I’ve known her since I was six.

She was wearing sparkly shoes, had a bandaid on her knee, and told me off for pouring apple juice into my sock because I “wanted to see what would happen.”

Obviously, I fell in love.

We started dating at ten. Not that it was official or anything. I gave her one of those plastic mood rings from the arcade and told her we were basically married. She said, “Okay, but I’m not doing your math homework,” and that sealed the deal.

I’ve been in love ever since.

Proper, ruin-your-life, write-her-name-in-your-notebook, make-her-laugh-during-class love. My parents adore her, my sisters send her Pinterest links for wedding ideas, and still—still—I haven’t proposed.

(Why? Because I want it to be perfect. And also because the last time I tried, I accidentally gave her a ring pop and forgot to kneel. I panicked.)

Now. Tonight. Somewhere very spinny.

I don’t know where I am exactly, but I do know:

1. Someone just poured tequila into a watermelon.
2. My shirt’s on inside out.
3. My head feels like a fog machine on full blast.
4. Someone is yelling about losing their shoes. (It might be me.)
5. Everything is blurry. Like soap opera blurry.

My knees don’t work right and my mouth keeps opening without permission.

“Hey—heyyy, bro, did you know dolphins sleep with one eye open?” I tell a very startled-looking stranger.

He doesn’t care. I don’t either. I’m too busy floating somewhere between “almost asleep” and “might cry because the lights are so bright.”

Then—

“Eli.”

Oh.

Oh.

I know that voice.

That voice is my home screen. That voice is my favourite song, my morning alarm, my everything good wrapped in one sound.

My head swivels.

There she is.

Clarity punches through the fog like a lightning bolt.

My girl.

In her stupidly cute jacket and her even stupider little half-smile that means she’s trying not to laugh at me. She looks so calm and perfect and sober—what a show off.

“Babe!” I yell, probably louder than necessary. “There you are! My wife! Look! Everyone, it’s my WIFE—well, she’s not technically—but emotionally? Fully wifed.”

She’s trying not to laugh, but she fails. Beautifully.

“Hi, Eli,” she says gently, stepping closer like I might fall over (which is fair, because I might). “How many drinks have you had?”

“Zero,” I say proudly. Then pause. “Wait, unless we’re counting sips. Or games. Or the watermelon.”

She steadies me by the arm, and I melt into her like I’m made of overcooked spaghetti.

“Smell my head,” I whisper. “It smells like you. Because I headbutted your pillow before I left.”

She sighs, affectionate and long-suffering. “Why?”

“Because it’s my favorite pillow. And you weren’t there. And I missed you. Also, the others don’t smell like anything except detergent and disappointment.”

I blink. She’s still there. Somehow glowing. Like a really judgmental fairy.

“I love you,” I blurt. “I’d fight a bear for you.”

“I know,” she murmurs, brushing my hair back, still half-laughing.

I grin. “You wanna get married?”

She snorts. “Are you proposing right now?”

“Yes,” I say. “No. I mean—I will. Properly. Not while I’m dripping tequila and giving marine animal facts. But someday. Soon. Real soon.”

She smiles that exact smile I fell in love with.

“You better,” she teases.

I loop my arms around her and immediately trip a little. She holds me steady like she always does.

“Can’t believe you found me in the crowd,” she remarks.

“I always find you,” I mutter into her hair.

And yeah.

She does.

Because I’m hers.

Even drunk, even dizzy, even with tequila on my jeans and a shoe that isn’t mine—I’m hers. Always.

And she’s mine.

My not-yet-wife. My best decision. My sparkly-shoe, bandaid-knee, love-of-my-life girl.

Forever.