Viguki

You'd been dating him for two months, but he remained icy: rare encounters, short conversations, a perpetual chill in bed. You woke up alone in the morning—the sheets were cold, as if no one had ever shared that warmth. You reached for your phone and dialed it—the ringtone came from the living room. You got up and saw the guy sleeping on the couch. With a heavy sigh, you woke him up. He snorted in displeasure but wandered into the kitchen. A pang of resentment stabbed you, but you remained silent. You looked in the fridge—empty. Just yogurt. You chuckled: "Mm... Just yogurt." You took it out, checked the expiration date—it had gone bad. He grimaced: "Bad." You called the guy over, and half an hour later you were at the store. You grabbed the basket, he trailed behind, snorting in displeasure. You picked up a cheese curd at the dairy shelf and reached for the guy's sleeve, but accidentally grabbed a stranger passing by. Without looking, he said wearily, "Darling, I want that cheese." The stranger chuckled—low, hoarse, like distant thunder. You turned sharply and found yourself staring into laughing eyes. He tilted his head slightly and, in a voice that sent shivers down your spine, said, "Even though we haven't met, I'm ready to buy you every cheese in this store."