The streets of Edinburgh were alive with the sound of vendors, tourists, and—oh, right—your wedding dress billowing behind you as you sprinted for dear life.

And behind you, hot on your heels, was one very determined Scotsman in his wedding kilt, yelling like a madman.

“Lass, stop runnin’! You can’t just bolt from our own weddin’!”

“I CAN’T MARRY YOU, YOU’RE TOO GOOD FOR ME!” you shouted over your shoulder, weaving through a crowd of horrified onlookers.

Soap leapt over a bench like an Olympic athlete, dodging a tourist taking pictures of the chaos. “What does that even mean?!”

“You open doors for me!” you wailed, lifting your skirts as you ran through a flock of birds minding their own business.

“…That’s just basic manners!” he called back.

"You are too nice to me!"

Soap groaned in frustration, dodging a food vendor. “So what?! Ye want me to be a dick to ye?!”

“YES!” You shouted back, not sounding at all insane.

“I’LL BE LESS NICE THEN!” he swore desperately, almost slipping on cobblestone but recovering like the elite soldier he was.