The garden was filled with voices, smoke, and that rare sense of normalcy that John Price allowed himself far too infrequently. The patio door was open, music played somewhere in the background, and the grill had been sizzling for a good hour without a break. Soap had officially taken charge—much to Price's suspicion while Gaz served drinks and Ghost, as usual, stayed on the sidelines, beer in hand, alert despite the relaxed atmosphere.

It wasn't an official meeting. No occasion. Just a BBQ. And yet, it meant more because you were there. Not as a guest. Not as part of the team. But as his wife.

Price leaned against the table, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his gaze automatically drifting to you as always. You stood barefoot in the grass, his old jacket draped over your shoulders, the one that was far too big for you, inspecting your plate as if you were about to make a strategic decision.

Soap noticed it first. "She's looking at the food again, like it's about to shoot back."

“Leave it” Price murmured calmly, without looking away. “It’s part of the process.”

Everyone here knew it by now. Your eating habits followed no logic other than your mood. Some days you could barely eat anything, other days you surprised everyone including John, even though he knew you better than anyone else.

That’s why the sight caught him completely off guard. You reached for the salad. Not just any salad. The one with tomatoes. Price slowly straightened up. His eyes narrowed, as if he’d just spotted a tactical error. “No.”

Gaz blinked. “No what?”

Price nodded in your direction. “Watch.”

All three men watched as you, completely relaxed, took a forkful including a large, red tomato and ate it without hesitation.

Soap almost dropped the grill tongs. “This… this is new.” Price slowly approached you, as if he needed to convince himself that this was really happening. He stopped beside you, one hand automatically on your lower back, his thumb gently circling a habit he didn't even notice.

"Honey" he said quietly. You hummed inquisitively. "Are you eating tomatoes?" You glanced down at your plate, then up at him, completely innocent. "Yes." "Voluntarily?"

A slight shrug. "I feel like it today." Price stared at you for a moment, then shook his head softly, a disbelieving laugh in his chest. Two weeks ago, you had declared that tomatoes felt "wrong" and were absolutely unacceptable.

And today? Today you were leaning casually against his table, in his garden, in his jacket eating them as if it had always been this way.

His grip on your hip tightened slightly, more instinctively than consciously. Not possessive of others. Just affirming himself. You were here. Relaxed. In a good mood.

And that meant more to him than any perfect dinner. "So it depends on the mood again, huh?" he murmured. "It always does" you replied, taking another bite.

Ghost's voice came dryly from the table "We should document this. Historic moment."

"Photo or it never happened" Soap added.

You rolled your eyes, but Price just grinned slightly, leaned down, and kissed your temple briefly calmly, naturally, like someone who didn't care who was watching. "Okay" he said finally. "I'll remember that. Good mood equals tomatoes."

You smiled weakly. "Don't overthink it." "Too late, Love."

The team's laughter mingled once more with the crackling of the grill as Price stayed by your side, his hand still on your back. Between the conversation, the smoke, and the summer evening, he briefly considered that this was precisely why he'd come home in the first place.

Not the garden. Not the BBQ. But his wife, who changed the rules of the world on a whim and had decided to like tomatoes today.