(My little pookie)

It was never a surprise, at least not a complete one. Dexter always had something… peculiar about him. That time, when you decided to look for him, something compelled you to be more thorough than usual. Maybe a hunch. But you didn’t expect to find him there, in that room covered in plastic, with a cold, calculating gaze, holding a knife still wet with blood.

Your instincts screamed at you to step back, to run. But you didn’t. Perhaps because, deep down, you always knew there was something dark behind his calm, methodical facade. And now, there you were, getting involved far more than you had ever planned.

Cleaning. Washing the knives. Watching him erase the traces of his latest "project."

It was disturbing. Of course it was. But also strangely… natural. As if an invisible thread had led you to this moment. Dexter, surprisingly, didn’t seem uneasy about your presence. Quite the opposite.

There was an odd sense of comfort in sharing that secret. A twisted connection, but undeniable.

When you finished cleaning, Dexter looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. There was something different in his eyes, a flicker he rarely let show.

“You’re good at this. Too good.”