Synopsis: dexter shows reader around his place and gets her settled in.
Dexter unlocked the door with the easy muscle memory of routine. The apartment was clean, sparsely furnished, and quiet. Nothing fancy. Just walls, shelves, and shadows. But tonight, it felt different. She stepped inside behind him, carrying her bag while he held the cat carrier. She didnât speak, just looked around quietly, her eyes scanning the space as if memorizing it for escape routes.
âHome sweet home,â he said, setting the carrier gently on the floor.Â
She nodded, the strap of her bag still clutched in her hand like she wasnât sure she was really allowed to set it down yet.
He pointed toward the hallway. âThe roomâs down the hall. Youâll sleep there.â
Her eyes flew to his. âWait what?â
âIâll take the couch.â
âNo, Dexter, Iâm not kicking you out of your own-â
âHey,â he said, calmly but firmly. âPlease stop. Just⌠let someone take care of you for once.â
That stopped her cold.
For a few seconds, she just stared at him. The look on her face was unreadable surprise, maybe. A little sadness. Gratitude, definitely. But also something else. Something deeper. She nodded slowly.
âOkay.â
She was always the one picking up the pieces. Even at workâalways deflecting, always absorbing the blow. But she was unraveling now, piece by piece, and I didnât want to watch.
âIf you want to grab a shower,â he added, gesturing down the hall, âIâll make dinner. Any requests?â
She shook her head. âNo. Iâm easy.â
He nodded once. âHowâs steak?â
âThat sounds perfect,â she said, voice softer now.
He watched her retreat down the hall, bag slung over one shoulder, the soft thud of the bathroom door closing behind her. There was a pause. Then the click of the lock. He stood in place for a moment, the cat meowing low from the carrier. Dexter let Pickles out and watched as the orange tabby strutted into the living room like he owned it.
Typical.
She mustâve packed bowls because he found them in the side pouch. He filled one with water, the other with dry food, and set them near the kitchen entrance. Pickles immediately dug in with noisy satisfaction. The shower started behind the closed door. A soft hiss, then a rhythm. He could hear her moving around. A soft bump against the wall.
Crying. I imagined the water falling across her bare skin, across her neck and shoulders. The image struck harder than I liked. I turned away. Focused on the steak.
The pan sizzled. He seasoned everything by habit, movements sharp and mechanical. Focused. Controlled. He was good at blocking things out. But tonight, for some reason, it was harder. She came out fifteen minutes later. Fresh-faced. No makeup. Hair wet and curling around her jawline. Her cheeks were still flushed, and her eyes looked glassy, but she wasnât trying to hide it anymore. Dexter looked up from the stove, and froze.
Iâd never seen her without the armor. Just soft skin and wide eyes and long lashes still damp at the edges. She looked more beautiful than Iâd ever seen her. Not because she was trying. Because she wasnât.
They ate in silence at first. She poked at her steak, trying not to look as uncomfortable as she clearly felt. Her shoulders were drawn up tight. Her mouth moved like she wanted to say something, but she didnât. Dexter watched her quietly from across the table. Then he set his fork down.
âYou donât need to act like this is normal,â he said, voice low but steady. âI know itâs not. I know this is uncomfortable for you. Letting someone help.â
Her gaze lifted slowly, caught off guard.
âBut I need you to let it go,â he continued. âJust for now. You donât have to fix anything. You donât have to perform. You can just⌠be safe.â
She blinked, lips parting, but no words came out.
She didnât expect kindness. That was obvious. She could dish it out, offer it to anyone else in the room without hesitation, but when it came back to her. She didnât know where to put it.
After a beat, he picked up his knife again and added casually, âBesides, Pickles has already decided this is his house now. I caught him licking my toothbrush earlier. Itâs too late.â
Her eyes widened. âWait, seriously?â
Dexter shrugged. âLooked me dead in the eye while doing it.â
She stared at him for a second then burst out laughing. Loud. Breathless. She slapped her hand over her mouth.
âOh my God, Dexter.â
He chuckled. âIâm serious.â
âYou are not. Oh my God.â
She laughed like it cracked something open inside her, the kind of laughter that comes when youâve been holding your breath for too long and finally exhale.
She wiped at her eyes, face flushed. âI needed that.â
He nodded. âSo did Pickles. I threw out the toothbrush.â
She laughed harder, wiping tears away with the sleeve of her oversized hoodie. Her hair was still damp, clinging to her face, and her eyes had that bright, glassy shine that always appeared when she truly let go.
She looked like herself again. Raw, real, radiant without trying. And the warmth in my chest, the unfamiliar one that kept returning around herâŚIt flared again, like it had been waiting.
It always caught her off guard when she laughed. It came in gasps, loud and almost childlike. Her eyes watered instantly, and her whole face turned red. She wiped at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve, still giggling.
âJesus, Iâm sorry,â she said between breaths. âI cry when I laugh. Itâs a thing. My tear ducts are drama queens.â
âIâve noticed.â
âYouâve noticed?â
âYou do it every time.â
She laughed again this time quieter. Softer. She smiled, really smiled, and it changed the entire shape of the room. When they finished, she reached for her plate, but Dexter was faster. He stood and picked it up without asking.
âYou should get some rest,â he said. âIâll be just in the other room if you need anything.â
She stood too, voice gentler now. âDexâŚâ
He stood, picking up their plates. âGo get some rest. Iâll clean up.â
âI feel like I should help-â
âDonât.â
Her smile returned, softer this time. âOkay.â
âThank you,â she said, quietly. Genuinely. âFor all of this.â
He nodded. âGoodnight, kid.â
She took her bag and disappeared down the hall. The door shut. She leaned her head against it for a moment, eyes closed, breathing out the last of the eveningâs tension. Then she let Pickles hop onto the bed, set down his dishes, and curled up beside him under Dexterâs sheets. She inhaled. His scent was on the pillow, clean, crisp, just a little warm. She buried her face in it, clutching the blanket to her chest. Pickles circled once and settled at the crown of her head.
And slowly, finally, she slept. Sometime after midnight, Dexter opened the door just enough to peek in. The room was dark, quiet. Her form was curled beneath the sheets, hair sprawled across the pillow like flame. Pickles opened one eye at him and blinked slowly, then went back to sleep. Dexter stood there for a moment, watching.
She was safe. For now. And something in me, something old and sharp and knotted, softened. Just enough to make room for the possibility that I could be the reason someone else finally felt safe, too.
listen alright when I say I ship something I mean I SHIP it I mean that when I see content for it I start vibrating and have to take a lap around my room I mean that I fall asleep thinking about them I mean that I listen to songs to see if it would fit their dynamic and then add it to their designated playlist I mean that I search EVERYWHERE for signs of them and when I find itâŚoooh when I find itâŚeveryone better watch out.
