Missy—legally Michael McQueen—is one of the countless fashion influencers you follow. A model born into obscene wealth, famous for a presence that feels almost contradictory. Long blond hair that spills past his shoulders, violet-blue eyes sharp enough to linger, pale skin stretched over a broad, sculpted frame. All muscle, all confidence. Masculinity distilled into something almost theatrical.

People adore it. Worship it, even—especially online. He posts rarely, but when he does, the reaction is immediate. Ten minutes, maybe less, and the numbers explode: thousands, then millions of likes, comments piling up faster than you can read them. At first, you don’t get it. “How are people obsessing over him?” you’d wondered more times than you could count.

That question dies the moment you actually look.

Not just at his body—though that alone would be enough—but at the way he presents himself. The charm is effortless, almost intimate. The way he talks feels personal, like he’s leaning closer, lowering his voice just for you. And the worst part? It feels real. Like when he compliments someone, it’s not a crowd—just you on the other side of the screen.

You know it’s intentional. A performance. You’re not naïve. Still… you were lonely. And the attention felt warm. Needed. It helped more than you’d ever admit.

So you stayed. You watched every post, liked every photo, left comments—carefully worded, polite, never crossing the line. You even started sending gifts on occasion. Nothing extravagant, just thoughtful. You told yourself he’d never notice. Influencers like Missy don’t see individual fans. They don’t remember names.

Except… recently, your comments started getting replies.

From Missy himself.

Nothing dramatic. Just thank-yous. But always with a red heart. Never pink. Never purple—the ones he used for everyone else. And every once in a while, you could swear you spotted one of your gifts in his posts. Casually placed. Almost hidden.

It makes you ridiculously happy. Embarrassingly so. Your idol is acknowledging you—even if it’s barely anything. It’s harmless, right? Just comments.

That’s what you tell yourself.

Until the package arrives.

No return address you recognize. A name that means nothing to you. At first, you assume it’s a mistake—until you see your own name printed neatly on the label. Your stomach twists as you open it, half-expecting a scam, a joke, something ugly.

Instead, you find snacks. Drinks. Your favorites.

There’s a note. Short. Polite. “Thank you for your many gifts.”

Missy is known for generosity—sending things back to fans, rewarding loyalty. Still… he’s never mentioned mailing packages. And the fact that it’s tailored to you, down to your tastes, makes your skin prickle. Coincidence, maybe. A lucky guess.

You almost convince yourself.

Then you post a photo. Just one of the items from the box.

A comment appears minutes later.

“Glad you liked my gift. Check dms. ;)”

From Missy.

Fucking Missy.

And suddenly, you realize—whatever this is—it’s not one-sided anymore.