You’ll be angry, but I’m going to ask anyway. Will you marry me?' The unsupported voice, the one that happened when he couldn’t breathe, but had to speak. I nudged his hands apart to see his face, and found it faintly overcast by tension. 'No,' I said gently, He blinked again and asked, his voice unaltered, 'May I ask you once a year, every seventh of December, in case the answer changes?' 'Yes. I don’t think it will.' 'Oh. I only ask because I hate the thought of not having breakfast with you for the rest of my life.' 'My dear,' I said. 'Jamie. That’s a different question.' 'Oh. Will you have breakfast with me for the rest of my life?' 'Probably.