The days after the confrontation with Dexter were a blur. The case continued to escalate, the pressure mounting with every new detail that emerged. Yet, Y/n couldn't escape the quiet gnawing at the back of her mind—the feeling that something was shifting, that the ground beneath her was crumbling and she was powerless to stop it.

She couldn't stop thinking about Dexter.

His words echoed in her mind: "You're getting too close to the edge." It wasn't just a warning—it felt like a prophecy, something written in the stars, and she was helpless to avoid it.

But the more she tried to focus on the case, the more his shadow loomed over everything she did. Dexter had always been a mystery, but now, it felt like the entire investigation had become about him. The way he looked at her, the way he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. It was as if he had unlocked some secret in her that she hadn't even known was there.

Tonight, she sat alone in her apartment, staring at the case files spread out before her. The killer had struck again, and yet there was something about the most recent victim that didn't sit right with her. The pattern was there, the calculated precision—but it was different this time.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

Y/n's heart skipped, but she pushed it aside, chalking it up to nerves. She wasn't expecting anyone. But the knock came again, this time more insistent.

She rose from her chair, hesitating for a moment before crossing the room. With a glance through the peephole, she saw a familiar face—Dexter.

Her stomach dropped.

She opened the door, her pulse quickening. "What are you doing here?"

Dexter's eyes flickered, a brief moment of vulnerability passing through them before he masked it with his usual calm. "I thought you might need some help," he said, his voice smooth but tinged with something else.

Y/n felt the weight of his presence at her doorstep, her mind racing with a thousand questions. She stepped aside, allowing him to enter, but the unease in her chest only deepened.

"You've been quiet lately," Dexter observed as he entered the apartment. His eyes roamed over the case files on the table, then shifted back to her.

"I've been busy," Y/n replied curtly, though the words felt hollow. She didn't know why he was here, or if she even wanted to know.

Dexter looked at her for a long moment, his gaze unflinching. "You're not the only one feeling the pressure."

Y/n folded her arms, trying to steady herself. "I don't need your pity, Dexter."

"I'm not offering pity," he replied, his voice low. "I'm offering understanding."

There was a subtle shift in his tone, something deeper, something that made her pulse quicken. The words hovered between them, hanging in the air like an unspoken invitation.

She met his gaze, searching for any hint of a lie. There was none. Instead, there was only a quiet intensity in his eyes, as though he was seeing something in her that she wasn't ready to face.

Y/n couldn't help herself. She stepped closer to him. "What are you really here for, Dexter?"

He didn't move, his eyes locked onto hers. "I'm here because you're beginning to see it, aren't you?" His voice was so soft, so deliberate, that it sent a chill down her spine. "You're seeing the truth, and it's pulling you in. You can feel it. You can feel me."

Y/n's breath caught. Her heart pounded in her chest. The distance between them seemed to shrink, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared. All that mattered was the space between her and him.

"Stop," she whispered, though her voice trembled. "This isn't... this isn't what you think."

Dexter's gaze didn't falter. He took a small step forward, and the world tilted on its axis. "I think you're afraid. Afraid of what you're seeing. Afraid of what you're becoming."

Her mind screamed at her to push him away, to step back. But something deep inside her—something she couldn't ignore—told her to stay. To listen. To let him in.

"Stop," she repeated, though this time the word lacked conviction.

Dexter's smile was barely perceptible, the faintest curve of his lips. "You don't want me to stop, Y/n. You just don't want to admit it."

He was right. She didn't want him to stop.

But she didn't know what would happen if he didn't.

In that moment, Y/n realized that the danger wasn't just in the case. The danger wasn't even in the killer she was chasing. The real danger was the man standing in front of her, the man who knew her better than anyone else. The man who was undoing her.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, before Dexter took another step closer.

"I can help you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n couldn't find the words to respond.

But she didn't have to. The look in her eyes was enough.