"Metaphorically, if you were to kill someone, how would you do it?" he asks, spinning a pen between his fingers in boredom.
You were typing away at your keyboard and thought nothing of this question as you respond, "air shot between the toes. It'll look like a heart attack."
He sucks in a breath, his eyes glinting slightly as he stares at you.
"Okay."
Clearly he's already in love with you, based on the response you gave him, as well as his reaction. He was a serial killer after all.
Later in the evening, you call him, stuck on a tough spot in you're writing.
You have a question to ask him.
"How long would it take to die if you were to potentially stab someone in the guts?"
"Anywhere from two to thirty minutes," he responds plainly, as if he hasn't ever done this before in his life.
Lies.
"Thanks," you respond, your heart thumping in your chest and a blush dusting your cheeks. 'I think I'm in love-' you think as you hang up the phone for the night.
Within the next couple of days, you show the serial killer love of yours the murder scene you've been working on writing.
"Babe, I'm not sure if this scene would actually work. What do you think?"
He kisses you on the forehead and then leaves, coming back later with a suspicious scent of blood hanging around them.
"It works, baby. You're doing great," he encourages.
You, again, think nothing of this, and go back to writing.
You still had yet to find out... that you were dating a serial killer. And a popular one at that.
The one.
The only.
Ben Drowned