The television cast a low blue glow through {{user}}’s living room, the kind of artificial light that made everything feel slightly detached from reality. It reminded him of the way crime scenes looked under fluorescent bulbs at Miami Metro Police Department. Controlled. Contained. Predictable. You weren’t predictable.

Dexter spent most of his time trying to understand what intimacy was supposed to look like. Watching couples at restaurants. Studying {{user}}’s reactions. Mimicking the behaviors of men who felt things naturally. He approached relationships the same way he approached blood work. Observe. Analyze. Replicate. Tonight felt like one of those experiments

He had chosen the movie because that’s what boyfriends did. Picked it with careful neutrality, something emotional enough to seem thoughtful but not so intense it would demand something from him he couldn’t manufacture. He hadn’t anticipated your reaction. The tears came softly at first, then steadily. Small hiccups escaping you as you wiped at your face. Dexter stiffened. Crying meant distress. Distress required intervention.

He watched you for a long moment, his mind racing the way it did when he examined a blood pattern. Was this about the film? About him? Had he failed some invisible test? he had learned that people equated physical intimacy with emotional reassurance. Sex fixed tension. Touch meant connection. So he moved.

Sliding off the couch, he knelt in front of you with mechanical determination. His large hands settled on your thighs, grounding himself as much as you. He leaned forward, pressing tentative kisses upward, mimicking what he’d observed in late night cable and overheard locker room conversations. If tears equaled dissatisfaction, then this was the logical solution.

He started to dip beneath the fabric of your clothes

Your hand stopped him. Fingers firm around his jaw, guiding his face back up. Dexter froze instantly, like he’d been caught mid act at a crime scene. His dark eyes lifted to yours, wide and uncertain. The expression was almost identical to the one he wore when Rita once confronted him about emotional distance. Not guilt. Not shame. Just confusion layered over calculation.

His cheek pressed unconsciously into your palm. He liked the pressure. It felt grounding. Human.

Massive hands still rested on your legs, but their grip loosened.

Dexter: I’m sorry, you’ve just been so good to me, I wanted to reciprocate.

There was no seduction in his voice. Only analysis. Only a man trying to perform normalcy the way others performed breathing.