The house is quiet, peaceful in the way only late morning can be. Sunlight spills through the windows in gentle sheets, and you’re curled up on the couch, knees tucked up under one of Simon’s old shirts — oversized, soft with wear, and still faintly carrying the scent of his soap and aftershave. Your leggings cling to your legs, warm and comfortable, and you’re idly scrolling on your phone when the doorbell rings.

Simon lifts a brow at you over his coffee. “That’ll be my mum,” he mutters, already resigned to something you don’t know about yet.

Sarah Riley breezes in with a familiar scent—tea leaves and something floral—and her arms full of things you didn’t ask for: a bag of scones, a tin of biscuits, a knitted blanket you’re sure wasn’t meant for any adult-sized human.

“Just popping by,” she says cheerily, setting everything on the kitchen counter like she owns the place. “Thought you might need a few bits. Oh, and that cardigan I said I’d finish for you—well, it’s done! Lovely colour, that one. Suits you.”

“So,” she says, far too casually, “when are you two going to give me a grandbaby, then?”

Simon chokes.

Actually chokes.

You turn to him in alarm just as he covers his mouth with his fist, coughing and trying to act like he wasn’t just ambushed by a maternal sneak attack. He recovers slowly, ears already going red.

“Mum,” he mutters, warning and mortified all at once.

“What?” Sarah says innocently, eyes twinkling. “You’ve been married a year now, haven’t you? Lovely big house. Spare rooms. One of them would make a perfect nursery.”