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I watch her move through the room to go change before we leave.

And I have no shame admitting that I gawk at her sweet little ass in those tight, pink leggings as she climbs up the stairs.

There are no perfect people, but to me, she is perfect.

Or perhaps that’s the pedestal I placed her on.

Yet, she still owns every inch of my attention, just the same as when I first saw her.

It was Halloween this past year. I knew which influencer party she was going to.

I’d known for weeks. That’s the only reason why I even accepted an invitation and flew to NYC in the first place.

I normally avoided any large gatherings.

Or people, in general. But I was weirdly fucking excited about that night.

About finally seeing her in person—no screen between us, no camera filters, no WiFi signal diluting the raw perfection of her.

I’d spent over a year obsessing over her, unapologetically.

She’d done a collab with my buddy Dev, and that’s how I heard about her.

Of course, I checked out her YouTube after that—she didn’t post long-form content often, but the little she did was enough to pull me in.

Come on, a pastel sweetheart talking about ghosts? It was like a fever dream for me.

The spiral was quick, and eventually, I downloaded fucking TikTok just to see more of her.

She was posting on there constantly—two, three times a day.

It wasn’t just her telling scary stories, but doing cosplays, trending dances, mukbangs, and other viral shit.

And I was hooked, rewatching freeze frame after freeze frame of every single video she’d ever posted, memorizing every fraction of an inch of her body, studying every fucking micro expression she made, drinking in every goddamn word that left her mouth.

I knew her. And I could see it—clear as day—she wasn’t happy. Not in her relationship with that douchebag. She was lonely, restless, bored. She wanted more, she needed attention. And he? He wasn’t even looking.

Then came OnlyFans. Transparent as hell. She wanted him to notice. To care. Which, of course, he didn’t, too busy chasing his Hollywood dream that mattered more than her.

But I did.

She kept it pretty tame, all things considered.

No full nudity. Still, I made sure to subscribe to her from ten different anonymous accounts, just in case she blocked one.

I kept messaging her—weird requests, yeah, but harmless.

To me, anyway. I just wanted to see how far she’d go, how much of her she’d give away before I creeped her out.

Eventually, she shut it all down.

Fuck, I was relieved when she stopped posting those lingerie pics of herself. Sure, I missed seeing them, but at least now, no one else got to see her, either.

That’s when she came clean to her boyfriend and told him she thought she had a stalker.

And he lost his shit. Finally, he gave a damn.

But it was too late. That was the beginning of the end for them.

Constant fighting. He wanted her to nuke all her socials, which was hilarious considering it was her full-time job. Pretty fucking bold, if you ask me.

And guess who she came crying to?

Me. I was there, always. Listening. Comforting. Feeding the fire. I was secure in the friend zone because I knew I wouldn’t stay there. Not for long. Not once I ruined her.

Still—even after every fantasy I’d conjured inside my head—I wasn’t prepared for the sight of her in real life.

And when I saw her, I felt it. Like a sharpened blade pressing against my chest, and I knew then and there that she would be the only one to cut my heart open and make it bleed.

My little bunny.

Her cotton candy pink hair was so long and luscious it reached the small of her back, the kind of hair that made you want to fist it just to see if it felt as soft as it looked.

The black latex suit clung to her like a second skin, so tight it might as well have been painted on, obscenely flaunting every little curve and crevice of her petite figure.

She matched it with a bunny-eared, glossy mask that covered half of her cute face and over-the-knee heeled boots.

It was a bit scandalous, the kind of outfit that belonged in a fetish club, not a fancy penthouse.

And I couldn’t decide whether she was truly that clueless or that calculated.

No, she had to know how she looked.

Because that body…

That fucking body.

She looked like something made to be worshiped.

Or ravaged .

I watched her from across the penthouse, watched the way she moved, the way she glowed under the dim lights.

I adored how bubbly and animated she was.

She wasn’t just beautiful—she was hypnotic.

Her voice was high. Her laugh was loud. Her hands moved when she spoke.

And every single guy in the room was eyefucking her with the kind of desperation that made me want to rip their fucking eyes out.

I clenched my jaw, forcing my grip to loosen on the glass in my hand before I shattered it.

Did she have any idea what she was doing to me?

Oh, she had to. I caught her peeking at me way too many times to count. She was terrible at pretending we were just friends .

But she wasn’t alone. Of course, she wasn’t. She never was.

Her boyfriend was right there beside her, anchoring her, keeping her tethered to the life she didn’t belong to anymore. A liability.

I’d done my homework on him.

Aiden . Some up-and-coming band vocalist, who coasted on his pretty-boy face and half-baked charisma and gained a following on TikTok doing covers of real artists. Unremarkable. He was temporary.

She was mine. She just didn’t know it yet.

The entire night, I watched them. And the longer I did, the more obvious it became—she was miserable.

They fought. A lot. More so than I’d imagined based on her confessions.

She smiled less and less as the night went on, her voice got sharper, her hands moved in clipped, frustrated gestures. And him? The asshole barely seemed to notice. He never paid attention.

He was losing her… No, scratch that. He’d already lost her.

I just had to be there when she realized it.

And so I waited.

I found her outside on the terrace later. Alone at last. The Manhattan skyline stretched out behind her—a thousand glittering city lights framing her like a fucking painting. She was leaning against the glass railing, her arms hugging herself, her hair blowing in the wind.

The crisp fall air bit through the fabric of my clothes as I stepped closer, but she didn’t notice me right away.

She was crying. A broken doll, standing on the edge of the world, tears slipping past the black mask.

I didn’t feel much. Not really any natural human emotions. Certainly no empathy. But I knew this moment mattered.

Diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder in my preteen years, I’d learned how to blend in.

It was funny—in a sick way. Everyone thought the mask I wore in my videos was the performance. Ghost Daddy , the urban legend in the flesh. But that was the joke.

The real mask was this. This .

The act of being normal. From trivial things like learning the gestures and regulating my voice, to mimicking a whole range of feelings I’d never actually felt.

I’d seen the movies, read the books, studied every social cue.

I’d spent years perfecting it, crafting a version of myself that people wanted to be around.

The charming, irreverent, darkly humorous man behind the mask. The one they trusted.

It worked. It always worked.

And for Bunny, this was a moment when the right kind of guy would step in, comfort her, and earn her trust.

So I moved closer. Quiet, careful. Like a shadow. Like a predator who knew exactly how to strike. But she was already wounded. I didn’t need to rush it.

“He’s not worth it, you know,” I murmured, my voice low, barely a whisper, cutting through her sobs.

She jolted, turning fast, her baby-blue, doe eyes wide beneath the mask.

“Ghost?” She sniffled, swiping at her face. But she knew it was me before she saw me. “Jesus, you scared me.”

That’s what I do, baby.

She tilted her head, scanning my outfit. “No costume?”

I was wearing my trademark outfit—a loose black hooded robe and a blank white mask, matched with simple black pants and my worn-in Docs. A disguise for the online persona I created a decade before.

“It’s the only night of the year when I don’t look like a freak on the street.”

She smiled at me, her dimple piercings made her look even cuter, more innocent, fragile. “You look… really cool, actually.”

I let my gaze drag over her, slow, intentional, taking in the way she looked in that outfit. Fuck, the things I wanted to do to her.

“You look like sin,” I said, my voice so gravelly, it was almost a growl.

Her breath hitched, which was exactly what I wanted. Her lips parted slightly, and she quickly turned her gaze back to the city, like she was searching for a way out. “I just needed a minute.”

“He’s been on your ass all night, huh?”

Her lips pressed together, her eyes darting away. Silence. She looked conflicted, like a part of her wanted to admit how fucking miserable she was. “It’s not like that,” she mumbled more to herself. “It’s just… I don’t know. It’s been bad lately.”

Good.

I stepped closer, just enough to feel her warmth, the softness of her body, and her scent. She even smelled like cotton candy—so sweet and cozy. She was the complete opposite of me, and I think that’s what attracted me to her the most.

“So, that’s why you’re out here crying instead of inside having fun?”

She let out a hollow little laugh, and I could tell she was flustered. “No one’s ever this direct.”

“Maybe you need direct,” I challenged.