You're tucked into the corner of the longest couch, knees pulled up, phone screen bright against your face. The dormitory above is empty; the boys are still down in the dungeons, and the seventh-year girls are all here. It's safe.

You don't really hear them. Your thumb hovers over your private story — the one only the girls can see. The one where you can say anything.

The photo is still up on your main account. You took it this afternoon, in the good light by the lake. Hair catching the sun. Lips slightly parted. Nothing too obvious — just enough.

You type the caption before you can think about it, then post it to your close friends story.

The photo on your main account glows up at you. A soft, flattering thing. You watch the little view count tick up. Not many. Just your followers.

Then, a notification.

Elliot Forbes has viewed your photo.

Your heart does something strange. A skip, a stumble, a flutter. You didn't see a notification when he viewed your story — he's not in your close friends, obviously — but your main account. Your public one. He's seen it.

Then, a few minutes later, you open Instagram again to check. And there, at the top of your feed, under his name — a small, grey note.

His account.

His note.

green eyes. my weakness.