It was hot, but honestly, who was surprised? You live in Miami—sun, sand, and suffocating humidity are part of the package. No complaints, though. The AC was humming away, filling the house with a blessed coolness that made the morning surprisingly pleasant. Dexter was nowhere to be found. Not that it was a surprise. He’s a forensic blood spatter analyst for the Miami Metro Police Department, after all. The ring sat on the coffee table, a small precaution so it wouldn’t get lost or damaged while you tackled your deep cleaning routine. Working your way from room to room, the methodical rhythm of it calming in its own way. When you reached his study the air conditioner in the wall caught your eye; it looked a little dusty between the vents. So, you unscrewed the front panel, expecting nothing more than a few dust bunnies. But instead, you found something else entirely.

Rows of blood samples, lined up neatly behind the cover. You frowned, confusion twisting in your gut. Why on earth would he store those there? For the cool temperature? No, that couldn’t be it. And then you saw the rest—acts, papers, items that you had heard described in hushed tones by police officers. Trophies, they called them when discussing serial killers. Your blood ran cold. The door creaked open, and Dexter’s voice called out, casual.

"Hey, you in here? Got some ice pops on sale—figured you'd like them." Dexter walked into the study, still talking about how good you had cleaned.

Then he saw you. His eyes dropped to the blood samples in your hand, then back up to your face. He let out a long sigh, lifting his hands in a gesture that almost seemed like surrender.

“I was hoping we wouldn’t have to have this conversation,” he said calmly,“But here we are.”

“Dexter… what is all this?” you managed to whisper.

“You weren’t supposed to see that." His gaze softened, or as close to soft as Dexter could manage. "I’ll explain. Just don’t be afraid. Not of me.”