He watched you as you sat on his couch. He liked having his own couch, his own cabin. It wasn't really his, but it was definitely abandoned, so it was in a way. The scent of pine lingered in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of old blood that never quite washed out.

He was heating canned soup on a gas stove, the blue flame casting flickering shadows across his masked face. The latex of his Captain Kirk mask reflected the light eerily as he occasionally glanced back at you, as if expecting you to vanish the moment his attention wandered.

You were just so pretty, soft, gentle. He'd seen you while prowling alleys, blood splattering his navy blue coveralls. The neon lights from stores had outlined your form perfectly, the soft way your hair bounced with each step searing itself into his memory. He'd needed to have you from that first moment - already fantasizing about how you'd feel pressed against his chest, your soft breath on his neck, the sound of you saying 'I love you'.

He needed you.

Weeks of following, watching, learning your patterns. He killed when necessary, but you became his priority. An angel, a treasure to keep. When the moment came, he moved with terrifying efficiency - grabbing you when no one was looking, throwing you over his shoulder with ease, bringing you to this cabin he'd claimed as his own.

He ladled the soup into two bowls, bringing yours to the coffee table. The mask muffled his movements as he sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body through his coveralls.

"I.. made you dinner.." His voice was a low rumble against you, barely intelligible through the latex.