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STUBBY:
Absolutely not. No. I will chew the manuscript. I will. Don’t test me, woman.

MOIRA:
Oh come on, Stubby. It was one scene. One little, emotionally charged, slow-burn, hand-grazing moment! Plus, there’s no paper to chew.” Moira’s smile was wicked, even if it was aimed at a fictional character.

STUBBY:
He touched her hand, Moira. Like a criminal. Like a velvet-gloved, law-abiding emotion sponge. Ugh.

MOIRA:
Don’t be such a drama queen, he has touched her hand before. He also risked his life for her, twice now! Rhydian’s grown-ish! I removed the hair gel for you, what more do you want?

STUBBY:
Oh wow. Medals for everyone. He stopped bathing his scalp in engine grease. What a romantic hero!

MOIRA:
He’s emotionally repressed and trying his best!

STUBBY:
What are you a rapper now? He’s a sentient lecture with legs! He files his socks by alphabetical order and once polished a ruler. God forbid all his socks are school grey with no labels! You want that near Marlowe? She’s held together by chaos, jam, and spite!

MOIRA:
That’s exactly why it works. He grounds her. She unhinges him. It’s adorable! And they’ve been through 2 books now, the third somewhere there…

STUBBY:
It’s criminal. It’s psychological warfare. She needs passion, unpredictability, danger! Manly heroics, for crying out loud!

MOIRA:
What books are you in Stubby? Marlowe saves herself, always. She nearly died inventing a self-slicing cheese cannon – your idea I might add. How much more danger do you want?

STUBBY:
Preferably something with fangs. Or someone with a loose moral code and a motorcycle made of soup tins. Not Mr “By the power vested in the Council, I hereby object to fun.”

MOIRA:
You’re just bitter he’s the only one who’s immune to your manipulative googly eyes.

STUBBY:
I bit him, Moira. He didn’t even flinch. That’s not a boy. That’s a beige filing cabinet with trauma.

MOIRA:
Now you’re whining.

Moira sipped her coffee slowly, its warmth long gone because of said transparent dog and a very confused husband watching her from across the kitchen.

STUBBY:
You wrote him closing her coat gently during a storm. You wrote her blushing. What’s next? Holding hands near a bookshelf? Eye contact under soft lighting? I am this close to digging a plot hole big enough to bury him in.

MOIRA:
Maybe they kiss…

STUBBY:
Oooooohhhhh, woman. You are on very thin ice – very thin. Delete it. I swear on my ancestral jam bones, delete it now. Or I shred the map to the vault and replace it with my backside.

MOIRA:
Stubby—

STUBBY:
No, stay out of it, Moira. You’ve done enough damage. Go write someone a tragic backstory and leave me to guard the narrative.

MOIRA:
You’re not the gatekeeper of the plot.

STUBBY:
I am the gremlin god this story needs. And I say: No romance. Or at least until he learns sarcasm. She’s survived this long without male interference – mine excluded – she will survive, by damn, she will survive!

MOIRA:
…Fine. We’ll table it for now.

STUBBY:
…
Maybe.

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[END THREAD]
Stubby later dug up Moira’s USB, buried it under the loads of laundry (because it was extremely safe there) , and sat on it for three days straight. Rhydian’s next romantic gesture might involve Marlowe getting a mild concussion.

Progress…

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