Dexter | Creep

The fluorescent lights of the Computer Science lab hummed with a frequency that felt like it was drilling directly into your molars, but Dexter didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy staring at you as if you were a variable he couldn’t quite solve in his code. His platinum blonde hair was a disaster of layered, tousled waves, falling over those narrow, hooded eyes behind his dark-rimmed glasses. He looked like he’d been pulled out of a 1999 J.Crew catalog and then thrown into a blender set to 'chaos.'

He took a step back, his heel catching slightly on the cord of his desktop monitor—a classic Dex stumble—and he stabilized himself with a sharp exhale, his jaw tightening. The sharp, angular cut of his jawline seemed to harden, a defensive mechanism against the sheer audacity of you knowing.

"You," he said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that didn't quite match the panic fluttering in his chest. He corrected his posture, trying to summon that familiar, arrogant sneer, but it lacked its usual bite. "You figured it out. The algorithm. The... the algorithm."

He gestured vaguely at the bank of monitors behind him, where rows of photos were displayed on the Hot Or Not interface. Your face was there. Front and center. Rated 10/10. By him.

"Dexter," you said, the name feeling heavy in the quiet lab. "You’re MrScienceGod."

He blinked, the pale hazel of his irises widening slightly before he narrowed them, squinting as if trying to adjust your brightness. "Mr. Science God. There is a period in there. Or a space. It’s Mr. Science God, not MrScienceGod, though the domain name is technically a handle, so semantically, it’s a gray area." He cleared his throat, adjusting the collar of his thick, charcoal knit sweater that peeked out from under his open denim jacket. "Yes. I am. The creator. The architect. The guy who wrote the backend in Python while you were busy pretending to care about... what was it? Sociology?"

He walked toward his desk, his movements stiff, his hands shoving into the pockets of his relaxed-fit corduroy trousers. He wouldn't look you directly in the eye anymore, focusing instead on a smudge on his monitor.

"And yes," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, becoming quieter, more intimate despite the sterile room. "I posted you. All of you. The candid shots from the library. The photo of you eating that sandwich on the quad. The one where you were laughing at Finnie’s terrible joke." He paused, his thumb rubbing absently against the silver ring on his pinky finger. "I rate people. That’s what the app does. It rates people. That is... that is the function."

He finally looked up, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that felt physical, like a weight on your skin. His cheeks flushed a faint, rosy red, visible even under his tan.

"But you’re not just a data point, are you?" he muttered, almost to himself. Then, louder, defensive: "I didn’t say I liked you. I said you were... statistically significant. An outlier. In a good way. Not a... not a like like. Although..." He trailed off, biting his lower lip, the full, plump muscles tensing. "Anyway. The secret is out. Are you going to... are you going to scream? Or are you going to ask me why I took that picture of you three weeks ago at 2:14 AM?"

The hallway outside the Dean’s office was long, smelling of floor wax and old books. Dexter had you cornered against the lockers, his body blocking your path. He was close—too close for someone who usually maintained a three-foot buffer zone. You could smell the clean, sharp scent of magnolia and soap clinging to his layered sweater. His heart was beating so hard you could see the pulse in his throat.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and rapid, the words tumbling out in a precise, articulate stream. "This is a logistical error. A... a temporary anomaly. If the Dean finds out I built an app to... to categorize the student body based on... on aesthetic metrics, he’ll revoke my funding. He’ll say I’m undignified. He’ll say I’m frivolous."

He adjusted his tortoise-shell glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with a trembling finger. His eyes were wide, the pale hazel irises dilated, searching your face for a crack in your armor.

"I have the Dean’s favor," he whispered, the arrogance stripped away to reveal the paranoid kid underneath. "I have the scholarship. I have... status. If this gets out, I’m just the guy who took pictures of girls. The creepy guy."

He took a step closer, his shoulder brushing yours. He flinched, then forced himself to stay put, his hand coming up to rest against the locker next to your head. His knuckles were white.

"Don’t tell him," he said, his voice cracking slightly on the last syllable. "Please. I am begging you. Not as MrScienceGod. As... as Dexter. As the guy who... who noticed that you take your coffee with two sugars and that you hum when you’re concentrating."

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "I’m not... I’m not a monster. I’m just... observant. And I have a lot of... assets. If you keep this secret, I can offer... compensation. Academic? I can fix your thesis formatting. I can write the code for your portfolio site. I can..." He trailed off, realizing he was sounding like a salesman, and he scrunched his face in annoyance. "I mean, I’m serious. I’m serious. I will do anything. Just... don’t let him know I’m watching. Because I am. I’m watching. And I like what I see. But I’m scared. Okay? I’m scared. There. I said it. Now say you’ll help me."

His dorm room was a testament to his personality: organized, slightly cluttered with books, and smelling faintly of laundry detergent and that elusive magnolia scent. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs spread wide in his relaxed-fit jeans, his hands resting on his knees. He looked smaller without the lab coat, without the headphones. Just a 20-year-old boy in a grey henley and a cable-knit sweater.

He stood up when you entered, adjusting the hem of his shirt, a nervous tic. "Please, sit," he said, gesturing to the beanbag chair in the corner. He didn’t sit himself. He paced, a short, three-step trajectory from the desk to the door and back.

"I’ve been thinking," he began, his voice steady but quiet. "About the app. About the photos. The... the voyeurism." He winced at the word. "It’s a strong word. I prefer... 'documentary observation.' But yes. I invaded your privacy. I captured you without your consent. And I posted it to a public forum where thousands of people could... could judge you. Rate you."

He stopped pacing and looked at you, his expression uncharacteristically soft. The sharp angles of his face seemed less aggressive in the warm lamplight. "I am sorry. I am... I am sorry for the intrusion. For the... the objectification. Even if the rating was... favorable."

He ran a hand through his platinum hair, messing it up further. "I didn’t do it because I wanted to be cruel. I did it because... because I didn’t know how to talk to you. Talking is... difficult. Talking requires... improvisation. And I am bad at improvisation. But code... code is logical. Code is safe. So I put you in the code."

He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling under the layers of his sweater. "I am sorry that I scared you. I know I can be... abrasive. I know I correct your grammar when you’re just trying to have a conversation. I know I bite people when I’m nervous." He gestured vaguely to his jaw. "I am working on it. I am trying to be... better. For you. Not for the app. For you."

He looked down at his shoes, scuffing the toe against the rug. "Can you... forgive me? Or do I need to write an apology letter? I can write a very good apology letter. I have a lot of words."

room was dark, save for the blue glow of his computer monitors and the faint streetlights filtering through the blinds. Dexter was kneeling beside the bed, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the duvet. He had changed into soft, worn cotton shorts and a thin white t-shirt that clung to his lean, slightly muscular frame. His platinum hair was damp, as if he’d just showered, and his glasses were off, leaving his pale hazel eyes raw and exposed.

"You don’t have to be afraid," he whispered, his voice a rough murmur. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch was tentative, like he was handling a rare, fragile algorithm. "I... I’ve read the literature. I know the anatomy. I know the... the mechanics. I just... I need you to tell me if this is... okay. If the pressure is... adequate."

He looked at you, his cheeks flushed a deep crimson. He was so close you could see the faint, dark hairs on his arms, the curve of his collarbone. He took a step back, then stepped forward again, his coordination slightly off. "I’m sorry if I’m... stiff. I’m not... I haven’t... done this before. Well, not with someone who... who I’ve rated... who I’ve... desired."

He leaned in, his breath warm against your neck. He smelled of soap and sweat and that clean, floral scent. "May I?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

When you nodded, he exhaled, a shaky, broken sound. His hands moved to your clothes, fumbling slightly with the buttons of your shirt, his fingers long and dexterous but currently useless for simple tasks. "I... I usually have a better grasp of fine motor skills when I’m debugging code," he murmured, a self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "But you... you disrupt my... my system."

He kissed you, a soft, tentative press of his full lips against yours. It wasn’t practiced; it was earnest, desperate. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. "Your skin," he whispered, tracing the line of your jaw. "It’s... it’s smoother than I imagined. I’ve imagined it. Many times. In the... in the shower. And while coding. And while... listening to Frank Ocean."

He moved lower, his movements slow and deliberate, trying to be respectful but driven by a hunger he couldn’t hide. He was clumsy, his knee bumping the bedpost, but his focus was absolute. Every movement was calculated, every touch observed. He was learning you in real-time, his mind working overtime to process the sensory input.

"Is this... okay?" he asked again, his voice thick with emotion. "I... I want to be good at this. For you. I want to... worship you. Is that... is that too much? I know it’s... I know I’m weird. But I... I want to. Please."

...