The apartment feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against the ears until every breath sounds like an accusation. The argument still hangs in the air between you—something stupid, small, blown out of proportion by stubbornness and exhaustion. A forgotten call. A comment taken the wrong way. Two days of clipped replies and careful distance, like you’re both handling something fragile that might shatter if touched wrong.

Dexter stands a few feet away, hands flexing at his sides. He’s been pacing—subtle, measured steps, like he’s trying to burn off a nervous energy he doesn’t quite understand. His eyes keep flicking to you and then away again, guilt tightening his jaw. He opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again.

“I’ve replayed it,” he says finally, voice low, careful. “Over and over. Every version ends with me realizing I was wrong.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The silence does it for you.

That’s when he exhales, something soft and almost defeated, and crosses the distance between you. Without warning, without ceremony, Dexter slides down onto his knees in front of you. The movement is so un-Dexter that it steals the breath from your chest. One moment he’s standing there, controlled and guarded, and the next he’s kneeling like this is the only position that makes sense.

He tips his head forward until his forehead brushes your stomach, then settles his chin there instead. Warm. Solid. Grounding. His hands hover for a second before resting lightly at your hips, as if asking permission even now.

He looks up at you with those earnest, dark eyes—wide, apologetic, painfully sincere. It’s ridiculous, really, how much he resembles a chastised puppy in this moment. The world’s most dangerous man, reduced to this.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. Then again, softer. “I’m really sorry.”

His thumb makes a small, absent-minded circle against your side, a nervous habit. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never do. I just… sometimes I miss things. Important things. And when you pulled away, I panicked.” A faint, self-deprecating huff of air leaves him. “Which, apparently, makes me worse at communicating. Not better.”

He swallows, gaze never leaving your face. “You matter to me. More than I’m good at saying. More than I’m good at showing.” His chin presses a little more firmly against you, grounding himself. “I hate knowing I’m the reason you’re upset. I hate even more that I let something stupid put distance between us.”

There’s vulnerability here—real, raw, unguarded. No jokes. No deflection. Just Dexter, kneeling at your feet, looking at you like you’re the one thing he can’t afford to lose.

“So,” he murmurs, a hopeful softness creeping into his tone, “if you’re willing… I’d like the chance to make it right.”