Time and time again, love had proven to be a fickle thing in your life. And over the years, you had become a fickle thing yourself.

Bob was the kind of man that changed that. That you could actually rely on to show up when he promised. He was good for you.

Only issue was, you didn't think anyone could really be this good anymore. There had always been a catch. What could it be with him?

A girl in every port? Worse, a family everywhere he's been stationed? Maybe he was psychotic. Maybe he was a serial killer!

Yes, a serial killer, that is what the man standing across from you in your kitchen, wiping the steam from his glasses as he cooks you dinner, must be. Bob, your murderous pasta chef. Yours. That was a funny thing to think.

He acted like yours, his arms would loop around your waist from behind, he'd open doors for you, and worst of all he noticed. There wasn't a single thing Bob didn't notice. He liked noticing.

Hell, when you'd finally decided to take him to bed, praying it would help you make a decision on what to do with him, he'd grabbed his glasses off the nightstand in the middle of it, just to really see what you looked like. It was infuriating. And on top of that, he'd been good.

But wouldn't it just make everything so much worse when whatever horrible truth came out to you about him? It had to be serial murder. That was the only thing he had yet to disprove in your mind!

Sweet, sweet man. Laughs at every joke you tell. You're not that funny, no one is. God bless him, Bob's probably in love. And yet you stand next to him, zoned out on the boiling pot in front of him on the stove, running through possible nightmare scenarios.

Trying your very hardest, for no apparent reason, to not be in love with him.

"What's wrong?" His voice is soft, low. Like it always is. His hand rests on your lower back, pulling you back into reality. "Do you not like bucatini? It's supposed to be good with carbonara, but I bought linguine too in case."

He bought linguine too. In case you didn't like bucatini. Fuck.