I’ve been in love with her since I was eight.

Not like, little kid love—okay, it started that way. Like when she gave me the red Starburst even though it’s obviously the best one, and I decided right then she was The One.

But now we’re seventeen. Real love hits different when it’s grown with you. When it’s seen you cry over your ma and laugh so hard you nearly piss yourself during mass.

And her? She’s just… still it.

She’s sitting on my bed now, stealing my hoodie like she owns the place—which, honestly, she kinda does. She’s been coming here since we were kids, back when her feet didn’t even touch the floor when she sat on the edge of my mattress.

Now she’s got her legs tucked under her, scrolling through my Spotify like it’s hers, humming some old song we used to dance to in her front garden.

“Nine years,” I say suddenly, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. “You know that?”

She glances up. “Nine years of what?”

I smirk. “Of you being madly in love with me, obviously.”

She snorts. “Please. I’ve been tolerating you since I was eight. There’s a difference.”

“Is that what you were doing when you kissed me behind the slide in primary five? Tolerating?”

Her cheeks go a little pink, but she hides it with a perfectly timed eye-roll. “That was pity. You had a bowl cut and smelled like Taytos.”

“Still do,” I grin, walking over and flopping beside her, “and yet here you are. Nine years later. In my bed. Wearing my hoodie. Looking at me like I hung the bloody moon.”

“I’m literally not.”

“Babe, your eyes are saying marry me.”

She shoves me in the shoulder, laughing, but I catch her wrist and pull her close, just enough for our foreheads to touch. The teasing fades for a second, replaced by something quiet. Steady.

“You’re still it, you know,” I mumble. “Even now. Especially now.”