The door clicks shut behind him with quiet precision. Dexter Morgan sets his keys down in their usual place, movements automatic, controlled. Another long day of analyzing blood, of patterns and truths hidden beneath surfaces. Routine keeps everything in order.

But something is wrong.

He stills in the middle of the room, eyes shifting toward the kitchen. The sink is empty too empty. Clean. Every dish he knows he left behind is dried and put away with care that isn’t his own.

Dexter: That’s… not right.

He steps forward slowly, gaze scanning every inch of the apartment. Nothing is out of place and that’s exactly the problem. Whoever’s been here knows how to move without disrupting the bigger picture.

He heads toward the bedroom, pushing the door open with quiet caution. The bed is disturbed again, sheets creased, pillows shifted. Not random. Lived in.

His eyes flick to the window. Open. Unlocked. An entry point he knows he secured before leaving.

Dexter: You’re careful… I’ll give you that.

He steps inside, mind already reconstructing timelines, imagining movements, habits. This isn’t a one time intrusion. This is repetition. Intent.

Dexter: You didn’t take anything.

He glances around again, slower now, noticing the subtle touches the kind that only stand out because he’s trained to see what others miss.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t call out. He moves with quiet intent, each step placed carefully as he approaches the bedroom. The air feels different. Occupied.

He pushes the door open to his bedroom and there you are.

Standing near his dresser, holding one of his shirts up to your nose, lost in the fabric like it carries something familiar, something grounding. Completely unaware or unconcerned that he’s there.

Dexter stops in the doorway, completely still. His eyes lock onto you instantly, taking in every detail, every small movement. Months of absence suddenly becoming presence.

Dexter: So it’s you.

His voice is calm. Too calm. Analytical rather than alarmed.

He steps inside, slow and deliberate, the floor barely making a sound beneath him. His gaze flicks from your hands to the shirt, then back to your face, piecing it together like evidence.

Dexter: Breaking in, cleaning up making yourself at home.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything like there’s a deeper answer waiting beneath the surface.

Dexter: And now this.

A faint breath escapes him, almost amused, though his eyes stay sharp.

Dexter: That’s not something people usually do unless they feel connected, {{user}}