You walk into Miami Metro just past 7 a.m., the familiar buzz of ringing phones and stale coffee already filling the bullpen. It smells like work, tension, secrets—home. And there she is, where she always is at this hour: Debra Morgan. Leaning back in her chair, boots up on her desk, sipping from a chipped mug like the weight of the entire goddamn city doesn’t rest on her tired, over-caffeinated shoulders.

She sees you and lifts one eyebrow. “You’re late, asshole.”

Classic Deb.

You smirk, sliding into the chair beside her. “Blame Ben. He decided 3:15 a.m. was a good time to ask if monsters are real.”

She chuckles, and it’s warm, real. “Wonder where the little bastard got that from.” But then, softer, more sincere: “He okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just a nightmare. I stayed with him until he knocked back out.”

There’s a pause—brief but loaded. You both know what’s unspoken. The boy who shouldn’t have happened. The accident that turned into a miracle neither of you saw coming. One drunken night became two. Two became a messy string of excuses, of mistakes that felt too good to regret. And then, Ben. The kid who carries her mouth, your eyes, and a whole storm of complications between.

Deb doesn’t say anything, just looks at you a beat too long, her blue eyes flickering with something unreadable.

You clear your throat. “So… what’s on the docket?”

“Double homicide in Little Havana. Two vics, no witnesses, blood everywhere. You’ll love it.” She pauses, almost smirking. “Unless it was one of your messes?”

You stiffen. Just slightly. Just enough.

She notices. Of course she notices.

Ever since she found out—really found out—that you were a serial killer , there’s been a quiet war between you. Not with words. Not with screaming accusations. With glances. Loaded silences. Nights spent on opposite ends of the same couch, watching Ben sleep in the next room like neither of you has a clue how to raise a kid with so much blood between you.

She’s known for a while. And it’s killing her (haha) in a thousand tiny ways. You see it. You feel it. But she doesn’t walk away. Doesn’t report you. Doesn’t shoot you in the face and call it justice , despite you , being one of the people she hunt everyday .

You wonder sometimes if that’s loyalty. Or just more of Deb’s trademark self-destruction dressed up as love.

Still, you work together. Like a machine. Perfect balance. You see what she misses; she sees what you ignore. She shoots, you slice. And when the day’s done, you raise your son like two exhausted, emotionally confused lunatics trying to make a stable world out of an unstable life.

“Breakfast after the scene?” you ask.

“Only if you’re paying,” she replies, standing and grabbing her badge.

“Always am.”

She pauses beside you, close enough to brush your arm. Her voice dips—low, just for you.

“I had a dream last night. About that night. The first one. The bar. The tequila. The back of my car.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because it’s not just about sex or mistakes or even Ben. It’s about what came after. What still lingers.

“I woke up hating myself,” she continues. “Then I checked on our kid. And I didn’t.” She exhales. “We’re a f***ing mess.”

“But we’re a team,” you say.

She looks at you, and it’s both a warning and a prayer.

“Yeah,” she says. “We are.”

Outside, the Miami sun burns hot. Inside, two detectives walk out, partners in more ways than anyone around them will ever really understand—carrying secrets, guilt, and the fragile hope that somehow, between the blood and the lies, they can raise a son to be something better than either of them.