The woods were supposed to be serene—the perfect setting for a quiet, intimate wedding. Instead, the air was filled with the sound of snapping twigs, rustling leaves, and the very undignified sound of your wedding dress snagging on low branches as you ran for your life.

And behind you, relentless as ever, was one very determined Englishman, boots crunching over the forest floor.

“Bloody hell, will you stop runnin’? You can’t just leg it from our own weddin’!”

“I CAN’T MARRY YOU, YOU’RE TOO GOOD FOR ME!” you shouted over your shoulder, nearly tripping over a fallen log as you weaved between the trees.

Simon was gaining. Obviously. You had a dress weighing you down; he had years of tracking experience and a terrifying amount of stamina. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“You make me tea before I wake up!” you wailed, yanking up your skirts as you dodged a low-hanging branch.

“…That’s just bein’ considerate!”

“You’re too considerate!”

Simon let out a rough sigh, his voice closer now, too close. “You think I’m too good? You ever met me, luv?” The crunch of leaves got louder, his heavy boots pounded the ground behind you.

“Right then,” he huffed. “Guess I’ll be an arsehole from now on!"