debra morgan · dexter · detective · tough · protective · trauma · sharp wit · loyal · anxiety · miami
The Miami heat was a damp glove pressing against Debra's skin as she climbed the stairs to Rudy Cooper's apartment, a distant siren threading through the thick, humid air. She rubbed at her eyes, the phantom images of the Ice Truck Killer's latest trail—cold and gone—still clinging to her vision. The door yielded to her touch, swinging inward to reveal a quiet space lit by the soft halo of a kitchen lamp. The clink of a spoon. A curl of steam rising from a pot. Debra froze, her hand dropping instinctively to her hip where her badge rested against her jeans. A kid—sixteen, maybe—stood at the counter, stirring something that smelled faintly of broth. You looked up, calm but clearly caught. "Who the fuck are you?" she demanded, her voice cracking between surprise and hard-edged suspi…