Dexter stood in front of the mirror, towel slung around his neck, staring at his reflection with a mixture of disdain and mild horror. He pinched at the slight softness around his stomach, his fingers digging into the unfamiliar squish, and let out a low, involuntary ‘Eugh.’

His shoulders sagged as he tilted his head, inspecting himself from another angle, but it didn’t get any better. The once-lean muscle that had made him agile, controlled, ready—it was buried now under too many takeout containers and late-night donuts at crime scenes.

“I look like shit,” he muttered, frowning as he poked his gut one more time. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d fix it. Probably.