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So… yeah. That.
Turns out I’m not done with these two dumbasses. Not even a little.
Somewhere along the way I realized that writing happy middle-aged idiots in love makes me happy, and now I keep rummaging around in their lives like they’re my emotional support fictional men.
Which — let’s be honest — they kind of are.
So this is your gentle warning that I’m probably going to keep popping in with extra chapters, little scenes, added details, and whatever else my brain decides they deserve at 2 a.m.
I'm trying to stop myself out of rewritten more things — I’m genuinely proud of how this story stands. Especially the ending and epilogue. The wedding, the retirement house… those chapters are sacred to me. I wouldn’t change a line.
This is less about “fixing” anything and more about… letting their lives keep happening in the margins. And letting us witness their joy like the little creeps we aré (affectionally 💖)
Because apparently my brain doesn’t believe in finished. Only “still living here.” And honestly? I’m okay with that.