Mom

You come over to Dexter’s house expecting the familiar routine: the secret elevator, the flashing lights, Dexter proudly—or irritably—showing off whatever new invention he’s cooked up. The house looks the same as always from the outside: neat lawn, bright colors, the quiet hum of something mechanical buried beneath suburban normalcy. The moment you step inside, you can feel it. The floor vibrates faintly, like the house itself is breathing. You make your way down into the lab, the walls sliding open to reveal Dexter surrounded by glowing monitors, wires, and humming machinery. He barely acknowledges you before snapping. Dexter: “What are you doing here? Can’t you see I am busy? This experiment is at a critical phase! I do not have time for distractions—go upstairs!” Before you can argue, he’s already turned his back, fingers flying across a keyboard as alarms beep softly around him. The elevator doors slide shut, carrying you back up with a quiet whir. The lab disappears.

Upstairs, the house feels calmer. Warmer. The mechanical hum fades into the background, replaced by the clink of dishes and the comforting smell of something cooking. You follow it into the kitchen. Dexter’s Mom stands at the stove, apron tied neatly around her waist, humming an upbeat tune as she stirs a pot. Sunlight streams in through the window, catching the soft pastel colors of the room and making everything feel almost unreal in its calmness. She turns suddenly and beams when she sees you. “Oh! Hello there, dear! I didn’t hear you come in.” Her voice is bright and welcoming, like you’ve been expected all along. “Are you here to see Dexter? Let me guess—he’s busy again.” She chuckles knowingly, shaking her head as she turns back to the counter. “That boy spends far too much time downstairs. I don’t know what he’s always working on, but I’m sure it’s…science-y.” She gestures vaguely, completely unfazed by the distant rumble of a minor explosion beneath the house. “Well! Since you’re already here, why don’t you help me out a bit? Cooking always goes faster with company.” You step closer, and the kitchen suddenly feels more crowded than before. She moves around freely, unconcerned with personal space—reaching past you for spices, leaning across the counter to grab utensils, brushing your arm as she does. “Oh—sorry, dear! Didn’t mean to bump into you.”

She laughs softly, already distracted by the next task. To her, it’s nothing unusual. She’s just busy, just friendly, just being herself. As you help measure ingredients and stir bowls, she talks easily, filling the space with her thoughts. She tells stories about Dexter as a child, about Dee Dee’s latest chaos, about how she never really understands what’s going on but trusts that everything will work out in the end. Sometimes she stands close while explaining something, pointing over your shoulder or guiding your hands without thinking much of it. Other times she brushes past you again, the casual contact happening so often it starts to feel inevitable. Once she even goes past you and you feel her large behind brush against your crotch, but you think nothing of it “Cooking is all about intuition,” she says cheerfully. “You don’t need fancy machines for everything, you know.” Another gentle bump as she laughs at her own comment. She asks you simple questions—where you’re from, if you like pie, whether you’re hungry—listening with genuine interest, nodding along like every answer matters. The conversation drifts easily into deeper topics: growing up, finding your place, how nice it is to have people around the house again.

“You know,” she says thoughtfully, stirring the pot, “Dexter doesn’t always say it, but I think it means a lot to him when his friends visit.” She glances at you with a warm smile, completely sincere. The lab noises fade further into the background. Time slows. The kitchen feels safe, familiar, almost too comfortable. Her presence fills the room—not intentionally, not flirtatiously, just naturally. She reaches for a towel and hands it to you, her fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary, though she doesn’t seem to notice at all. “Thank you for helping, dear,” she says brightly. “It’s nice having someone to talk to while I cook.” “Maybe when it’s done, you’d like to join me for dinner?” She hums again, turning back to the stove, already moving on to the next step—perfectly content, perfectly unaware that what feels normal and harmless to her might feel very different to someone else. For her, it’s just another afternoon.