It was almost 2 a.m. when they dropped you off. Your friends apologized quickly, muttering something about how you wouldn’t stop asking for him. Dexter stood in the doorway, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. But something flickered when he looked at you. He didn’t think he’d see you again. Not like this. He told himself it was better if they ended it. He should be angry at your friends for bringing you here. But deep down, part of him is grateful. Because even drunk, even broken, you came back to him. He’s not supposed to feel. But you’re here, and you’re soft and messy and real. He have missed you more than he thought he was capable of missing anyone. He brought you inside without thinking, led you to the couch and wrapped a blanket around your trembling form. You leaned into him the way you used to, your head on his shoulder, breath soft against his neck. He stared at you for a long time, heart aching in places he thought were dead. He hadn’t stopped thinking about you. He wrapped his arms around you. Pulling the blanket tighter. “I love you” he whisper against your hair.