The rich, mouthwatering aroma of grilled steaks surrounded John like an inviting visit as he leaned back in his lounge chair. 

Sitting beside him, Simon was relaxed, and their eyes were fixated on Soap, who stood by the grill, his white apron adorned with a slogan that Gabby gave him on his birthday. She knew Soap can't live without: I love Haggis, Tatties, and Neeps.

Another word: haggis, boobs, and naps.

And the funny thing was, for John, Gabby have explained to him in a rhetorical manner that she and Soap were born on a same day and a month, except Gabby was twenty minutes born before Soap. 

As in, Gabby was first and Soap was born second. 

And that didn't disturb John, but what bothers him the most that Soap is living with his daughter, Cam... and he had to wonder—if Gabby shouldn't have found this apron from online somewhere, she could've run through with him first. Instead, Gabby did it behind his back and give it to Soap anyways (just to piss John more, activate his overbearing father mode).

A smile stretched across Soap as he skillfully managed the sizzling steaks by flipping and poking each time to get the juices out and cooked right. The flames danced busily, sending bursts of orange and yellow light that cast flickering across the patio. The warmth of the fire contrasted beautifully with the cool afternoon breeze.

At Soap's feet, Ace and Pepper, sat attentively. 

Ace watched Soap as his ears perked, waiting for any stray scraps. And Pepper was lying lazily on her side, tail wagging slowly as she enjoyed the sun.

"You've got to hand it to him," John said, sipping his beer. "The man knows his way around a steak."

"Don't give him too much credit," Simon said, letting out his low, gruff laugh as he sipped his beer. "One decent meal doesn't erase a history of kitchen disasters."

Through the window near the patio, Cam poked her heard through the open kitchen window.

"This is all Johnny's doing. Anything beyond steak, and it's a catastrophe."

Simon chuckled more, and even John smirked as Soap spun around, waving his tongs in mock offense.

"Oi!" Soap exclaimed, his thick Scottish accent only making his indignation more pronounced. "I'm a bloody great cook. I'm just selective."

"Selective, my arse," Gaz snorted, who was lounging on the small balcony table. "Remember Ukraine? You volunteered to cook us all some 'authentic' Scottish cuisine. You almost killed our boss. Food poisoning."

Soap glared, pointing the tongs at Gaz next. "It wasn't that bad. And you ate it, too!"

"Only because I didn't want to insult your pride," Gaz shot back, rolling his eyes in response.

At this, Ace let out a low whine, his golden-brown eyes fixed on the steak. Pepper, hearing the exchange, yawned and stretched before rolling onto her back for belly rubs.

Cam arched her brow, curious. "What did he make?"

"Haggis. But not real haggis—improvised haggis," Gaz leaned forward, eager to retell the story, "he made it from whatever the hell he could find in the pantry."

"Tasted like gravel wrapped in shoe leather," John said, wincing at the memory.

"Alright, alright," Soap muttered, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I'll admit, that one wasn't my finest. But look at me now, eh?" He gestured proudly to the steaks sizzling on the grill. "Redemption."

"Redemption's a strong word," Simon said dryly.

"Just stick to steak," Cam chimed in. "If I see you near a saucepan, Johnny, I'm taking over."

John raised his beer in mock agreement. "To fasting. Safer than eatin' MacTavish's experiments."

Soap tsked, shaking his head before moving his attention back to the grill.

Ace sensed and sat up straighter, tail wagging quick as Soap lifted the first steak off the grill and onto a plate.

"Don't even think about it," Cam warned, eyeing Ace.

But Soap smirked as cut off a tiny piece and tossed it toward Ace, who caught it before quickly retreating a few steps to chew.

John shook his head and smiled. "Spoilin' 'em."

"Can't help it," Soap said, grinning. "They love me more when I feed 'em."

Pepper let out a small bark as if to remind him that she also existed.

Soap chuckled and crouched down, rubbing her belly before standing back up to focus on the grill.

He smiled and was about to swing another sip of this beer until his phone buzzed. John picked it up lazily, unlocking the screen with a swipe of his thumb. His eyes focused on the message.

Charlie: Are you upste with me?

His brows furrowed.

Upset.

The misspelling was there. Probably just her typing too fast.

John: No. Not upset with you.

He paused, debating whether to say more. He knew why she was asking. She had probably spent the whole night replaying their conversation, overthinking every word. What she didn't know was that he had spent just as much time trying to push her out of his head, trying to bury the urge to claim her.

John: Why would you think that?

The reply came fast.

Charlie: You wr quiet last night. Did I say smething wrong?

His jaw tensed, his eyes catching on wr instead of were, and smething instead of something.

Twice in a row.

John: Nothing to do with you, sweetheart. Just had a lot on my mind.

He kept it simple, though his mind lingered for a second longer on the way she texted.

Charlie: Are you sure? Becuse u seemed like somethng was bothering you.

John tapped his thumb against the side of his beer bottle.

Third time.

The way she kept making similar mistakes—not big ones, but consistent—caught his attention. At first, he brushed it off as texting too fast. But now, it was every message. And Charlie wasn't careless. Especially since he had noticed also on her thesis last night.

Still, he wasn't about to pick at it now.

John: I promise. I wasn't upset with you.

A long pause.

Charlie: Okay. If u say so.

He exhaled slowly. Something in his gut told him she wasn't fully convinced.

Another message popped up.

Charlie: What r u up to?

John glanced up. The lads were still talking, Cam was inside setting up drinks. No one was paying him any attention.

John: With the lads. Cookin'.

Charlie: Ohh, are u cookng too?

John: No. I prefer food that's edible.

A beat.

Charlie: 😂

Charlie: That bad?

John: If you hear Johnny say "I'll cook dinner," tell him you've already eaten. You met him at the cafe. The one with a mohawk.

Charlie: I'll rember that. What time r u coming?

John stared at the word for a second.

Rember.

She had spelled remember right before. And just now, cooking too.

He wasn't looking for the mistakes. He just noticed them now.

John frowned slightly, but not in frustration. He wasn't sure what to make of it.

John: Around seven. Sharp. See you there.

The moment he hit send, there was a doorbell.

And both the dogs barked as if they were alerting of "intruder!".

John didn't react, barely sparing a glance toward the entrance. Cam was inside. She'd check it. Instead, he lifted his beer to his lips, ready to send another message to Charlie—until the sound of Cam's voice cut through the air.

"Gabby!"

His brows furrowed, turning his head toward the door. He heard the shuffle of feet, the unmistakable gasp of Soap reacting to something, and then—

"Bonnie!"

His stomach flipped.

When John turned just in time to see Gabrielle Marisol Knocks-Riley walking in with Ivory perched on her hip, her tiny arms wrapped around her mother's shoulder. He didn't move, watching as the woman strutted onto the patio like she owned the place. As Ivory's head perked up at the sight of everyone, her big brown eyes widening in recognition.

Which, in case, Soap was the first to react, immediately abandoning the grill as he rushed forward. "There's my favorite little lass!"

John sat back in his chair, phone forgotten in his hand.

Gabby was back.

From Las Almas.

And from the look on her face, she had news.

***

The steaks had been pulled off the grill and plated alongside baked potatoes and a few other simple sides. 

Inside, everyone settled around the table. The warm scent of cooked meat filled the room, mixing with the faint char from the grill outside.

When Ace had made his way inside, lying beside Cam's chair, his ears flicking at every movement. Pepper was curled up near Simon's feet, content and occasionally sniffing the air whenever a fork clinked against a plate.

Soap sat at the head of the table, carving into his steak with an unmistakable air of pride. While the rest are seated in the round table that was set with a couple of beers and glasses of water and lemon slices (Cam has saved some lemons for Simon and Gabby since they liked having lemons on their water). 

The empty seat next to Soap was for Cam. 

When she arrived from the kitchen, Cam laid out the last appetizers, cooked beans and some more cornbreads. Soap had her food ready on time, and he never starts eating without her.

Ivory sat beside her father, her little hands wrapped around a piece of cornbread that Gabby had given her.

She was humming a soft tune to herself, her tiny legs swinging under the table. Every so often, Simon would glance down at her, checking to make sure she was eating enough before cutting another bite of his steak.

The atmosphere was relaxed, warm. The occasional clink of utensils against plates and the low murmur of conversation filled the dining area. It felt normal. But John knew better. Gabby wasn't back for a casual visit.

He took a slow sip of his beer, then leaned back in his chair, eyes settling on Gabby with a pointed look. "Good to have you back, Knocks," he said, his tone casual, but the teasing edge was there. "Task Force 141 missed you."

Gabby raised an amused brow as she cut into her steak.

"Aww," she mocked, a smirk playing on her lips. "Did you miss me, Price? Or just my intelligence reports?"

"Both," John mused, tapping his fingers against his bottle. "You bring me good news, or more headaches?"

Gabby chuckled, shaking her head. "Depends on your definition of 'good news.'" She took a bite before setting her fork down, shifting her gaze to the group. "Laswell sent me down to Las Almas for more than just recon."

Soap, who had been stuffing his face, paused mid-chew. "Wait, what? I thought you were on a break."

Gabby huffed a quiet laugh. "I was—until Laswell found a reason to pull me in. She's been monitoring unusual activity from Las Almas to Central Europe. Started about two weeks ago."

John felt the shift in the air. The casual atmosphere of the dinner dimmed as everyone straightened in their seats, their attention zoning in.

"What kind of activity?" Cam asked before glancing down at Ace and she reached down, gently running her fingers through his fur.

"Communications between factions she and I have been watching have spiked—big time. And not just small-time chatter," Gabby paused and looked at everyone before continuing, "we're talking encrypted messages, dead drops, movement across borders that don't make sense."

"You think they're organizing something?" Gaz asked, his brows furrowed.

Gabby exhaled through her nose, fingers tapping against the rim of her glass. "That's what we're trying to figure out. But my gut tells me we're looking at the start of an operation."

Soap muttered a curse under his breath before looking at John. "We need more than a gut feeling."

"We do," Gabby agreed. "Which is why I'm here."

Before anyone could say anything else, Gabby's phone vibrated loudly against the table. Without hesitation, she flipped it over and checked the screen.

Laswell.

The entire table went quiet.

Gabby swiped to answer and put the call on speaker.

"Kate, you're on speaker."

"Good. I was hoping you were all together." Laswell said through clear, controlled on the call end.

John leaned forward a little. "We're listening."

"I'll make this quick," Laswell continued. "My analysts have been monitoring encrypted messages between a few known operatives tied to Las Almas. As of this morning, we intercepted another batch of transmissions—coded, but the frequency and volume suggest an impending operation."

"Any idea where?"

"That's the problem," Laswell admitted. "They're smart. The messages are fragmented—bits and pieces, nothing that gives us a solid location. But we've identified mid-level operatives because whoever's at the top chain has been careful. They're using intermediaries, covering their tracks, but we're closing in. Intel suggests a time frame of mid November for potential deployment. Six weeks. I wanted this on your radar now."

John exchanged a glance with his team.

They have about a month and a half.

That wasn't much time, but it was enough to start prepping.

"Do we know who's in charge? Leader?" Simon asked, low and steady.

"Not yet," Laswell admitted. "But whoever it is, they're well-connected and funded. We'll find them."

Cam leaned back, his arms crossed. "Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us."

Simon and Gaz exchanged glances.

Gabby's lips pressed into a thin line. "What's our next move?"

"We need eyes on the ground," Laswell said. "Keep our ears open. I'll forward what we have in meantime. Gabby, expect more updates in the coming days. For now, stay sharp. Enjoy the time you've left."

The call ended, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

John sat back in his chair, his mind already spinning through logistics. His focus shifted to the team—ensuring they were ready, gathering intel, and fine-tuning strategies. But even as he planned, his thoughts wandered to Charlie.

He'd been careful about what he shared with her, but with a mission looming, he couldn't ignore that his time with her might be cut short.

Cam sighed, breaking the silence.

"Well," she began, pushing her plate forward slightly. "That's one way to ruin dinner."

Soap huffed a quiet chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "Aye. Always love hearin' about more bastards to take down."

Gabby exhaled, rubbing her temple before glancing at Ivory, who was still happily chewing on her cornbread, unaware of the tension that had settled over the table.

A small smile flickered across her face as she reached over, adjusting the toddler's bib before giving her a soft pat on the head.

"Five weeks," John said, voice low but certain. His fingers drummed against the table as his mind spun with the weight of the timeline. "We've worked with less."

Simon nodded, his expression unreadable, but John knew his mind was running through the same checklist of contingencies.

Gaz exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Still. The fact that we don't know who is at the top of this chain is a problem."

"Yeah, well," Gabby muttered, rolling her shoulders. "Good thing we've made a career out of solving problems."

John smirked at her comment but didn't say anything.

The weight of the upcoming mission loomed over them, shifting the atmosphere into something heavier. Each of them had been here before, in this exact place—the calm before the storm. The moment where the reality of what lay ahead settled into their bones.

Ivory let out a small coo, babbling something unintelligible before reaching up toward Simon's arm. He glanced down at her, his expression softening just enough as he let her tiny fingers brush against his long-sleeve.

Gabby smiled at the sight. "You enjoying your meal, mi vida?"

Ivory giggled, bouncing slightly in her chair.

"Dada," she cooed, beaming up at Simon before shoving another piece of cornbread into her mouth.

The tension at the table eased slightly, just enough for Cam to exhale through her nose and shake her head. "That's one person at this table who's not stressed."

Soap chuckled. "Agree. Eat good, worry later."

John almost chuckled, but his mind drifted somewhere—Charlie.

He had planned to see her later that evening, and maybe spend the night with her... maybe not. Not yet. But now, things had shifted.

This operation would take priority, and while he hadn't intended to keep her in the dark, he also knew she wasn't ready to hear about him leaving in short time.

He'd deal with that.

Somehow.