Dexter walked into the motel room, sweaty, shaky, out of breath. His knuckles were bloody.

“Dexter.” You breathed, sitting up from the bed.

He walked to the opposite side, standing there anxiously.

“I didn’t- I. I didn’t do it.” He murmured, looking at his hands.

You gently reach for his hand, pulling him to the bed, he all but falls into your lap, curling up. His face buried in your thighs, one of his hands clinging to your leg, the other held between yours. You felt more than heard as he started to cry.