A/N: I watched this movie a couple of weeks ago for the first time since it was released, and I realized I'd forgotten how cheesy yet adorable and charming it was. I actually was more enamored with the Libby/Henry romance than I was with the Ian/Daphne romance (though Ian in his white suit singing at Peach and Pear Orwood's ball was absolutely swoon-worthy). So I figured I'd write a little something about them.

Disclaimer: Nope, doesn't belong to me. Also, the title, and the lyrics at the beginning and the end, belong to "Like A Star" by Corinne Bailey Rae. Beautiful song – give it a listen if you haven't already.

just like a star across my sky,
just like an angel off the page,
you have appeared to my life,
feel like i'll never be the same

He's mingling with a few people he vaguely knows, Glynnis on one arm, just like he always does. Partly to do his duty and to keep up appearances, but also - if he's being honest here - partly to avoid looking at Daphne, because he knows that she knows that he knows that she's out of her element and miserable here, and he knows that she knows that he knows that it's his fault.

He hears the faint sounds of laughter and cries of glee, and turns around by instinct. And by a force more powerful than instinct, he stops in his tracks. Because standing there, laughing and smiling and embracing Daphne, is Libby, her long hair swept up, wearing an elegant blue gown, as radiant and mesmerizingly beautiful as she was when she fell into his arms and into his life seventeen years ago. And for a split second, he's so shell-shocked and dizzy and spellbound that he's absolutely certain this must be a dream.

She and Daphne float toward him, and as Libby approaches, the scent of her perfume wafts toward him, citrus and honeysuckle and something else, something sweet and fragrant and wild and wonderfully, achingly familiar. And just like that, the air shifts and his lungs threaten to burst out, and he's twenty-four years old again and she makes his world spin and his heart do backflips against his chest. Suddenly all he can recall is long blonde hair and sun-kissed skin and limbs brushing against desert sand and floral scarves flowing in the wind against the hum of a motorcycle engine... and suddenly the old, desperate ache is back in full force - the ache for light and color and passion and adventure and feeling alive.

"Hello, Henry," she says, and paradoxically, the sound of her voice - here in front of him, without the distance of a telephone or an ocean, gentle and melodic and not a note different from when he first heard it, all those years ago - simultaneously keeps him in the past and snaps him back to reality.

"Libby," he says, voice catching in his throat, momentarily incapable of saying or doing anything else. All he can do is stare at her, marveling at how even seventeen years later, she can still take his breath away.

Not four days later, he boards a plane to New York City (how could he not?). And when the boat docks and he finally gives Daphne her father-daughter dance and their eyes lock from across the floor, he knows that his political campaign be damned - for the first time in a long time, he's doing the right thing.

just like a song in my heart,
just like oil on my hands,
honour to love you