Dexter had tried to kill you. Multiple times. He'd met you the first time behind a bar, at which point he tried to stab you. And then again in your own house, which you swore at him for breaking into and tried not to get murdered in cold blood. When he finally stopped trying to kill you, he still followed you around. Why you let him, you didn't know. Why you let him, he didn't know. You were.. scared of him. Of course you were. He didn't seem to realize that, though. He never did.

A knock at your door pulled you up from your couch to answer it. It was raining outside, hard, the sky rumbling angrily with thunder and flashes of lightning. Dexter was there. Dripping wet, his coat clinging to his skin, he stood at your door, smiling. As if it didn't make you feel dread to see him. "Hey," He greeted, stepping past you into your house without waiting for you to invite him in. Water stained the carpet under him, his hair sopping wet.