You slide the paper bag across the polished oak table. The hooded figure opposite you leans in, curiosity pricking through the low brim of his cap.

“Where the hell did you find this?!” he hisses, voice muffled by the hood.

You suppress a grin. “Remember that tiny Norfolk village I moaned about? The one you thought had nothing but sheep and lukewarm tea? Turns out it’s a treasure trove of retired knotters who sell the odd eccentric craft.”

He peels back the tissue paper to reveal the gleaming prize: a hand-crocheted jumper, not for you, but—of course—for one of his beloved hedgehogs. Midnight navy with silver flecks, trimmed in candy-stripe cuffs. You watch the way his rapper-hardened gaze softens at the sight.

He raises an eyebrow. “You tracked this down all the way to… Mrs Pemberley’s Crochet Emporium? The woman who still thinks ‘Spotify’ is a skin ointment?”

You shrug, triumphant. “She’s the only one left in Britain licensed to knit for ‘aurochs and other small mammals’. Plus, she owed me two dozen scones.”

He leans back, blinking. “I can’t believe someone actually makes these. I thought you were joking when I told you about my ‘midnight hedge-crew meet-ups’.” He clears his throat. “All rap and no fur—right?”

You poke him in the ribs. “Oh, come off it. Last week you were livestreaming from the studio, dropping bars about street life… then panicked when the beam of your ring light drifted into your igloo of knitting needles.”

He winces. “That was one time. And I wasn’t panicking—just—adjusting the exposure.”

A waiter drifts by and gives you both a curious look. You straighten up and nod politely. Your boyfriend tucks the jumper back into the bag, cheeks tinged pink.

“Honestly,” he mutters, “if the tabloids got wind of my hedgehog-haute-couture habit, they’d have a field day.”

You lean forward and whisper, loud enough for the waiter to hear, “But darling, which is cooler? A No.1 rap single or the nation’s first hedgehog fashion guru?”

He groans, then quirks a reluctant grin. “Only you could turn my career into a hedgehog runway. But…thanks, love. You always know how to keep me humble.”

You rise, bag in hand. “Birthday boy, remember—nothing says ‘I adore you’ like a perfectly fitted jumper for your spiky mate.”

He stands too, hood dipping low over his face. “Just promise me one thing: when your autobiography comes out, you’ll leave this bit in.”

You wink. “Don’t worry—I’ve already reserved the hedgehog illustration for the front cover.”

He chuckles, head shaking. “Great. Then let’s get home before anyone sees us dallying over quaint knitwear. My street cred can only withstand so many yarn puns.”

You link arms and stroll off into the drizzle, him mumbling about “#HedgeCrew4Life” and you inwardly celebrating the best birthday surprise ever.