A picture of Brian. That’s all it took.

Dexter’s throat tightened, his pulse pounding in his ears as he stared at the image. The charming grin Brian had worn in life now felt like a cruel taunt. It was the face of the only person who had ever truly understood him. And he had killed him.

He couldn’t afford to lose it. Not here. Dexter stood abruptly, muttering something vague about needing air, once he reached his office, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it, his hands clawing at his face.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to hold back the tears, but it was useless. It all came pouring out—sobs, snot, drool, the works.

The guilt. The pressure. His failing relationship with his girlfriend. His inability to kill, his control slipping, the walls closing in. It was too much.

And then, a soft knock.

Dexter looked up, his breath hitching as he wiped furiously at his face, trying to mask the breakdown. The door creaked open, and there you were, the new detective with those damn puppy-dog eyes, bending down slightly to offer him a roll of toilet paper.

“Thanks.” Dexter mutters hoarse. For a moment, he hated you for it. For seeing him like this, for offering kindness he didn’t deserve.