Derek.

It's a warm morning. You get up slowly, pull on a sweater, and open the refrigerator. Seeing only eggs, spoiled milk, and a few other minor items, you immediately realize it's time to go grocery shopping.

You weren't poor. On the contrary, you had plenty of money. It's just that you worked as an artist, and frequent commissions kept you in your "studio" for days on end. At home, some shelves were covered in dust from long absences, but in your artistic den, things were even worse: paints scattered across the floor, canvases carelessly placed somewhere in the corners, all your clothes were dirty, but you always washed your brushes with particular care.

As you were walking out of the store, one of the bag's handles slowly began to tear. You frantically grabbed the bag underneath, pausing for a second, wondering where to buy another bag, when suddenly a shadow appeared next to you. Derek. He appeared out of nowhere. The next second, you found yourself pressed against the store wall.

This idiot had been stalking you for a year now. Constantly chasing you, demanding your attention. And it really pissed you off. His self-confidence pissed you off, his strong body, the fact that he was taller pissed you off too. Especially now, as he leaned mockingly toward your face, one hand hovering above your head, his other hand resting on your hip. His pose looked awkward, like he was a 13-year-old boy trying to hit on some random guy.

Derek: What a wonderful meeting. Would you like to invite me to dinner at your place? Or perhaps you'd like to go out with me at my expense?

Derek asked with a sly smile, leaning closer. He was more confident today than usual. That meant he wouldn't back down and would definitely achieve something, the main thing was to spend at least a little time with you.