke up not too long ago. Enjoying my day off and all.”

She hums. “See anything interesting?” The plastic rips a little as I reach for a taco. My hands are steady. That scares me more than if they were shaking.

“Not really.” She watches me too closely, like she’s waiting for me to crack. Like she already knows I’m not telling her something.

“You know… Rudy was acting weird last night.” I can feel my pulse steadily rise in my neck. In my veins.

“Weird how?”

She shrugs, grabbing a taco. “I don’t know, kinda…distracted? Kept looking at the sky and said he was tired, but he never gets tired. He’s like, so fucking obsessed with being present.” I don’t say anything. Just chew slowly and nod like that’s interesting.

Debra finally sinks onto the couch and kicks her feet up. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought… never mind.”

“What?” At this point I’m just getting her to keep talking and shoving my taco down my throat so I don’t have to speak back.

She shakes her head. “Just like…he was different, somewhere else, with someone else. Then he showed up this morning with this dumb-ass grin, whistling. Who fucking whistles? Anyways, it was the strangest fucking thing.” I force a laugh again, but it feels faker.

“You ever get that feeling like… you’re missing something?” she asks. “Like something’s happening right under your nose and you don’t know what it is, but your gut is screaming?” Yeah. Every second Rudy’s in the same room as me. I look at her—I mean, really look—and for the first time in a while, I feel guilty. Not because of what I’ve done, but because of what I’ve been allowing to happen.

“Yeah, more often than you might think.” I reply, my breathing comes out fragmented, but I try and force my body to relax. Debra doesn’t push; she just eats another taco and turns on the TV. It feels like she’s letting me sit in the lie until I’m ready to dig my way out. I lean back beside her and close my eyes for a second. I wish this was what life felt like all the time, not the paranoia or the fear but genuine friendships and having someone who cares about me by my side.

I’m in no way the good person I think I am; I’m just hoping I can spare Deb the shards from when her glass illusion gets shattered. I lean on her shoulder, and for a moment it feels like real comfort instead of something fake. She leans her head on top of mine, and we sit there watching a shitty T.V. channel, with our bare-minimum tacos and false senses of security.

We didn’t say much after that. The show we left running looped into some low-budget murder mystery noir film, and Deb started nodding off mid-conversation.

I took her jacket off and put a cozy blanket over her, cleaned up the wrappers, and stepped out. Not because I needed air, but because I felt like I was lying by just breathing near her. The diner isn’t far, one of those late-night joints that looks like it’s straight out of the Archie comics. I sit at the counter and order coffee. The best black coffee for miles.

The woman behind the counter watches me; I’m the only other person in there except for an older guy nodding off in the corner. She’s older, tired-eyed, with a name tag that reads ‘Vicky.’

“You alright, sweetheart?” She asks, half-wiping a mug, half-scanning the restaurant, and her eyes land on me. “And don’t worry about ‘crazy Todd’; he’s always here, but he won’t harm ya, babydoll.”

“Just needed to be somewhere that wasn’t home.” I say. “Again.” She smiles like she’s heard that line before. Then her head tilts.

“You ever live off 31st, across from the condos?” she asks. I nod slowly.

“My husband, y’know, he was a firefighter, said he pulled a little girl outta that wreckage. Oh, and boy, did that place reek of domestication and cigarettes. The girl wouldn’t stop saying thank you, even while coughing smoke all up out-a her lungs.”

My pulse quickens… So it wasn’t just a bad dream. “That was me,” I say before I even think to lie.

Vicky’s eyes soften. “You poor thing.”

There’s that phrase again. It rings in my ears again, but it reminds me of when people used to feel this strange kind of pity for me. I almost laugh because it seems that day follows me everywhere, in scents, in dreams, in lovers who smile too long, and in men who know things they shouldn’t.

She keeps talking. “He always said the weird part was the call; apparently someone phoned it in to the station from a payphone some blocks away or so. No name, just gave the address and said some weird mumbo jumbo, saying they saw the fire, and then hung up.”

A shiver runs straight up my spine. That wasn’t fate; it was a choice. That was him, Rudy. Before showing up at my front door with the lilies, before butting heads with Zach, and before his voice said my name so smoothly, because now I realize, he already knew it.

He saved me once, but maybe he just didn’t want anyone else to take what he’d already claimed.

Description: You wake alone, missing Rudy despite the growing fear that something about him isn’t right. After being invited on a tense road trip to Dade City with Debra, Rudy, Dexter, and Rita, you find yourself torn between paranoia and desire as Rudy’s subtle flirtations continue. Word Count: 2.3k

The silence in the house makes me miss him. I wonder what it’d be like to not wake up alone. Legs tangled between sheets, hitched breathing mingling in heat, skin against skin. I don’t think my empty bed likes those thoughts, however, because when I push myself up, I see only an untouched side of my bed. I remember buying a queen-size bed for my apartment because I thought I’d find the love of my life in Miami, and I did, but it was just my job.

I shouldn’t be missing him, but I can’t help it.

I shouldn’t be thinking about the warmth of his palm on my wrist or the glint in his eyes when he looked at me like he already knew what my body wanted before I did, but I do, and I know it’s sick. Wanting someone who might be a threat but smells like safety, the feeling he put between my legs, and the soft tension he’d create in the air by simply gazing at my lips too long.

The worst part is, I’ve felt more alive in a few moments with him than I have in months of monotony, and yet, he’s still Deb’s boyfriend. That, really, should be a stop sign, a dead end, a moral absolute, but before I can think on it anymore, work calls me back to life as I groggily look over at the time and realize I have 30 minutes to get to Metro Miami. I rub my eyes and glance over in a nearby mirror when I get up; I’m half expecting to see my same dreary disposition, the same far-off look in my eyes, but I don’t. My skin isn’t dull, my eyes hold a spark similar to a flame, and the line on my neck begins to feel less like a wound of my past and more like a battle scar.

If I was ever going to face my fears of Rudy, of the fire, of speaking up, then I would have to do it head-on. I dig in my closet and grab a button-up; it’s apinstripe button-down blouse, tightly cinched at the waist and flaring gently at the hips. Then I put on black-washed flared jeans that sit low on my hips and have a waistband lined with a snakeskin pattern. I pace around the house looking for matching socks and hold a hairclip in my mouth while looking for my purse and badge. I stop at the door, deciding between pumps and those beat and battered blood-stained boots. The black pumps win.

I throw my stuff in the car and push my keys into the ignition, then I see my face in the rearview mirror, and instead of raccoon eyes and a sour expression, there's my lips in black cherry lip gloss and wide eyes cornered with wispy little lashes. What’s the most important, though, is that there’s a smile.

The traffic lights on the way to Miami seem to breeze by; it’s not begrudgingly tiring, and the people who sit outside of the Metro when I pull up are sweet and wave at me. Perhaps they always did, and I’m only noticing it now. Regardless, I walk to the door of the building with a sway that had been lost to time since I was a teenager, and the wind lifts the hem of my shirt just enough that I could catch stares. I scan my badge and give a lazy wave to the security officer at the front.

Debra, thankfully, is the first person I see. “Damn, girl, hot date after work?” She says, eyeing me up and down, and I roll my eyes at her.

“I could only wish. I haven’t been on a real date in ages.” I respond. We walk side by side to the employee lounge; she goes on about some cases and Laguerta possibly being replaced. I’m listening but not actively; with as much as I think about work, for once I’d like to feel like I’m clearing my head. Debra props open the lounge door with her shoulder and plops down on the sagging vinyl couch, kicking her boots up on the coffee table. “Alright, you wanna hear the news?”

I sit across from her, folding my arms and leaning back with a smirk. “Lay it on me, Morgan.”

She levels her eyes at me, and that already tells me she’s going to ruin my day. “So, Rudy and I are going up to Dade City.” My stomach tightens, and I raise an eyebrow.

“Okay…?”

“Well, it’s really for Dexter… Rita is coming too, obviously, because she’s his girlfriend, and you…” She points at me, chewing her bottom lip. “You should come.”

I blink. “Why?”

Deb shifts, “It’s this whole thing. Dexter just found out his biological dad left him a house out there, and he’s been weird about it, like he always is, and I don’t know, I feel like it might be a good idea if we also go up there and be there to support him, y’know?”

“You want me to come be the...what? The family therapist?” I scoff and swing open the fridge and fish for a water bottle.

“It’s for neutrality,” she says. “You’re the one person who’s not directly emotionally invested in Dex’s life but who also kinda gets him?” She briefly pauses when she sees that I’m still unconvinced. “You’re not obligated,” she adds. “I just thought… you know, it might be good for all of us. Get out of the city and maybe breathe.”

I trace my fingers along the edge of the fridge door handle; the beeping from it being open too long threatens to go off. “When are we leaving?”

Time goes by fast, and then I think, looking back, I should’ve said no, because now the strap of my backpack stings my hand a little while I wait outside my house for Rudy’s car to pull up. I’m in a black halter top; it’s now off the shoulder because of a bad DIY job. Thanks, Debra, for knowing how to sew. Then there are flared lounge pants that sway in the breeze, paired with platform flip-flops that slap softly against the concrete as I switch my weight from one foot to the other. A heavy canvas backpack digs slightly into my hand, lip gloss catching stray hairs as the wind blows.

Rudy’s car comes to a slow stop in front of the curb, its tires screeching against scattered leaves and bits of gravel. I see Deb in the passenger seat, leaning half out the window with her shades pushed up in her hair and a smile already spreading across her face.

“Road trip time!” she calls out, like this is spring break and not an emotional and volatile trip to dig through Dexter’s daddy issues. She’s got a gas station coffee in one hand and is frantically waving the other. I roll my eyes, but I’m already walking toward the car.

The driver’s side window rolls down slowly, and Rudy’s arm drapes casually over the steering wheel. The rim of his sunglasses catches the light. He’s wearing a crisp navy blue shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a smirk spreads across his lips when his eyes land on me. It’s oddly relaxing.

I slide into the backseat, the scent of Rudy’s cologne sinking into the fabric. He pulls off from the curb with one hand, eyes flicking back at me through the rearview mirror. “Everyone buckled?”

“You a seatbelt narc now?” Deb says, slapping his arm lightly.

“I have a cop in the car.” He answers, smiling at her with an intentionally flirtatious expression. The highway hums under the car, and the silence that follows is somewhat peaceful.

A little ways into the drive, Rudy hums along to the low music playing; it sounds like old rock similar to what I listened to in high school, and Deb starts monologuing about some asshole from Narcotics who keeps stealing her parking spot. I watch the side of Rudy’s face. The eyebags under his eyes sit pretty, and he has been tapping rhythmically on the wheel, but still he smiles to himself. I wonder if he slept last night, genuinely.

We stop for gas halfway to Dade City. I stay in the car while Deb runs in for gum and an energy drink, and Rudy stays behind to pump gas. When he gets back in the car, he glances at me through the mirror, then leans his head back casually against the headrest and speaks low, “You’re wearing lip gloss.”

“Looks good,” he adds, eyes shifting back to the front. I’m actually giddy instead of scared for once. Deb hops back into the car with a crinkle of plastic bags and an absolutely annoyed face because, apparently, Florida convenience stores are ‘fucking dumb as shit.

The rest of the drive is lighter. Deb makes fun of the tiny town signs we pass, and Rudy plays along. I look at myself in my phone camera to fix my hair, and then I pause. I put gloss on for no reason in particular, but he noticed. Maybe I did it for him.

When we pull up to the house, it’s night. Rudy and Debra get out of the car, and he offers to hold my bags when he grabs his and Deb’s out of the trunk. “Let me.” He says, and for once it’s not partially hostile; it’s pleasant, so I let him. We ring the doorbell, and when it opens, Dexter looks… surprised? Did he not know we were coming?

“Dexter. Hi.” Rudy says, and it’s… eager. He hasn’t met Dex up until this point, but even his voice sounds like there’s too much enthusiasm in it. It must be a scary experience meeting your cop girlfriend’s brother, who also happens to know exactly how to kill you and make it look like an accident.

“Surprise!” Debra yells out with a big but unsure smile on her face. She hugs him and goes on some spiel about help with ‘old wounds’ and stuff like that. “And this is Rudy.” She says, Dexter sticks out his hand, but Rudy goes for a hug. Dex is stiff.

“I’ve waited a long time to meet you.” He says it in the same voice he uses when he speaks in tongues to me, as if there’s a secret lingering underneath his words. “You must be Rita.” He says, moving over to greet her and giving her a kiss on each cheek.

“Oh, and we brought Y/N along! Figured why not since you guys are friends too and stuff.” I attempt to crack a smile at him, and I catch full sight of Rita. She’s so beautiful; I couldn’t imagine how Dexter got with her. Not that he’s bad-looking, but she’s borderline angelic.

“Hey, I’ve heard a lot about you. All good things.” I say, hugging her, and I pull back, and she’s all smiles.

After inspecting the house some, we conclude with the fact that we’re really sleeping in this random dead guy’s place. Rudy and Deb are taking the sofa bed, and Dexter and Rita are taking the main bed. “I don’t mind sleeping at the hotel. I can catch a cab up there.” Rita and Rudy look up at me like I just killed a puppy.

“I think I found an air mattress earlier in the closet; I’ll go find some clean sheets too.” I bite my lip and force an open-mouth smile.

“Great. Sounds good.” I avert my eyes and go to the bathroom to lock myself inside. Why would I ever say yes to this idea? I press my forehead against the bathroom mirror and exhale. The air in here smells like mildew and lemon cleaner. The wallpaper’s peeling, curling in the corners like it's trying to escape.

I don’t cry or panic. I just sit on the edge of the tub, arms resting on my knees, wondering how I ended up in a house with a man who might be a murderer and a girl who doesn’t know she’s sleeping beside him.

A knock interrupts the stillness, and it’s a gentle three taps.

“Y/N?” Rudy’s voice comes through the door slightly muffled. “I’m not gonna ask if you’re okay,” he says softly, “because I’ve seen that look you get when you’re pretending to be.”

I hate that he knows me like that.

“I just came to say that Rita left you the sheets in the hallway; they’re clean too, I promise. Plus the air mattress is already blown up.” Then I hear him walk away.

I wait until I’m sure they’re all asleep, scattered into the rooms of this crime scene pretending to be a home. I open the door slowly, and the hallway is dim; the only light is the moon slipping through the frosted window. The folded sheets are there, like he said, with a small post-it note with a heart resting on top. ‘Cute,’ I think to myself.

The living room is half-shadowed, and the sofa bed is pulled out, with Rudy’s bare shoulder peeking from under the blanket and one arm thrown over Deb’s waist like it belongs there. I force my eyes away, and the air mattress hisses as I adjust it. I freeze every time it squeals against the hardwood, wincing like a kid trying not to wake their parents after a late night.

I make the bed quickly, throwing the fitted sheet on with practiced clumsiness, then lie down and stare at the ceiling. The room is quiet enough that I can hear every shift and every breath, including Deb murmuring something in her sleep and Rudy responding with just a low noise. I feel like I’m in the wrong bed in the wrong house in the wrong life.

When I’m around them though, it’s never anything new.

Description: Crime scene cleanup isn’t glamorous, but it pays the bills—and it keeps you close to the mess. When you're called to a lifeless body in a pool, you're expecting a routine assignment. What you get is Dexter Morgan: unreadable, clinical, oddly magnetic. The scene is sterile. No blood. So why does it cling to you? Word Count: 1k (a little over)

"You're all standing around debating the head wound, and no one thought to check the pulse?"

I dropped my bag with a dull thud beside the body, crouching low enough for my fingertips to press gently into the still-warm blood puddling on the tile. A broken mug lay nearby, soaked in wet shades of deep red.

"That's not your job, cleanup girl," Doakes snapped from somewhere behind me, his arms crossed like always, his voice heavy with whatever pent-up angst a cop like him would have.

I didn't look at him. Didn't need to.

"No," I muttered, brushing hair out of my face with the back of a glove. "I'd just rather not have a corpse lunge at me. That's normal, right?"

He huffed something under his breath about "goddamn weirdos" and stalked off, probably to go grunt at someone else who didn't deserve it.

I stayed there, crouched by the body, eyes half-lidded and dry, like I hadn't quite woken up yet. The man's face was still frozen mid-expression—shocked or scared, I couldn't tell.

I've seen worse.

Dexter passed me, staring down at his gloves, before someone's voice cut through the air. "Morgan L/N. There's a body at The Seven Seas Motel." Dexter pauses and looks down at me and back up at them before taking off. I shrug and catch up to him before he can fully leave the scene.

"Hey—Dexter, right? Mind if I catch a ride? Since we're going to the same place anyway." He looks at me for a moment. He's probably asking himself why I can't just drive there myself. I hope he doesn't ask. I can't tell what he's thinking, but something is turning his mental gears. "I won't talk, promise," I add jokingly.

He half smiles, I think, and leads me to his car. The car ride is eerily silent. I try to look around, but I'm afraid that he'll think I'm looking for something if I do, so instead I keep my eyes fixated on the road and rub my fingers against a small area of my throat.

Dexter glances over at me, but if he has something to tell me, he doesn't say it out loud. We whip past the slums of deep Miami, empty alleyways still managing to look haunting even during dawn, overweight older men flashing their gold teeth and rotten gums, slender sexy ladies flipping their hair or throwing themselves at the nearest Porsche, and finally, a big-ass crime scene at a tacky motel.

Dexter and I make our way out of the car and through the piling of cops outside, pulling black vinyl gloves on, until he's stopped by Vince, or as everyone else knows him, Masuka. "What are you doing here?" He says to Dexter, who looks at him pointedly, like he was waiting for Masuka to realize how dumb that sounded.

"It's a crime scene?" Dexter says.

"Yeah, but there's no blood."

For a second, I believe Dex zoned out, his facial muscles contorting ever so slightly before returning to normal, something unreadable beneath his calm exterior. "Are you okay?" I ask him, and he quickly looks at me and then back at Masuka, who leads both of us to the body. He and Angel lift the cover over the body, revealing pieces of flesh completely drained of all of its blood.

I look over the body parts that aren't fully wrapped for evidence yet.

"How does a killer get rid of all the blood..." Dexter says haphazardly out loud, like he meant to say it in his head.

"It's hard to say, especially since the body is in good shape." Angel retorts.

"No prints either," Masuka says, further adding to the confusion.

"It's very clean. Near surgical cuts... looks like he didn't have time to finish though." I say, pointing to the unfinished cut on the victim's upper left thigh.

"Right. Which means it's possible he was interrupted. LaGuerta's working on finding a witness." Angel says.

I look over my shoulder at LaGuerta fraternizing with other cops and some reporters just itching to find a way in. I walk away from the scene to go and look around the rest of the motel.

I peek into any window, seeing if it's possible that someone could've seen something from their bedroom, but all I'm met with are off-white, barely even white actually, blinds with untouched rings of dust on them. I get to a half-open door and push it open to see a taller woman that I recognize seeing once or twice but have never actually had a real conversation with. "Don't look at me like that. It's a disguise." She says. Officer Debra Morgan.

"I wasn't going to question you, Debra." I say, leaning on the doorframe. She's a little taller than me with her heels on and has this air of confidence wafting around her. She meets my eyes, at first with a snarky look, and then she laughs.

"Well, you never fucking know, you know?" She says, blowing an exhale of smoke out as she speaks. Her heels clack on the grimy, off-white linoleum as she switches her weight onto her other foot. "Who are you anyways? One of LaGuerta's?"

I crack a smile at her. "As if I'd be caught dead running orders for anyone at Miami Metro. I'm simply just a TCST. Y/N L/N. However, I've been working closely with you guys as of late; Miami is just more lively than my home office in Ft. Lauderdale." She ashes out her cigarette in an ashtray and comes to stand by me. I turn, and we both look out at the crime scene unfolding before us.

"I haven't seen you up until now." She says to me.

"I lurk. Quiet. I don't like drawing too much attention to myself, you know? It puts you in a position of vulnerability." I say coolly, not noticing how weird that sounds to just say out loud to someone. Instead of being thrown off, however, Debra just smiles at me and walks off to the rest of the officers.

"You're right." She says, not turning to look back at me, and then she disappears into the clutter of cops.

I catch Dexter before he manages to leave. "Could you drop me home?" I see his face; it says, 'Not really, I don't even know who you are.' But his mouth comes out with a different set of words.

"Sure," he says, but the hesitation in his voice sounds louder than the word itself.

"There’s poetry in murder… and I think he’s been writing me a love letter." ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡… 𝐲/𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐦𝐚 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡, 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐬𝐜𝐭, 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭. 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝. 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞: 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐨𝐛, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬.

𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐲/𝐧 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫… 𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡.

𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫. 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝—𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

✦ prologue : first kill

✦ c. one : bleach & bloodstains

✦ c. two : whites on delicate

✦ c. three : anonymous 

✦ c. four : perfect stranger

✦ c. five : muscle memory

✦ c. six : afterburn

✦ c. seven : crossfade

✦ c. eight : weight

Description: There’s blood on the beach. Not a crime of passion, but something arranged—deliberate. You clean the scene while Dexter stares like he's been here before. Then you find a paper buried in the sand, one word etched on it: Angel. It's the second time this week. The word follows you all the way to Debra’s house, clinging to you. And in the morning, something new is waiting. Taunting. Word Count: 1.5k

The beach air stings my nose. The salt, the children laughing, the ocean crashing against shore. I step out of the car and take in the scene.

Debra’s already ten paces ahead, barking at a patrol officer while sipping the last of her lukewarm coffee. She’s recently been promoted, I’m happy for her. She flips her hair over her shoulder and curses out another officer as they’re snickering behind her back. I hang back, trailing behind.

It’s early, too early. Miami hasn’t woken up yet. But the beach is already awake. As usual. Tourists are usually out exactly at 9 am, taking over the beach in swarms and won’t leave until it rains or sundown.

There’s a body—or rather, a piece of it. It was arranged. Posed. A hand stood delicately upright on a towel, blood staining the light blue cloth. The photos haven’t started yet. Forensics is still whispering about angles and lighting. I spot Dexter nearby and walk beside him and Batista. 

“So, how long you think it’s been there?” Batistia asks, the sun forcing his face to scrunch.

“This feels familiar.” Dexter looks off into the distance, his eyes scanning the beach and its entirety.

“Okay. So, how long has it been there?” Batista asks again, this time without the jokiness in his voice.

“Blood stopped pooling, still wet… couple hours at the most.” Dexter says. I zone him out, there’s blood and the hand is male. They’ve been tailing the ITK for a while now and this doesn’t seem anything like them.

I walk away and wait until Dexter is done with Batista. “What do you mean familiar?” I say to him.  

He turns to look and me and raises and eyebrow. “This looks like Rand Beach.” He says. 

“Uh, it used to be. They renamed it Petrie Beach.” I see him replaying something in his head, whatever it is I back away, slowly, and find myself bumping into Batista. “Oops I’m so sorry.”

He just smiles at me and shakes his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Look at this though.” He points to the sand near the crime scene. A paper is crumpled up and hidden underneath, I take it out and it has a simple word on it.

‘Angel.’

“Oooh maybe it’s meant for youuuuuuu Batista.” He shrugs and laughs at me.

“Yeah right. I was thinking some lonely guy had a bad confession. I don’t think our killer is the ‘hide the clues and leave’ type, clearly.” He says. I agree with him but I just smile and leave him with the paper. 

‘Angel… where does that keep coming from?…’ I think to myself. I walk off the scene and get into my car, time to get my actual job over with.

Eventually after everything has cleared out, the cop crew long gone, and now it’s just the help, I sit in my car. Do I leave the beach or do I stay here and thinking about life or something. I start the engine and pull off. Straight to Debra’s house.

When I get there she’s half in pajama bottoms and her other half in just her bra. She leans on the doorframe. “How’d you know I wasn’t at work.” She asks.

“LaGuerta has Doakes there. I figured you’d go home.” She allows me inside, I slide my shoes off at her door and catch myself yawning in the middle of it. Cleaning the crime scene took me out, not because it was inherently a mess but because passerby’s screaming at the sight of blood and complaining about a quarter of the beach being sectioned off takes a toll on you after 2 hours or so.

Debra disappears into the kitchen without saying much. I follow the faint sound of a cupboard slamming shut and glass against the counter.

“You want tequila or whiskey?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Vodka,” I say, easing onto her couch.

She snorts. “Figures, but that wasn’t an option.”

The living room is dim—just the flicker of a muted TV casting shapes on the wall. I stare at them for a second, my mind comes up with nothing. When Debra hands me a mug, it smells like whiskey and something else. I don’t ask.

She plops down beside me, one leg tucked under the other, a cigarette already between her fingers. “So what’s up?”

“I feel like I’m being stalked. I know it sounds crazy but I can’t help but feel like there’s an overwhelming presence around me. At all times.” Debra peers over my shoulder and fights a laugh. “Do you not believe me?” I say, a little shocked at her laughter.

“No, I do. Whatever it is though, I’d rather it stay the fuck away from my house.” I smile with her and we begin to giggle together. “In all seriousness, you’re free to stay over tonight if staying home is uncomfortable.”

I lock eyes with her. Thankful. My smile falters and falls into a questioning look. “You are closer to Miami Metro….” I pause, “As long as I get to steal from your clothes, then I’m down.” She rolls her eyes at me.

“Fine.” Debra nudges my shoulder with hers and stands. “C’mon. I’ll grab you something to sleep in.”

I follow her down the hallway, watching the way she walks in confident strides. She disappears into her bedroom and rustles around in a drawer. A soft T-shirt gets tossed my way. It smells like detergent and maybe a little like her. I change in the bathroom, wipe my makeup off with a hand towel, and take my hair out of its updo and run my fingers through it.

The tile is cold against my feet, the AC is on bitingly cold conditions. When I finally decide to step out of the bathroom, it’s quiet, and the house is still. The only sound is the TV running on some sitcom on the lowest volume and wind slightly blowing into the house from a cracked out window.

I shuffle over to the couch and wrap myself in the spare blanket Debra left out. She’s on the end of the couch, already fast asleep and I sprawl out slightly on the opposite end of her. 

I lie and stare at the ceiling. I observe the way the fan rotates and use it as some type of method to lull me to sleep. Eventually my eyes grow heavy and the last thing on my mind buries itself there as an ever-growing thought.

‘Angel.’

When I wake again the sky outside is a hazy blue, darks mix with brights to create the streamlined light coming through the window. My eyes pan over across from me and Debra is nowhere to be seen. The pipes under the house groan and running water can be heard down the hall. 

I rub my eyes as I sit upright, my head spinning possibly from thinking too much all night. I feel the tingling anxiety crawl up my arms as memories of yesterday threaten to overwhelm me. Nonetheless, I push it down when I hear the bathroom door open and wet-haired Debra steps out in just her underwear. “Oh you’re awake. Are you coming to the station today? Guerta’s on my fucking ass so I have to be there 3 hours earlier than my shift for some bullshit reports.” She pauses to grab a brush from inside the bathroom before she comes out to continue.

“If you want to stay I don’t mind that either, I can just give you my spare—“ 

“No it’s fine, thanks Deb. I think I’ll head home, I don’t wanna feel like I’m intruding.” I say getting up and picking up my bag and walking to the front door. She looks at me like I’m crazy and then walks into her bedroom. When she finally comes back out there’s a small folded stack in her hands.

“Here, wear this next time you come to the department. It’s an upgrade from whatever the fuck you’re always wearing.” She says. I scoff at her and she just smiles at me and nudges her hands out once more.

I take the clothes from her and slide on my shoes. “We’ll see what happens. Thanks though. See you soon.” With that I walk out the door and start towards my car, I throw my things on the passenger side and sidle into the drivers side. I catch glimpse of Debra waving at me through the door and then she closes it.

The ride home is feels like a few seconds even though it was 20 minutes or more. I kill the engine in my car and grab my stuff out the passengers seat. As I walk up the stairs, the feeling of dread feels like it’s only 3 steps behind me, and it only gets worse when I reach my front door.

When I step inside my home it feels like the energy has shifted. Everything is in the place I left it but something still feels like it doesn’t belong. I cautiously look around, hand on an imaginary gun holster and eyes scanning the walls. 

I lower my defensive stance when I  walk into the kitchen and make eyes with a pink sticky note on my fridge. I didn’t leave it here.

“I missed you last night.”