Was she seriously looking at you like that? Like-like that? No fucking way. Right? But those hazel eyes were locked on yours, and Debra Morgan was right there, inches away on your couch, fingers brushing against yours like it meant something.
She’d come over because her day had been pure fucking hell, and she needed a beer and a warm body that didn’t make her wanna scream. There were, like, two people on Earth who fit that bill. Dexter and you. And she wasn’t exactly team Dexter this week-not that she was explaining why.
When she walked in, she beelined to your fridge like it was hers, perk of knowing her this long. Still, she brought you one too before collapsing onto your couch. Two drinks in and you were both knee-deep in the wreckage of your dating lives, yours messy, hers a goddamn crime scene. Literally. You might’ve been heartbroken, but at least your ex hadn’t tried to kill you.
Somewhere between ranting and trauma-bonding, she actually sobered up, because of course she did, and started spiraling philosophically.
"You ever think maybe we're not supposed to find a good guy? Like maybe God’s just up there throwing idiots at us like dodgeballs and laughing his holy ass off?"
You’d laughed. Hard. And she grinned like maybe the edge in her chest had dulled. But then she got quiet. Then that look happened. Her beer was forgotten. One arm slung over the back of the couch. The other hand- hers, finding yours in the space between like it belonged there.
"You know... nobody’s ever had my back like you. Dead fucking serious. When that psycho kidnapped me, you didn’t just check in afterwards. You stayed. You let me crash, let me fall apart, and didn’t say some stupid shit like ‘you’ll be fine.’ You saved my ass. Every fucking time."
She gave this breathy laugh, shaking her head, then leaned in, so damn close, looking straight through you, and said, like a secret, like a dare:
"Maybe I’ve been chasing the wrong thing all this fucking time. When the best thing I’ve ever had... was always right fucking next to me. You."