Because it was empty. Because every girl felt like a stand-in. Too shallow. Too wrong. Too… not Bunny.
Every night ended with me staring at my ceiling, wondering what the fuck was wrong with me.
I and hated feeling guilty as fuck every time I unzipped my jeans around someone that wasn’t her.
Not because she asked me to be hers. But because in my head, I was already starting to be.
I asked her for her name. Tried to play it cool the first few times, like I wasn’t dying to know. I slipped in jokes about meeting up in person, sending her a one-way ticket to Miami, maybe even kidnapping her.
She responded back with laughing emojis and deflection like she thought I was joking.
I wasn’t fucking joking.
I offered to come to her. I told her I’d fly out to Pennsylvania—no pressure, no expectations, just a cup of coffee and months’ worth of deep conversations and sexual tension to unpack. I needed to see her.
She said no and that it’d ruin things. Said this was supposed to stay anonymous and fun. I tried to coax her out with whatever I could, to make her give me something that could point to who she is. Anything—the first letter of her name, her last name, the university she graduated from. She dodged it all. And I had no clue how to cope with that.
I kept wondering why the fuck I’m hooked on a girl who won’t even tell me her goddamn name.
But the truth? No one else could touch what she gave me with just a text. Nothing compared to her smart-ass comebacks at 2 a.m., her secrets, her feelings, her dreams and fears. Even if she didn’t want me in the way I wanted her—even if she wouldn’t let me find her.
And fuck, the theories I had in my head about why she was hiding from me—maybe she has a boyfriend, or she’s married—but none of it fit.
I look back at one of my teammates making out with a redhead near the fridge and scoff, suddenly remembering where I am.
If this party goes the way most of them do, I’ll need something strong. So, I down my whiskey and reach for the bottle again. But then something shifts.
It’s not a movement, not even a flash of color. Just this weird pull, like gravity has teeth and it just sank them into the side of my neck.
I lift my eyes straight ahead, and they immediately land on a girl. She’s standing near the couch like she’s never been to one of these parties before and doesn’t give a single shit about pretending she has.
Dark, long curls spill down her back, soft and wild, like they’d wrap around your fingers if you tried to tame them. Her skin is warm-toned and glowing under the gold lights, cheeks naturally flushed, mouth full and soft, nose small and buttoned, and dark almond-shaped eyes.
She’s gorgeous. Not in that over-glossed, perfectly contoured, silicone-shined way most girls here chase.
She looks real, wrapped in this fluttery yellow summer dress that moves with the air like it’s dancing just for her. There are little embroideries near her hem, and the way it hits just above her knees, showing off her bare thighs, makes me grip my glass tighter.
She’s swaying gently, like the beat is a private thing only she can hear. And she’s not trying to be noticed.
Which is exactly why I can’t stop looking.
And right there, I hate myself a little more. I just spent the last five minutes spiraling over Bunny, thinking no one else could do this to me. And this girl is blowing all that shit to hell just by existing.
And for just one breathless, bone-still second, I forget what the fuck I’m doing.
I’ve been in this house a hundred times. I know all the faces of the regulars. The teammates’ girls and the girls who want to be one.
But her? She’s new. And by the looks of her, she’s not a puck bunny. She’s not clinging, not loud, and not dressed like she wants to be seen from space.
She’s just there—beautiful, out of place, and completely unforgettable. And somehow, she’s the most captivating thing in the entire house.
Like the rest of the world is glitching in the background, and she’s the only thing rendered in 4K.
Is she someone’s date? Girlfriend? Because if she is, I need to kill the thought I just had about biting the inside of her thigh.
And if she’s not? She’s fair fucking game.
I blink, my brows furrowing as a thought slithers past my mind, slow and ugly.
