The sun was dipping low behind the cracked fence behind Fezco’s house, casting that hazy orange glow over everything—the kind of light that made even the rusted-out lawn chairs and half-burnt porch wood look warm, soft, almost pretty. It still smelled like old smoke and cheap weed out there, but after weeks of dragging shit out, scrubbing floors, and fixing whatever Fez claimed he “had under control,” it actually started to feel like theirs.

Fez and Rue had strung up some dusty-ass fairy lights they found at a thrift store. Jules brought over milk crates and turned them into little stools with spray-painted cushions. Even Elliot showed up a couple times and helped patch a crack in the drywall—only half-high. The porch was cluttered with ashtrays, fast food cups, and half-finished art projects from Gia. But it had a vibe. It was theirs.

And Iliana—well, Iliana was glowing in that kind of glowing-but-miserable way that only someone eight months and three weeks pregnant could.

They were all outside that evening, sinking into stained cushions, drinking iced tea out of mismatched mugs. The heat was thick, buzzing with bugs and low conversation.

Ashtray was standing by the busted railing, spinning a wrench between his fingers like a fidget toy.

“Aight, listen though,” he said, nodding at nobody in particular. “We take that old-ass baby tub from the attic, right? Line it with towels, rig a Bluetooth speaker in it, maybe like… some disco lights or whatever, and boom—baby’s first crib-slash-bassinet-slash-chill spot.”

Rue squinted. “Are you… building the baby a rave?”

Ashtray smirked. “Not a rave. A vibe. Like… sensory development, early stimulation. I read about it.”

Fez snorted. “You ain’t read shit, bro.”

“I skimmed, Fez.”

Jules tilted her head, amused. “Honestly? Sounds kinda fire.”

Elliot deadpanned, “Until the Bluetooth fries the baby’s brain or whatever.”

Iliana, sitting cross-legged in Fez’s old hoodie, rubbed her belly and said dryly, “Yeah, let’s not microwave our child.”

Ash shrugged. “Y’all hatin’ on innovation.”

Right then, Iliana said his name. Just once.

“Ash.”

“I know, babe,” he said, still in pitch-mode, “but picture it—mini sunglasses, lil’ blanket, maybe a bubble machine—”

“Ash,” she said again. Louder. Firmer.

He turned to look at her.

Then looked down.

She wa standing up and there was a dark puddle on the porch under her.

Rue’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Did her water just—?”

Ashtray blinked. “Is that—? That’s—yo. Oh shit.”

Iliana stared at him with this exhausted you slow as hell expression.

Ash dropped the wrench instantly. “Aight! Okay! Nobody panic! Except maybe me. I’m definitely panicking but it’s controlled.”

Fez stood up so fast he knocked over the ashtray. “She’s in labor?”

“No bro, she just peed herself for fun,” Rue muttered, already standing too. “YES she’s in labor!”

Jules dashed inside. “Where’s the hospital bag?!”

“Closet! Next to Fez’s safe!” Iliana hissed, gripping her stomach.

Ashtray was already darting inside like a little man on a mission. “We’re havin’ a baby. We’re havin’ a baby!! Holy shit!”

Fez just rubbed his face and said under his breath, “I need a blunt.”