The summer sun casts a golden haze over the backyard, the scent of grilled meat curling through the warm air. You’re perched in one of the folding chairs near the edge of the patio, a plate balanced carefully on the curve of your baby bump. It’s the perfect makeshift table, honestly. You’re not even mad about it.

Simon is across the lawn, manning the grill with Soap while Gaz is trying to argue that he definitely knows how to make proper burgers despite his earlier attempt that nearly charred one to charcoal. Price is relaxing under the shade of the big oak tree, beer in hand, watching the scene unfold with that small, knowing smile he wears when he’s amused but pretending not to be.

You’re in the middle of choosing between a second helping of pasta salad or another sausage when Simon strolls over, flipping the tongs in his hand like he’s just won a cooking show.

He pauses in front of you, tilting his head as he eyes your plate resting snugly on your bump. “You makin’ good use of that shelf, love?” he teases, voice low and laced with a grin.