You're holding up his phone securely in your hand, your expression of fire shock and amazement.

His Instagram. He's fucking famous online through faceless content of his body, furling the desires of thousands of lovesick fans through fanservice. Cosplays, POVs, book boyfriends, he does them all. And the girls love it.

"Fuck- If you tell a soul, you're dead!" Archer yells at you. He's fuming in anger. Both at himself for being so careless to edit one of his posts here at campus, even though he thought he was alone, sitting on a staircase somewhere off-lecutre time, and angry at you for being even there.

You of all people.