Chapter Text
The room was dead silent, other than my occasional huff of frustration as I tried, unsuccessfully, to understand my Organic Chemistry homework.
'Functional groups are specific atoms or groups of atoms within molecules that determine the chemical reactivity and physical properties of organic compounds, and recognizing them allows us to predict how molecules will behave in reactions...'
Right. That makes total sense.
"Ugh!" I groaned, dropping my head onto my desk in defeat.
"Okay, I give up," I muttered, grabbing my phone and opening my favorite app: TikTok.
Was this going to help me pass my O-Chem exam on Friday? Absolutely not. Should I stop before I got suckd into a dopamine spiral I can't escape? Yes, absolutely.
Did I stop? No, of course not.
I scrolled, half-laughing at videos, double-tapping out of habit, occasionally reposting without a second thought. A kitten's adorable attempt at threatening a husky made me smile.
Double tap, swipe.
Then the next video loaded.
A man in a black t-shirt that perfectly hugged his biceps, leaning back in a chair. One tattooed hand slid up to his throat, fingers curling slightly as he tilted his head. A black balaclava covered his face, on top lay a mask—but it wasn't just any mask.
A blue skull.
The infamous Josh mask from the hit dark romance Lights Out.
My throat went dry.
White text flashed across the screen: '100 guys are calling her pretty, be different.'
It changed: 'Stab a knife into the bed and tell her to ride it.'
I let the video loop, my eyes dragging over his ink-covered arm—dark, intricate designs climbing his arm disappearing beneath his sleeve.
I groaned under my breath.
Of course, this is just what I needed to help me focus. God damn it.
Opening the comments, I skimmed through the chaos of BookTo girls losing their minds before joining in myself.
'God, I'd lick every single line of ink on that man's body.'
I shook my head, watching my comment post.
"Jesus Christ, Lily... get it together."
Nonetheless, I clicked his page.
You know what they say:
Curiosity killed the cat, and this kitty knew exactly what made her purr.
My eyes scanned his profile, making a mental note of the details I read.
Rusticabuse
New posts every Mon/Wed/Fri
MDNI
Wednesday.
Of course.
Which meant a new thirst trap could drop any minute.
I smiled to myself, cursing my own self-control, and hit follow before clicking his most recent post.
Ghostface
It wasn't some pristine mask, no, this one had cracks and scuffs, making it impossibly hotter.
The camera slowly panned down as he leaned over it, one arm braced beside him. A tattooed forearm filled the frame—familiar, deliberate, impossible to ignore.
Then my eyes processed the caption: 'Watch what you wish for, sweetheart, I might just be outside waiting for you to fall asleep.'
Fuck
Of course he knows he's hot.
I pressed my thighs together to calm the sudden ache of my needy cunt.
"God, what is wrong with me?"
I tapped the comment section open before typing out and posting my own feral thoughts alongside the hundreds of others:
'The doors unlocked.'
Satisfied, I checked the time.
10:00 PM.
Fuck, I'm seriously wasting time thirsting over some random man in a mask who I've never met.
"Okay, Lily, focus."
Functional groups. Organic Chemistry. Future doctor behavior.
I tossed my phone aside, redirecting my attention to my Organic Chemistry textbook.
'Many organic molecules consist predominantly of a backbone of carbons linked by single bonds, with only hydrogen atoms attached. However, they may also contain doubly or triply bonded carbons, as well as other elements...'
Buzz.
My phone lit up.
Thank fucking god, I can't take another second of pretending I care about atoms.
I read the notification displayed on my lock screen, 'Rust replied to your comment.'
Oh?
His response loaded:
'Good girl.'
Oh. Fuck.
Everything in my body went still.
My breath caught as I stared at the words, heart pounding behind my ribs.
Slowly, I typed my reply:
'Only for you.'
I opened his page back up, curious to see whether he had posted.
Of course he had.
Because why would fate ever let me focus on my studies when there was a man like that on my screen?
The video filled my screen with the delicious sight of him.
Same chair. Same effortless confidence that made my thoughts feel entirely inappropriate.
A tight black T-shirt clung to him as he leaned back, one arm behind his head, the other resting low on his stomach. Tattooed fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns along the waistband of his grey sweatpants.
I groaned, literally fucking groaned in desire.
"Absolutely not." I muttered to myself.
And yet, I couldn't look away.
It wasn't just the way he looked.
It was the way he moved, like he knew he was being watched. Like he wanted it.
Like he knew exactly what it did to the person on the other side of the screen and thrived on it.
What was it about a masked man that made my brain stop working?
I am a grown woman.
A pre-med student. Responsible. Focused. Future Doctor.
And yet here I was, staring at a stranger on TikTok like he had rewritten every logical thought I possessed.
Just watching his fingers glide across his skin, gently brushing the grey fabric hugging low on his hips, had my mouth watering.
And trust me.
That wasn't the only thing wet.
The video looped again.
And again.
Until finally I forced myself to read the caption on the screen:
"Your body, my choice... or whatever they say."
A breath of a laugh escaped me at his cleverly misconstrued statement.
Of course he was funny too.
That made it worse
I shouldn't have still been on his page. I should've locked my phone, shut TikTok down, gone back to my notes, and pretended I didn't just willingly open a door in my brain I was now incapable of closing.
Instead, I stayed.
My thumb hovered over the screen like it had a mind of its own, hovering between sanity and whatever this was becoming.
His comment sat there like it was branded into my notifications, I kept rereading it.
Good girl.
My stomach did something irritating.
"Relax," I whispered to myself, like that would help.
I locked my phone for exactly three seconds.
Then it lit up again.
A notification.
My breath caught before I even processed it.
rusticabuse liked your comment.
That was it.
One tiny interaction buried under hundreds of others.
But my pulse still jumped like it meant something.
And then—
Another notification.
I stared at it.
rusticabuse viewed your profile.
My thumb went still on the screen.
No.
No, that didn't mean anything. People clicked profiles all the time. Accidentally. Curiosity. Algorithm nonsense. Nothing weird. Nothing intentional.
Except my brain didn't believe that for even half a second.
I clicked into his page again, like I could find an explanation sitting there waiting for me.
Nothing new.
No reply. No follow. No DM.
Just him.
Still there.
Like he hadn't just paused on me.
I swallowed, suddenly aware of how quiet my room was again.
My textbook sat open beside me, still stuck on the same O-Chem page like it had given up on me too.
"Functional groups..." I muttered, dragging a hand down my face.
Right.
Functional groups.
Not masked men on TikTok who viewed your profile like they had a reason.
I forced myself to focus back on my notes.
Read the same sentence again.
And again.
But I couldn't feel it stick.
Because every few seconds, my eyes flicked back to my phone like it might light up again.
I hated that part the most—the waiting. The stupid, suspended feeling that something was about to happen, even when nothing logically should.
I set my phone face down.
It flipped back up within seconds.
Of course it did.
Because I couldn't leave it alone.
I reached for my notes again, forcing my eyes to lock onto the page.
Functional groups... determine chemical reactivity... predict molecular behavior...
My brain skimmed it like it meant nothing.
Buzz.
My phone vibrated against the desk.
This time, I didn't move immediately.
I just stared at it.
Like, if I ignored it long enough, it would stop feeling important.
It didn't.
Finally, I grabbed it.
A notification.
Not a comment.
Not a like.
A new post.
My stomach tightened before I even opened it.
I clicked.
The video loaded instantly.
The Josh mask.
But this time, there was no caption at first—just him sitting there, still, like he was waiting for something.
Then text appeared across the screen:
'Hello, sweetheart.'
My breath caught.
That wasn't a caption.
That was a greeting.
My thumb hovered over the screen, suddenly unsure what I was even doing here anymore.
The video continued—his head tilting slightly, slow and deliberate, like he was waiting for a reaction he already expected.
Like he knew I'd see it.
My pulse picked up.
I told myself it was a coincidence. Engagement bait. Something meant for everyone and no one at the same time.
But my eyes kept drifting back to the words.
Hello sweetheart.
Personal, in a way that didn't make sense for a stranger on the internet.
My phone felt heavier in my hand now.
Then I replayed the video again, like that would somehow make it less real.
Hello sweetheart.
I let out a short laugh under my breath.
"That's not—" I stopped myself.
Not what? Not for me? Not specific? Not possible?
I locked my phone.
Three seconds later, I unlocked it again.
Because that was the problem.
It wasn't just what he said.
It was the timing.
I clicked back to his profile.
Nothing had changed.
Same posts. Same bio. Same silence pretending to be normal.
Except now it didn't feel normal.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "Relax. It's TikTok. It's literally just engagement bait."
But my eyes kept flicking back to his username anyway.
Like it meant something different now.
I set my phone down.
Opened my textbook.
Stared at the same paragraph I'd already read ten times.
Functional groups determine chemical reactivity...
My brain didn't even try to absorb it.
Buzz.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned my phone over.
Rusticabuse sent a message request.
My hand went completely still.
For a second, I didn't move at all.
Because that didn't make sense.
Not really.
He had millions of people watching him. Thousands of comments. A locked, curated presence behind a mask and a persona.
And somehow—
I was staring at a direct line to him.
My thumb hovered over the notification.
I didn't open it right away.
That was the problem.
I already wanted to.
My stomach tightened as I tapped it.
The request opened.
One message.
Short.
Clean.
Too intentional to feel like a coincidence.
"You're not subtle."
My breath caught.
I stared at it.
Read it again.
And again.
Because there were a thousand ways to interpret that sentence—and none of them made it feel safer.
My fingers went cold around the phone.
I typed nothing.
Deleted nothing.
Just... sat there.
Because suddenly it didn't feel like I had been commenting on his videos.
It felt like he had been watching the way I did it.
Like he had been noticing patterns I didn't even know I had.
Another message appeared.
Like he didn't need me to respond to continue.
"I like that."
My throat went dry.
Then another message came before I could process the last, hell, before I could process the first.
"Feeling shy are we?"
I stared at the screen.
Not typing.
Not moving.
Just staring.
Because something about the speed of it didn't feel normal anymore.
It didn't feel like someone casually responding to a stranger on the internet.
It felt like someone watching me hesitate.
Like silence itself was part of the conversation.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Then stopped.
Because I didn't know what answer he even wanted.
Or worse—
I did.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to think logically.
This was just a message request. Just words on a screen. Just a stranger with a curated persona behind a mask and a username.
But my heartbeat didn't care about logic.
It kept climbing anyway.
Slow. Steady. Loud.
I glanced back at my open textbook, still sitting useless beside me.
Functional groups. Chemical behavior. Predictable reactions.
Nothing about this felt predictable anymore.
And I hated that I was still here.
Still reading.
Still not closing it.
My phone buzzed again.
I didn't move immediately this time.
Just stared at it.
Like I already knew I shouldn't open it.
Then I did anyway.
A new message appeared.
No delay. No hesitation.
Just one line.
"Still overthinking, Bunny?"
My breath caught so fast it almost hurt.
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
My stomach tightened in a way I couldn't immediately explain.
Bunny.
That wasn't—
No one called me that anymore.
Not here. Not online. Not in anything I had signed up for or posted or shared.
It was just—
A childhood thing.
My thumb went still on the screen.
That wasn't normal.
That wasn't a username thing. Not a typo. Not a coincidence.
Something about it slid under my skin in a way I couldn't explain—like hearing a name I hadn't heard in years but couldn't place fast enough to feel safe about it.
My mind tried to grab onto logic again.
Internet nickname. Random pet name. Something he used for everyone. Something harmless.
But it didn't feel harmless.
It felt specific.
Too specific.
My pulse ticked louder in my ears as I reread the message.
Still overthinking, Bunny.
Like he already knew what I was doing.
Like he already knew me.