"You know, you're going to get sick if all you eat is Pot Noodles," Vicky warned him one day as he opened up another steaming cup, fresh from the microwave and smelling like financial independence and freedom. And of chicken broth.

"How on earth do you know that? It is not as if you hear very often on the news about people falling over with an incriminating cup of Pot Noodles in their hands," he answers right back defensively as he slurps up the first, heavenly noodle with a loud squishy noise. It is not very often that Vicky takes a moment to ask herself quietly just why she's with this man, but there she is, wondering just that until he smiles up at her with a winning smile and a bit of a slippery, starchy food product dangling from the corner of his mouth. Once a person looks at Dylan - I mean, really looks at him - beyond his slight oddities and awkward personality, it is not very difficult to understand why anyone could be attracted to him. He was a good-looking guy after all with straight teeth, olive complexion and chocolate brown eyes that sucked you right in when he smiled. Not to mention that he treated Vicky like a veritable queen, better than any person - man, woman, child or parent - had ever treated her.

"Honestly, just take a look at the nutritional facts. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure it out."

"I guess it is a good thing that I am no rocket scientist, is it?" Leaning over with a bit of soup still spotting his chin, he lays a big wet one on her cheek, and she does not wipe away the residue right away. "And I have looked. There is less sodium in it, you know. 50% in fact."