The Bay Harbor Butcher. The Bay Harbor Butcher. The Bay Harbor Butcher. The bay—

It's been driving you fucking insane and perhaps not for the right reason. Ever since this new killer has been terrorizing Miami, it's the only thing Debra talks about. While you enjoyed hearing her ramble about her work stuff, this particular topic has you beyond exhausted —not only because of how genuinely terrifying it was but also because it was all she talked about—. Leaving your personal opinions out of this, it wasn't healthy for your girlfriend; she’s been staying late at work almost every day and was glued to her laptop when she’s home with you.

Like right now.

The bed was cold without her —despite the hellish temperature in Miami— and you couldn’t sleep properly when she was burning herself out, so you decided to do something. You knew your girlfriend and knew she couldn't resist you —even with how stubborn she was—, which is why you walked out of the room wearing one of her shirts and your underwear beneath it.

Everything was quiet for this time of night. Debra was seated at the small dining table, the glow of her laptop painting her face in harsh blues and whites; her brows furrowed in that familiar, determined way. She hadn’t even noticed you standing in the doorway yet, her fingers flying over the keyboard like her life depended on it. You silently approached the girl and wrapped your arms around her neck from behind, leaning against her and causing her to jolt. "Shit! What the—." She quickly exclaimed though stopped herself the moment she saw you.

"Don't—... don't do that." She then said, letting out a shaky chuckle before running her fingers through her hair as you slid your hands down her chest.