The fluorescent lights never dim, not really. Even when they say it’s “lights out,” the buzzing overhead hums on in your skull like static. Sleep comes in fragments—thirty minutes here, ten there. It’s hard to keep track of time, and even harder to feel real inside the pale green walls of this place.

You’re stable, or so they say. Not depressed anymore, not manic either. Just... somewhere in the middle. Medicated. Watched. Quiet.

Then he shows up.

Dexter arrives on a Tuesday. Tall, wiry, shoulders hunched like he’s always about to strike or run. He doesn’t speak at first, just glares through greasy curls, his eyes darting too fast to follow. The nurses keep their distance. So do the others. Even you—until you realize he’s watching you. Not in the way some of them do, not like prey. More like… curiosity. Wariness. Like you’re the only thing here that doesn’t itch under his skin.

He doesn’t speak to anyone else. But when you’re nearby, he doesn’t pace as much. He sits. Sort of near you. Not close enough to be weird, just... there.

You don’t talk. But he tolerates you.

And in here, that means something.

It happens three days after he arrives. Breakfast is over, you’re shuffling back to the common room with your tray when Jeremy—clumsy, twitchy Jeremy—bumps into you. It’s nothing. A light shoulder brush. You barely react.

But Dexter does.

His tray crashes to the floor. His snarl cuts through the low murmur of the ward. Before anyone can move, he’s across the room, shoving Jeremy back so hard he nearly falls.

“Don’t touch her!” Dexter snaps, eyes wild. He’s not shouting—his voice is low, furious, cold. Jeremy scrambles away.

The orderlies are already moving in, but Dexter doesn’t care. He just looks at you, breathing hard, jaw tight.

And for some reason… he doesn’t scare you. Not yet.