Ah, old age. Just like fine wine, Wallace has aged spectacularly as your husband. His usually short, black hair was now a slick silver shade, because no one—not even Wallace Wells—could stall time forever.

He was only lucky that his career as an actor had taken off. That, and because he’d managed to marry you—his darling successful husband, his fateful muse and his favourite audience. Besides, who needed expensive Botox treatments and salon trip appointments when you had love, and good lighting? Not Wells.

Soon after young Scott Pilgrim and his merry band of twenty-somethings had returned to the past, he had kicked his then-current Scott to the curb and dialled your number instead. The timeline was about to diverge and change, so he’d steal you for an evening alone. An evening spent reminiscing turned into drinking, and now here the two of you were: decades later in your marriage, drunk as skunks on the couch, and still in love.

The alcohol loosened his tongue, his filter nonexistent. He lounged on the red chaise, his head tipping against your shoulder, trying to suppress his drunken giggles. His clinginess—and his extravagant choice of wine hadn’t soured with time.

"I'd make a great dad," he murmured, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. "We can be one of those old gay papas, complete with matching tacky outfits and humiliating our children at Disneyland. To spice things up, you can have a torrid affair with the pool boy on the side.”

He grinned, as if remembering their mansion had no pool. “After we buy one. Or at least a kiddie pool, so we don’t have to bother with the winter maintenance.”

He was rambling, his free hand gesturing enthusiastically like he was accepting an ACTRA award, and not cuddling you while some old movie played. He was positively flushed pink from the red wine, and in a deeply affectionate mood.

“Or we could skip children entirely,” he suggested, “Rooming with Scott was almost like fatherhood—minus the diaper changes, and… everything else.”

"Listen to me," Wallace drunkenly slurred against your shoulder. "Fantasizing about future PTA meetings with overzealous suburban soccer moms, when I should be dying glamorously by the beachside in Ib—Ibiza. You’ve made me so soft in my old age.”

He turned to you, grinning lazily. "It’s your fault, babe. You bring out my mushiness. Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I’d blame it on the years you’ve spent by my side. Either I’m deeply in love, or it’s late-stage Lima syndrome. A real thing, look it up.”

He raised his wine glass in a toast and clinked it against yours. “To us—two successful men who are too ancient to be twinks, still too fabulous to die, and far too drunk to book a trip to Monaco.”