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Henn nods excitedly. “Our song.”
I bring my hand to my heart, feeling like it’s going to burst from joy. “I can’t believe you arranged all this. Thank you!”
Henn kisses me, and we cuddle up and enjoy the view and the violinist’s performance while sipping our glorious champagne. Midway through the song, however, Henn wordlessly takes my glass, places it on a nearby ledge, and guides me into a gentle twirl, which then leads to us dancing in a clinch throughout the remainder of the song.
When the violinist’s performance ends, Henn dips me dramatically and kisses me while I’m hanging low. When he raises me up, he nuzzles his nose to mine and whispers, “Happy birthday, my love. You’re the birdhouse for the little blue birdie that is my soul.”
“And you’re mine. Thank you so much.”
With a peck to my cheek, Henn releases me and reaches into his coat. A second later, he’s holding up a little wrapped box—a cube shape that’s wrapped in bright blue “Happy Birthday!” paper and tied with an elegant, golden bow.
My heart stops at the sight of Henn’s gift.
Is that an engagement ring? Is he about to propose?
No. Calm down, Hannah. The wrapping reads “Happy Birthday!” and people don’t wrap up engagement rings—they kneel with them on full display while popping the question.
But maybe Henn doesn’t know that. Or maybe this birthday wrapping is a ruse to throw me off, so when I unwrap his gift and see the ring, I swoon even harder at the surprise of it all!
“Thank you,” I whisper, taking the wrapped box from him. I unwrap it, slowly, with shaking hands, and what I ultimately find inside the box is so damned lovely and thoughtful and perfect, I forget all about hoping it’s an engagement ring. Henn has gifted me with a necklace—a dainty one featuring a jeweled pendant: a sapphire birdie nestled inside a sparkling, diamond-encrusted birdhouse.
Teary-eyed, I hug him. “Thank you. I love it. Where on earth did you find it? It’s perfect.”
“I had it made for you. Apparently, little blue birdies sitting inside birdhouses aren’t a hot commodity on the open jewelry market.”
As I laugh, I suddenly realize there’s a photographer snapping photos of the moment. “Did you hire her?” I ask, wiping tears. “Because if she’s an Eiffel Tower staffer, I’m going to blow every dime of my savings purchasing every shot she takes.”
Henn chuckles. “She’s ours for as long as we want. I thought you might like some professional photos of your birthday celebration.”
“Wow, you truly thought of everything. Thank you.”
“I’ve got another birthday present for you. Come with me.” As I protest the fact that Henn has already done too much, he takes my hand and guides me several feet away. “Thankfully, the weather cooperated,” he murmurs excitedly. “The stars are out for us tonight in full force.”
We stop at our apparent destination—a telescope—at which point, Henn pulls out a piece of paper from his coat pocket, studies it, and then bends over to peer into the telescope. He shifts its aim a few times, zeroing in on something specific, and when he’s got the telescope pointed the way he wants, he gestures for me to take a peek. When I do, he asks, “Do you see those two stars in the middle of the framing? The ones that look closer together than any of the others, like they’re holding hands?”
It takes me a few seconds, but soon, I see what he’s describing. “I see them! Aw. Are those two stars you and me, Henny?”
“They are. Officially. According to the official registry of the International Space Registry.”
I straighten up. “What?”
By way of explanation, Henn hands me the piece of paper in his hand—an official-looking certificate. With a huge smile, he says, “The star on the left is officially registered as Dorkus Millikeningus. The one on the right, as Dorkus Hennessingus.”
I look down at the certificate he’s handed me, and sure enough, it confirms everything he just said. I hug him, thank him profusely, and pepper his face with kisses. “What an amazing gift.”
When we pull back, Henn’s eyes are as moist as mine. He says, “I registered those two stars during my first visit to Seattle. All the way back then, I knew we were two of a kind—written in the stars. That one day, I’d show you those two stars and that certificate, and that I’d then . . .” As his sentence trails off, Henn looks down at his watch. He holds up an index finger, telling me to hold on. About ten awkward seconds pass, during which I can’t help shifting my weight and making all manner of weird faces. What is he waiting for? What’s the rest of his sentence? Finally, Henn lowers his finger and says, “And that I’d get down on my knee and beg you to marry me.”
