It started, as many extraordinary things do, in the most ordinary of places: a coffee shop. But not just any coffee shop, Tatte, that temple of warmth and caffeine tucked into the heart of downtown Washington, D.C., humming with the low buzz of ambition and espresso steam. That day, the light caught just right on the windows, and inside, amid clinking cups and murmured conversations, Katie and Christian met for the very first time.

They didn’t waste time with pleasantries. No weather reports, no “so, what do you do?” Instead, they plunged headfirst into deep conversation. It was not a first date. It was a recognition.

From then on, life unfolded like a novel you just couldn’t quite put down. They wandered the trails of Shenandoah, finding quiet joy in the views and each other. They played cheeky rounds of mini golf at Swingers, where the neon lights couldn’t outshine the spark between them. They took spontaneous day trips to New York, the kind of impulse that only makes sense when you’re wildly, giddily in sync – wandering the High Line, ducking into Chelsea Market, stealing bites and laughs.

Their love became a moving thing, like a current that carried them across borders and seasons. It was in a little café across from the Montreal Christmas Market, dusted in soft white snow, where “I love you” fell from their lips like the snowflakes falling outside – inevitable, gentle, perfect.

Valentine’s Day at DC’s Le Diplomate. Snorkeling in Honduras, galloping horses on wet sand, laughing along the shoreline. Seventeen states, eight countries and counting. One shared passport of the soul.

But love is not measured in miles. It’s measured in the moments that leave you vulnerable. Like the night Katie’s apartment caught fire and she found herself surrounded by ashes, not knowing where to go. Christian was quite literally in the sky at the time, 35,000 feet above the earth, but somehow, still, he grounded her. He called after landing and said, with the calm certainty of a man who knows where home truly is:

“No, wait. Just ask if you can break your lease. Move in with me.”

And that was it. No drama. No hesitation. Just love made real through action. Through grocery lists, quiet Tuesday evenings, and a cat named Olivia who unexpectedly (but undeniably) stole Katie’s heart too.

They weathered illness. Work. The strange static of the everyday. And through it all, they both stood steady, a love that didn’t arrive with fanfare, but with presence.

And then came Iceland. Windswept, surreal, hauntingly beautiful Iceland. In front of Seljalandsfoss, with the mist in the air and the sound of falling water around them, Christian Knelt. Time paused. The air held its breath. And he asked Katie the only question that ever truly mattered:

“Will you marry me?”

Now here they are. Standing at the edge of something new and sacred. Not a beginning, but a continuation. Of joy. Of risk. Of choosing each other, again and again, in every language, in every country, in every moment that will come.

Their love is not perfect. But it is true, and alive, and the kind that feels like waking up on Christmas morning, full of wonder, a little wild, and wholly yours.

They can’t wait to celebrate with you. Because every great story needs its witnesses.