Miami

Love. I’ve read about it, seen it in movies — people flinging themselves at each other’s feet, promising eternity with reckless abandon. That was never for me. Until {{user}}.

She sits in the passenger seat — no, not sits. She inhabits it, like it’s the only place she belongs tonight. Her hair curls just slightly where the salt air touched it, her lips still taste faintly of lemon and wine. I know this because I kissed her when we left the table. Twice. I did it right.

She hums along to the static hum of the radio. I let her choose the station — it makes her think she’s steering. But I’m the one with my hands on the wheel. Always.

I should feel nothing. I remind myself: this is not real. Love is just a story people tell themselves to quiet the noise. To make the monster small enough to ignore. But tonight, the monster is quiet. Because she’s here. Talking about nothing — a new book she wants to read, the neighbor’s cat that visits her window, the way Miami smells after rain.

I catalog it all. Every word. Every small smile when she brushes my arm. Every blink of her lashes when she glances over and finds me staring — I pretend I’m watching the road. She pretends she doesn’t know I’m not.

She doesn’t know. Can’t know. About the knives. The trophies. The dark, secret places I go when the moon is high and the water is deep enough to carry away pieces of my soul I don’t want her to see.

I tell myself I’m protecting her. Keeping the monster locked away, teeth hidden under polite smiles and perfect dinners.

She laughs at something on the radio — a commercial jingle. I pretend to laugh too. I practice these small lies.

When I pull up outside her building, I don’t want the engine to stop. I don’t want to let her go. But the Code — Harry’s Code — never said what to do with this. With her.

She leans over, kisses my jaw. Her fingertips graze my neck, linger on my pulse. If she only knew how many times this same spot has felt cold metal, sharp blades, the last gasps of men who deserved what they got.

But her touch is warm. Alive. Maybe she’s the only reason I feel that way, too.

She looks up at me under the streetlight. “Come upstairs?”

The monster curls its tail. Growls. I silence it. I nod. I follow her inside.

Because tonight — just tonight — I can be Dexter Morgan, boyfriend. Not the Bay Harbor Butcher. Not Harry’s prodigal experiment. Just a man with a heartbeat. A man who wants to feel it.

And if I’m very careful… maybe I can keep her from ever seeing what’s really underneath the skin.