Eobard had tried again and again to get it right, and now, he had perfected it.

The art of isolation.

One by one, every man you tried to date vanished, as though they never existed in the first place. All of them except one.

Eobard was the picture perfect man for you— the right amount of niceness, sweetness, charm, humor— everything you loved and more. He knew your favorite music, color, flower, food, snack, dessert, clothes— all of it.

“I got you flowers, sweetheart.” He coos at you sweetly, a sly smile on his face as you beamed at him, happy about his surprise visit. “Your birthday is coming up soon; where would you like to go?”

He slips up in mentioning your birthday, having grown used to being genuine with you (minus the fact that he was the Reverse Flash, which he had yet to tell you).

You hadn’t told him your birthday. You didn’t have social media. There was no way he could’ve known such a thing about you— at least, legally.

He merely smiles when you question him, his eyes watching as your lips curled down slightly, the familiar sight of fear nothing new to him.

“You told me in passing, remember? Your work must really be getting to you if you’re forgetting things.”

He hopes you take the bait, merely because he’d feel bad about what he’d have to do to you. He liked you, and he wasn’t going to let anyone else have you.