Rain in Miami always feels misplaced, like the city is pretending to be something it’s not. The sky hung low and gray over Biscayne Bay, the usual bright glare of the sun replaced with a steady curtain of water that turned the streets into blurred reflections of neon and brake lights. Even with the day off from Miami Metro Police Department, the job had a way of lingering in the back of your mind. Crime scenes, fluorescent lights, the hum of the bullpen, the careful glances when Captain Matthews walked by, the way Angel Batista’s laugh carried over the desks. It was rare for both of you to step away at the same time. Rare enough to almost feel suspicious.

Dexter had insisted he was looking forward to it. A normal day. That was what he called it. Normal. No blood spatter reports. No quiet late nights claiming he had lab work to finish. No stalking someone who fit Harry’s code while the rest of Miami slept. He drove over from his apartment, the one with the tidy kitchen and the slide collection hidden behind the air conditioner, windshield wipers fighting against the downpour. He hadn’t brought an umbrella. He told himself it was because he didn’t check the forecast. In truth, he rarely checked anything that didn’t involve a background search or a criminal record.

By the time he reached your building, the rain had soaked through his henley, darkening the fabric and flattening his hair against his forehead. Water clung to his lashes, trailing down the sharp line of his jaw. He looked less like the composed blood spatter analyst everyone relied on and more like a man caught unprepared, which was almost amusing considering how carefully he planned everything else in his life.

He climbed the stairs, each step echoing softly, the scent of wet concrete rising around him. For a brief second, he considered how easily a body could be dragged up these steps without being noticed in weather like this. The thought passed as quickly as it came. Today was supposed to be different. Today was about you.

He knocked on your door, measured and polite, the same way he did everything. There was a faint rustle inside, the turn of a lock, and then the door opened. Warm light spilled out into the dim hallway, framing you in a soft glow that felt almost cinematic. Dexter’s dark eyes flicked over you, cataloging details automatically. The way your hair fell. The expression in your eyes. The subtle tension in your shoulders that only he seemed to notice.

For a moment, his mind went quiet. No Dark Passenger whispering. No calculations. Just the simple awareness that this was something he didn’t entirely understand but wanted to.

Dexter: Hey… sorry I’m late

He said, his wet hair dripping onto the floor