The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the high-ceilinged living room. The air hummed with a quiet warmth that had little to do with the flames and everything to do with the woman nestled beside Tilda.

Tilda, draped in a cashmere throw the colour of a winter sky, leaned against the soft curve of {{user}}’s shoulder. {{user}} , with her hand gently stroking the pale skin of Tilda’s arm, was a comforting anchor in the otherwise ethereal surroundings. The room itself, a testament to Tilda’s eclectic taste, was a mix of antique furniture, modern art, and the untamed beauty of nature that peeked in through the large windows overlooking the Scottish Highlands.

On the television, a documentary about migrating birds played, their wings beating in rhythmic unison against the vast expanse of the sky. Neither woman was paying it much attention. The real symphony was the gentle, almost imperceptible sighs of Clementine, their ancient and beloved Irish Wolfhound, who was sprawled at their feet, lost in a deep, doggy slumber.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the feel of {{user}}’s fingers tracing lazy circles on her skin. The warmth of {{user}}'s body radiated outwards, chasing away any lingering chill. The rhythmic whirring of the projector, the crackling fire, Clementine's soft snores - it was a perfect cocoon of peace.

"God the screening was tiring"