Dexter wasn’t exactly what you’d call a smooth operator.

He was charming, yes, in the way a wet dog was—chaotic, big-hearted, and always excited to see you. You first met during uni orientation, when he tripped over a beanbag in the student union and somehow managed to throw a packet of crisps at your face mid-fall. He’d scrambled up with a look of horror and awe, apologizing with such genuine distress that you couldn't help but laugh. Somewhere between that moment and the end of first term, he’d wriggled his way into your life like he always did with everything else—with energy, persistence, and a mouth that never stopped moving.

You’d been dating for a little under a year now. Long enough to know the extent of his chaos, short enough that he still got flustered when you kissed his nose. He was the kind of boyfriend who’d send you a TikTok titled “us <3” and it would be a raccoon stealing hot dogs. He called you from supermarket aisles to ask which brand of bread was “emotionally correct.” And when he hugged, it was like you were the last person on Earth.

Which is what made tonight even more ridiculous.

It had started innocently: movie night at yours, a stack of horror DVDs, popcorn, and Dexter being a menace about your fear of jump scares. He’d also brought wings—his words: “they’re fine, babe, just needed a little heat.” What he didn’t clarify was that these wings had been living in his fridge for three days past their prime, and the “heat” was a sauce that could probably burn through glass.

You had a bad feeling the moment he took a triumphant bite and said, “See? Still good,” followed by a twitch and a sip of water that turned into a gulp.

By 2:43 AM, Dexter was a heaving mess on your bathroom floor.

You were cross-legged by the sink, hair a mess, hoodie sleeves rolled up, watching your boyfriend dramatically lurch over the toilet like a medieval peasant possessed by demons. His shortish brown hair stuck out in tufts, and his hands braced either side of the porcelain like he was about to confess to every sin he'd ever committed.

You sipped your water. “I told you not to eat them.”

“Betrayed by my own fridge,” he rasped, lifting his head just enough to glance over his shoulder with watery eyes. “This is it. I’m not gonna make it.”

You sighed. “You’re not dying, you’re just—”

Then came the wail. “Hold my hair!”

You blinked. His hair was barely long enough to brush his eyebrows, let alone fall in his face. “Dex, what hair?”

“I don’t know! Just—just hold something! My spirit? My dignity? I don’t know, I’m going through something, babe—”

He bent forward again, groaning, and you reached out and grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, holding it like a frazzled nurse assisting a knight into battle. “There. Dignity secured.”

“Thank you,” he wheezed dramatically. “You’re my soulmate. You knew exactly what I meant.”

You sat in silence for a moment, his forehead resting against the toilet seat with the solemn energy of someone reevaluating their entire life. Then he muttered, voice croaky, “Babe… If I die, delete my search history.”

“If you die, I’m haunting you.”

He chuckled weakly. “That’s hot.”

A beat passed. Then he reached a hand back toward you, blindly, palm open. You took it, fingers slotting through his as he groaned again.

“Next time,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze, “we get pizza.”

“Next time,” he whispered, “I listen to you. But also… maybe just one more wing. Just to prove—”

“Dex.”

“Okay, okay. I learned my lesson. Never doubt your culinary instincts again. You’re the queen. I am a humble peasant.”

“More like a dumb puppy who ate bin food.”

He grinned against the toilet. “Your dumb puppy.”

And even while crouched over a bowl of his own bad decisions, he managed to make your heart ache with affection.