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My palm covers my mouth. I want to kick myself for being so incredibly stupid. The world can see our exchange. Everyone can! The repercussions of what just transpired between us online sets in.

My mood plummets. Finally, my dick takes a seat. In my haze of uncontrolled horniness, I thought Sophia would see the post and we’d talk it out. We would agree to rules of engagement because we’re still us.

If I were lucky.

But now, because I was being an idiot, the entire social media stratosphere has read our banter. They can see us flirting. This is dangerous.

With normal people, it wouldn’t matter. But Sophia and I are not normal. In our own respective worlds, we are watched. But with our worlds collided? We are an explosion, and we just detonated all over the internet. I can feel the shift even before I see the collateral damage.

Digging further, I find the first signs.

Others have responded to her comment. There are positive messages like, “This is the internet union we all deserve,” and “Salami boy saves angry bride,” and “Angry bride prefers slapping Giovanni’s salami over Roman’s Chicago beef.”

Okay, that’s a little funny. I hold my forehead.

They are stupid and harmless, but my hackles rise at the knowledge of what’s mixed in. I scroll on. The first troll isn’t hard to find. The issue is it’s the worst possible one. Roman.

How the hell did he find her comment so quickly?

I fume at his pathetic response.

Don’t bother, salami boy. Not even a diamond ring could budge those virginal thighs open.

Roman’s comment has five thousand likes, and he brought his band of trolls to the party. Now they are running rampant all over my page like an infestation.

“Fucking hell.”

In a whoosh of water, I’m out of the pool before you can say, “Fuck that asshole.” I’m ferociously focused on blocking Roman, his comment, and every negative comment after his.

It’s the only way to protect Sophia. I can’t let her see how terrible people are. She doesn’t deserve it, especially not from Roman. He’s done enough.

No matter what I do, though, no matter how many trolls I block, the gospel according to Roman is out. Beyond my page, his message spreads at breakneck speed. Sophia is a late-twenty-something-year-old virgin. And everyone, and I mean everyone on the internet, is talking about it. Their new hashtag is #AngryVirginBride.

An hour later, my crusade continues. Thankfully, Sophia’s lights remain off. And hopefully, I can clean up this mess before she discovers it in the morning.

By three a.m., I’ve given up completely. I delete my video and, in turn, Sophia’s comment. Before I do, though, I take a snapshot for myself. It’s confirmation that it wasn’t a figment of my imagination. Her wanting me is not some fever dream living in my lonely, delusional mind.

Still, the damage is done. Romantically linked, Sophia and I create too much interest. Even in the middle of the night, the social-media machine has taken over. Photos of us from the festival have made their way to my feed.

Now I understand. That’s why Roman was trolling my page. He probably saw a festival video and was waiting to strike.

Exhausted and defeated from battle, I ascend the stairs to our room, now regretting the original post. In the morning, I’ll have to explain what transpired. Instead, I should have been a man, stopped the games, and asked her point-blank what’s going on between us.

I fucked up. Bad.

Between Sophia, Roman, and me, we are a real-life soap opera. I drop my forehead on the bedroom door. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. Unfortunately for Sophia, I can’t take it back, and neither can she. What’s done is done. Screenshots are forever.

I quietly step inside the bedroom, not wanting to wake her. She needs rest. After this afternoon, I’m worried about her. This is another emotional bomb she’ll have to withstand.

Within my sheet cubicle, I crawl into bed and collapse, my face smashed into the pillow. My eyes burn from staring at the phone’s screen for hours. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth. My balls? Well, they hurt too. They’ve been on a roller-coaster ride for days.

Still, with all the pain I’m in, I’m three seconds from sleep. I’m drifting, drifting . . .

A door creaks.

One blurry eye cracks open.

A beam of golden light cuts across the ceiling above me and snaps off. Sophia’s feet pad across the floor from the bathroom to her bed. After rustling blankets, she settles.