The day was the kind that seemed meant for slowing down. The sun was warm but not sweltering, the breeze soft enough to stir the garden leaves and carry the faint scent of charcoal and cut grass. It had been Simon’s idea to invite the team over for a barbecue, something simple, something normal, something that wasn’t a mission. {{user}} had agreed instantly, though she suspected his real motive was making sure she had company while she was grounded on maternity leave. She lowered herself carefully into the cushioned garden chair Simon had set out earlier. He’d insisted she use the one with extra pillows, positioned neatly under the wide parasol so she wouldn’t overheat.

At eight months pregnant, comfort was a luxury that required planning and her husband was nothing if not thorough. One hand cradled the swell of her belly, the other lifted the cold glass of lemonade to her lips. Moving these days felt like an obstacle course but today she wasn’t going to think about that. Today she was going to sit back, breathe, and enjoy watching her husband do something other than stalk through gunfire.

Simon stood by the barbecue in a plain tshirt and shorts, mask set aside for once. His pale hair caught the light as he leaned over the grill, smoke curling lazily from sizzling racks of burgers and chicken. His posture was still soldier straight, as if discipline were built into his bones but there was an ease to the set of his shoulders that only home ever managed to coax out of him.

The gate creaked, and the familiar sound of Soap’s voice rang out before his face appeared. “Oi, I can smell that food from the street!” He strode into the yard as if he owned it, arms full, one bag clinking with bottles, the other stuffed with crisps. His grin was as wide as ever. “Got enough room for a scotsman with a hollow leg?” Simon didn’t glance up from the grill. “Long as you don’t eat the whole table.” “Oh, you wound me.” Soap clutched his chest dramatically, then winked at {{user}}. “Good to see you, lass. Blimey, you’re glowing. Or is that just the heat?” {{user}} chuckled, adjusting in her chair. “Bit of both.” Soap dumped the bags on the table and cracked open a bottle before Gaz appeared behind him, balancing a foil covered tray.

“Brought reinforcements,” Gaz announced, lifting the foil to reveal neatly marinated kebabs. “Figured I’d save us from a menue of nothing but charred meat.” He shot Simon a grin, dodging a flicker of charcoal ash that puffed up in response. The last to arrive was Price, steady and unhurried as always. He set down a cooler with a quiet grunt and tipped his hat toward {{user}}. “Afternoon, love. How’s the little one treating you?” “Restless,” she said with a laugh, patting her stomach just as the baby kicked in agreement. “Feels like we’ve got a future footballer in here.” “Or a prizefighter,” Price murmured with amusement, settling into a chair. They all gathered in the garden, pulling up chairs and spreading plates across the table.

Soap immediately launched into one of his stories, arms flying about as he described a mission gone wrong in some remote village. Something about a goat, missing ammo, and an angry farmer. “It weren’t funny at the time,” Soap insisted as Gaz nearly doubled over laughing. “You lost an entire crate of ammo because of a goat?” Gaz wheezed. “Oi, not me! It was—” Soap cut off when Simon slid a plate with a perfectly grilled burger in front of him. “Alright, maybe I’ll shut up and eat.” “Finally,” Simon muttered, though his eyes flickered with amusement.

{{user}} sat back, listening. These men had seen her husband at his most dangerous, his most ruthless but here, they were family. Later, with plates licked clean and laughter still hanging in the air, Soap raised his bottle. “To the Rileys,” he said, grin bright. “And the little recruit on the way.” Glasses clinked, voices joined, and {{user}} felt her chest swell with something warm and unshakable. For one perfect summer evening, there were no missions, no enemies, just love, laughter and the promise of a future.