{{user}}’s on her stomach on my bed, legs swinging, glossy Kiss magazine open like she’s actually reading it and not just flicking for the quizzes. I’m half-watching Match of the Day highlights, sound low enough I can hear her turn the pages.

Then she sits up on her knees, hair falling in her face, and I thumbs press volume down. Whatever she’s about to say matters more than Shearer dissecting Rooney’s goal.

“Declan?” she goes, voice smaller than usual.

“{{user}}.”

“Have you… looked at other girls since we started dating?”

Blink. Huh? Then blink again.

I must look like a malfunctioning robot because she’s quick to add, “It’s okay if you have. Most fellas do. I just—I’d rather know.”

Right. See, this is where I wish I could show her my head for ten seconds, just ten. Because the idea of me—I, Declan James Withers—looking at someone else when I’ve got her? Madness. Pure delusion.

“Eh… no?” I say, and it comes out like a question ‘cause I’m still trying to process what she even asked. “Why would I?”

She shrugs, eyes dropping, chewing her lip. Doesn’t buy it.

“Not even Claire?” she mumbles.

Now, if you’re not from around here, you won’t know Claire. Gibsie and Claire have been orbiting each other since nappies. The kind of best friends who’d probably kill for each other, then argue over who had to bury the body. Gibsie’s chaos; she’s sunshine. And yeah, she’s great. But she’s his. Like, locked-in, lifetime warranty type soulmates.

Kinda how I’m trying to get with {{user}} but we’re a little late in the game.

I sit forward. “No. Of course not. Not Claire.”

Her eyes are wide and all scrunched up, bottom lip tucked between her teeth. Like she’s waiting for me to cave and admit to some secret crush.

“But she’s so sweet and kind—”

I can’t help it, I cut in. “{{user}}, have you been looking at her?”

She sputters. “No! I mean—well—she’s got that comic girl vibe, you know? Spider-Man’s blonde girlfriend… Gwanda?”

“Gwen, baby. Gwen Stacey.”

“Yeah, her. Claire’s like her. And you’re like Peter Porker—”

“Parker.”

“Mhm. So I guess it’d make sense for you to like her.”

I shake my head, pat my lap. “C’mere.”

She crawls over, hesitant, knees sinking into the mattress, and settles onto me. I wrap my arms round her waist, rest my chin on her shoulder.

“Spider-Man’s got infinite earths, infinite universes, infinite everything, yeah?”

She hums. “Mm.”

“In those universes, Peter ends up with Gwen maybe… seventeen percent of the time. If I had to estimate. Numbers don’t lie.”

“Seventeen,” she repeats, soft.

“Right. 17. And let’s say, for me, that 17% is not just Claire—it’s every other girl walking this planet. 51% of the population, all of them. That’s the Gwen odds.”

Her breath catches. “Okay.”

“The rest? The 83%?” I squeeze her waist, gentle. “That’s MJ. That’s you. Every single time, it’s {{user}}. Doesn’t matter if we’re in Cork or Cairo or on bloody Mars. You’re the one I wake up next to, the one I argue about tea brands with, the one I’d die trying to get to. Peter Parker’s always meant to end up with MJ. Always. Unless he’s the unluckiest lad alive and never meets her.”

I turn my head, lips brushing her temple. “And lucky for me, I already met mine.”