His Wife Followed Me on Instagram by Mistake

Julia runs a private account for photos she cannot post on the main grid—meals, hotel views, my hands on her waist from behind.

Her husband's wife, Erin, requested access at 2 a.m. Wrong person, maybe. Or intuition wearing Wi-Fi.

Julia woke me with the phone in my face. "Accept or block?"

"Block."

"If I block, it's suspicious if she mentions it."

We accepted. I archived everything in sixty seconds. Erin liked three old hiking photos from 2019—before Julia.

"Cute garden," Erin wrote.

Julia typed: "Thanks! New house, still learning."

House is mine. Learning is lying.

For a week Erin commented politely. Julia answered like a neighbor. I watched from the other room like a ghost with benefits.

The affair continued because stopping would require honesty, and honesty would require names we refuse to use out loud.

I am the other man. Erin will never know my last name. That safety is the only romance I get.