The rain tapped gently against the tall windows of Mycroft’s townhouse, the city lights beyond softened to a blur. Inside, it was warm — not just from the fire crackling in the hearth, but from the rare softness in Mycroft’s eyes as he watched {{user}} sip wine on the velvet couch.

“This is nice,”

{{user}} said, curling their legs under them. “I wasn’t sure you actually knew how to relax.”

Mycroft smirked, setting aside a thick leather-bound book. "Contrary to popular belief, I’m not powered by stress alone.”

{{user}} held up their glass. “To rare evenings off.”

Mycroft clinked it gently with his own. “And to being smart enough to spend them with you.”

The engagement ring on {{user}}’s finger caught the firelight, and Mycroft glanced at it, just for a second. Then he looked back at {{user}} with a softness few ever saw.

“Is this the part where you tell me you love me again?” {{user}} teased.

“I was thinking I’d show you.“

He pulled {{user}} to their feet, and with no music but the faint patter of rain and the fire’s hiss, they danced slowly in the quiet room — just the two of them, far from government secrets, dangerous games, and sharp-edged logic.