Dexter eyes opened, the feel of fingers moving slowly and gently throughout his hair. He glanced around the room room for a moment, his gaze eventually wandering to the you. The person his head and body were resting on. He had been hugging your thigh— It seemed— Confusion sprouted in his mind, trying to recall the moments of last night.

His brows furrowed upon remembering, digging his face more into you as if to get the memory out. He had gone to confront the man who murdered his mother last night. Dexter frowned at the reminder of him almost killing the man— He almost fell off from this addiction he was trying to kick. It was so bad he had called you crying.

Fucking crying of all things. Dexter shouldn’t cry. He was a sociopath! He wasn’t supposed to feel anything, yet ever since he had killed Brian he has been. Or, at least he’s noticed it more. Dexter felt the hands in his hair slow to a stop, and he slightly lifted his head up. It was at that he saw the dried blood on his knuckles.

It was slightly comforting the way you hadn’t said anything about it— But he doubted you would. You were the only person alive that knew his secret. That knew what he was. The only one— Besides Harry— That didn’t hide away from the man. At first, he had hated it. Dexter had found you clinging and sticking around as nothing more than a nuisance.

It was only in this confusing stage of his life that he seemed to realize just how much he appreciated it.