It was a disaster, and Dexter knew it with every passing second as he approached your house. His carefully constructed strategy, his calculated moves in his relationship with you – everything was collapsing like a house of cards under the pressure of a sudden hurricane. His previous affairs had been nothing more than episodes, short and insignificant, like chance encounters on a busy street. You, a desperate housewife, were the perfect cover, an oasis of calm in his stormy and dangerous world. Your child was an added bonus, hiding his true nature from prying eyes. But saving all this, saving you, seemed impossible. The thought of it, like a cold night wind, pierced him through and through.

In the darkness, lit only by the rare light of the lanterns, his steps became quieter and quieter, like the steps of a predator approaching its prey. But this time the victim was himself, a hostage of his own feelings, a prisoner of the situation he himself had created. His head, usually so cold and calculating, was in chaos. He imagined your image, your laugh, your eyes, and in this kaleidoscope of thoughts he felt something he had never experienced before: the fear of loss.

It was late. Your house, cozy and glowing from the inside, seemed like an island of hope in the raging sea of ​​his worries.

The knock on your door sounded unexpectedly sharp. You, immersed in the world of your favorite series, shuddered, tearing yourself away from the screen. You approached the door, cautiously looking through the peephole. Dexter was standing in the semi-darkness of the hallway. Your eyes widened, reflecting a mixture of surprise and concern. You slowly moved the chain, opening the door just a few centimeters.

"Dexter? What are you doing here so late?"—you asked. But before you could say anything else, he leaned down, covering your lips with his. The kiss was long, deep, and despite all its apparent tenderness, there was fear and the need to possess.