To Die For → Derek Morgan

Eight

Josephine

Arriving in Ozona, Texas, there was one thing I couldn't shake: stress. It was gnawing at me, piece by piece, in ways I'd never let anyone see. This job—these people losing their families, their lives shattered—it was far more personal than the battlefield. Each face haunted me in ways I couldn't admit.

I stopped at the bottom of the local police department's steps as the team moved ahead. They turned toward me, concern flickering in their eyes. "Don't worry," I said quickly, forcing a smile. "Just need some fresh air."

"Flying makes me, you know, sick," I lied, hoping none of them could see through it—hoping Derek wouldn't see through it. He gave me a slight nod, reading me but saying nothing, before they all headed up the stairs. The second they were out of sight, I dug through my bag frantically. Where are they?

Finally. The familiar weight of the cigarette in my hand felt like a dirty little secret. It was a habit I hated, but it was the only thing that calmed the storm in my head. I brought it to my lips and lit up, inhaling the sharp, calming burn. The stress slowly unwound, soothed by the nicotine as the haze of worry dulled around the edges.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open behind me. I looked over my shoulder, the cigarette still between my fingers. Gideon and Reid stepped out, both catching me in the act. Great.

Gideon's eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he approached. "You know, everyone gets stressed. We all have our ways of coping."

Reid, as usual, chimed in, pushing his hair behind his ear. "Actually, nicotine triggers the release of dopamine in the brain, which creates a temporary sense of pleasure and relief from stress. But, of course, the effects are short-lived and can lead to dependency—"

Gideon gave him a sidelong glance, cutting off his lecture with a gentle look. "What Reid is trying to say is, you're not alone. We all deal with it differently. Just don't be too hard on yourself."

I nodded, feeling a little exposed, but somehow, they didn't make me feel worse.

"The group's split for now," Gideon said after a pause. "You can come with me, or if you'd rather..." He glanced toward the building. "Morgan and Reid are headed the other way, and JJ's staying here."

I stubbed out the cigarette, considering my options. This was going to be a long day.

I took one last, lingering breath before flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it under my boot. I could feel their eyes on me, not judging, but understanding in a way that almost made me uncomfortable. For a moment, I wasn't the fresh-faced coroner—someone new to the field. I was just another agent, trying to keep it together like the rest of them.

"Gideon," I said, breaking the silence. "I'll go with you."

He gave me a nod, his expression warm but unreadable, as always. Reid shot me a quick, almost awkward smile—like he wasn't quite sure how to handle the moment. Typical.

"You know," Reid started again, as we began walking toward Gideon's car, "people have been using nicotine to manage stress since the early 1600s. Of course, back then they had no idea about the long-term effects, but the immediate sense of relief was well-documented across different cultures—"

"Reid," Gideon said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "She gets it."

I smirked, despite myself. Reid's ramblings had always been oddly comforting. They reminded me that no matter how messed up things got, some people were still focused on the facts—on the world outside our heads.

"Sorry," Reid muttered, though he didn't seem offended. He glanced over at me, his curiosity piqued. "It's interesting how stress affects people differently. Some, like you, turn to cigarettes or physical coping mechanisms, while others—"