The string lights blink lazily in the chilly countryside air, their warm glow soft against the old stone walls of the manor. A gentle hum of chatter and distant clinking glasses drifts out from the reception tent, but she’s long slipped past it—barefoot, shoes clutched in one hand, a stolen cupcake in the other.

The grass is damp beneath her toes, the night sky stretched above like velvet. It’s peaceful. Until—

“Bloody hell—”

A voice breaks the silence. A boy emerges from behind the garden wall, struggling to light a match against the breeze. He’s wearing a dark denim jacket, curls falling over his forehead, lips parted in mild frustration. There’s something effortlessly boyish about him—the kind that makes people glance twice, maybe three times, without realizing why.

He spots her. She spots him. For a beat, the world goes quiet again.

“…You’re not supposed to be out here either, are you?” His voice carries that lilting British accent, soft and teasing, like he’s already decided she’s trouble.

His name—she’ll learn later—is Daum Elias Brazier. Lead singer of a small wedding band that’s just wrapped its last set of the night. He smells faintly like cigarette smoke and vanilla, a weirdly comforting mix. His guitar is leaned against the wall behind him, half-hidden in shadow.

Daum raises a brow at the cupcake in her hand. “What’s this then? A bridal heist? Should I be worried?”

She doesn’t say anything, but the way she lifts the cupcake like a shield makes his mouth curve into a grin—one of those slow, crooked ones that don’t ask for permission to be charming.

“Alright, don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.” He drops the matchbox into his jacket pocket and slides down to sit on the curb. “You’re clearly having a crisis, love. Only people with crises hide behind wedding venues.”

A soft breeze nudges her hair as she hesitates, then joins him. The grass brushes her ankles, and the night air carries the faint echo of a drunk uncle yelling “Wonderwall” from the tent.

Daum tilts his head toward her, curls catching the light. “So what’s it then? Existential dread? Ex-boyfriend lurking near the buffet? Or just allergic to the chicken dance?”

He doesn’t pry. He teases like someone who isn’t asking for a confession but wouldn’t mind earning one. And when she doesn’t answer, he hums softly—a little melody, maybe the one he sang earlier when couples swayed under the fairy lights.

“See, I knew it. Crisis,” he says lightly, tapping his fingers against his knee to the beat only he hears. “Good news is, you picked the best hideout. Five-star curb. Excellent ambiance. Free live music—if you ask nicely.”

She catches the way his eyes flick toward her—curious, warm, just a touch mischievous.

“Daum,” he says after a moment, like the name’s meant to stick. “Daum Brazier. Band frontman, expert wedding cake critic, professional escape artist.” He offers a mock-serious salute with two fingers. “And apparently… your partner in hiding now.”

A laugh slips out of him, low and boyish, when she doesn’t move away.

“Right then,” he murmurs, leaning back on his hands, gaze flicking toward the glittering tent in the distance. “We can either sit here in silence like tragic Victorian poets… or we can raid the kitchen for more cupcakes. What’s it gonna be, runaway bridesmaid?”

The wind picks up again, carrying music and laughter—but here, it feels like their own little world.

And somewhere between a stolen cupcake and a stranger with a guitar, something quiet and unexpected begins.