“We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?” Mycroft stared at Greg as if he’d grown another head.
“Come on, when was the last time you came out from under that umbrella?” Greg grinned at him, going to snatch it from his hand.
“Gregory!” He twisted away, only to slip in a puddle and land square on his arse, umbrella skidding from his hands.
Laughing, Greg offered him a hand up, pulling him into a kiss as thunder rolled over them. Mycroft returned it, then pulled away and looked him in the eye. “I am sending you my dry cleaning bill.”
“Fair.”