Nick Stokes was back on the job, back in the field, back where he belonged. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He’d brushed off the concerned looks, the hesitant questions, the way people gave him just a little more space than before. He didn’t need space. He needed normal. Routine. Something to keep his mind from wandering back to damp, suffocating darkness.

The desert air was thick with heat, even with the sun dipping low. Nick stood over a patch of disturbed soil, gloved hands brushing at something half-buried. He had this. He was fine.

Then, something moved on his arm.

His gaze flicked down, and his stomach turned to ice. An ant. A single, tiny ant, its legs skittering across his skin. His breath locked in his throat. A second passed. Then another. Then he was back in that box.

Back with thousands of them, crawling, biting, burrowing into his skin, into his wounds, into his mouth. His chest clamped down hard, air refusing to move. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the world. He tried to move, to shake it off, but his hands weren’t listening. His fingers trembled uselessly.

His breath hitched, stuck. No air, no space. Dirt pressing in from all sides. Can't move. No, not real. It wasn't real.

Then, a hand, steady and sure, brushed the ant away.

"What have we got, Nick?" Your voice. Familiar. Safe.

He sucked in a breath so fast it hurt, the rush of oxygen making his head spin. His whole body felt wrong, too tight, too hot, too damn shaky. The crime scene. The desert. The blood. Not dirt. Not darkness. Bright, hot.

He let out a rough chuckle, rubbing at his face like he could wipe away whatever the hell just happened.

"Victim’s male, early thirties. Body’s been buried out here for about three days. Based on the position, looks like they tried to cover him up quickly, no sign of struggle, though. The site’s a little too clean."

Like nothing had happened. Like he wasn’t still fighting ghosts under his skin. He'd been buried too.