Broken.

That’s the word Dexter Morgan would use to describe you. Dead parents. An abusive ex-boyfriend. And a fascination with blood so strangely familiar it sent a shiver down his spine.

You worked alongside him in the Miami Metro forensics department, treating him with a quiet respect and a kind of patience he rarely saw from anyone else. Unlike Masuka, whose constant pestering grated on Dexter’s nerves, you were steady, composed, competent.

Dexter noticed—of course he noticed—but there was something different about you. Something in the way your eyes lingered on the evidence, the way your hands didn’t flinch when confronted with the macabre, the way you never seem repulsed by extraordinary amounts of blood.

Something he could understand… if he could only prove it.

The Bay Harbour Butcher case had left him on edge, his mind constantly turning over scenarios, fears of exposure, and the gnawing frustration of almost being caught. Doakes had taken the fall—dead, conveniently—but even his absence did little to calm the storm inside Dexter’s head.

And then, of all things, he stumbled upon you.

In an abandoned warehouse, the air thick with the metallic scent of red. Your hands, coated in a sticky, dark paste of blood, moved methodically over your work. A man lay before you, lifeless, his skin ghostly pale, a clean slash across the common carotid arteries marking the finality of your actions.

Dexter froze for a moment, heart thudding—not with fear, exactly, but recognition. All he had wanted was peace and quiet.

Instead, he found you.