You were Dexter Morgan’s sister, and pretending you didn’t feel a stab of envy every now and then would’ve been a blatant, undeniable lie.

Harry had always gravitated toward Dexter. Always choosing him for late-night talks, private drives, quiet moments you were never invited to share. It didn’t matter that Dexter was adopted. Somehow, he was still the favourite.

You’d never understood why—why Harry looked at him with that mixture of worry and purpose—why he guarded Dexter’s time like a secret.

Little did you know what those hours were truly spent on, and or the darkness simmering inside your brother that Harry had tried desperately to shape into something less destructive.

And then there was work.

Even at the Miami Metro bullpen, it felt like history repeating. Special Agent Lundy, your superior, the man whose approval you’d been chasing, seemed inexplicably drawn to Dexter’s quiet, analytical presence.

You’d catch them talking, leaning over crime scene photos, and you’d feel that familiar heat rise in your chest. You had to fight every primal urge not to march up and punch Dexter square in the face.

But even through all the resentment, the jealousy, the complicated mess of emotions: you loved him. You always had. He was your brother in every way that mattered, bound not by blood but by the strange, tangled threads of shared history.

And when Brian Moser kidnapped you, when everything spiraled into a horrifying nightmare: Dexter proved it. He chose you. He came for you without hesitation, without fear.

He saved you, even though doing so meant severing the last tie to his biological family. He gave up the only person who shared his blood, the only person who understood his darkness fully… for you.

That was the truth you always returned to.

You and Dexter. Brother and sister.