10 Year reunion -- She has changed!

[bigjake737]

The Iron Path
Ten years ago, at Westfield High's senior prom, Elise Carter stood awkwardly by the punch bowl, her floral dress clinging to her frame in a way that made her want to disappear. She'd spent the night stealing glances at Matt Dudley, the school's powerlifting star. His broad shoulders and quiet intensity had fueled her crush since sophomore year, when she'd watched him deadlift what looked like a small car in the gym. That night, bolstered by a rare surge of courage, she'd approached him.
"Hey, Matt," she'd stammered, "you looked amazing at regionals last week. I... I think you're really cool."
Matt, sweaty from dancing and still in his slightly-too-tight tux, had turned to her with a kind smile. "Thanks, uh... Elise, right? That's nice of you. I'm just trying to keep my head in the lifts, you know? Prom's not really my thing." His tone was gentle, but firm—like a door closing softly. She'd nodded, cheeks burning, and retreated to the sidelines.
What stuck with her wasn't the rebuff itself, but the kindness in his voice and the fire in his eyes when he mentioned lifting. That intensity haunted her, a quiet ember that never quite faded.
After graduation, Elise drifted into a predictable life—community college, a desk job, and a vague sense of "what now?" Matt Dudley, meanwhile, became a ghost in her memory, only resurfacing when she stumbled across his Insta**** years later. His posts were a shrine to strength: chalk-dusted hands gripping barbells, PR announcements, and—most intriguingly—reposts of female powerlifters. Women with quads like tree trunks and backs carved from granite. Captions like "Goals" or "Real strength is beautiful" peppered his feed. Elise stared at those images, her old crush flickering back to life. He hadn't just stayed intense—he'd doubled down. And he was into women who could match him.
That realization hit her like a 45-pound plate. She was 26, soft around the edges, and tired of feeling invisible. If Matt admired strength, maybe she could find it too—not just for him, but for herself. The next day, she signed up for a gym membership.
The transformation wasn't instant. Her first squat session left her wobbling, the barbell feeling like a cruel joke at 65 pounds. But she remembered Matt's focus, that unshakable drive, and pushed on. She devoured YouTube tutorials—form, breathing, bracing. She swapped takeout for chicken and rice, tracked macros, and choked down creatine with a grimace. The gym became her sanctuary. Six months in, she squatted her body weight. At a year, she pulled 200 pounds off the floor, her hands calloused and proud.
The mirror started lying less. Her arms thickened, her legs grew sinewy, and her posture straightened. She felt uninhibited—a word she'd scribbled in her journal after a deadlift PR, when she'd caught herself flexing in the locker room without shame. She wasn't just chasing Matt's ideal anymore; she was rewriting her own.
Social media became her quiet flex. She posted grainy gym clips—315-pound deadlifts, a shaky 225-pound squat—and watched the likes roll in. She never tagged Matt, but she wondered if he'd see. If he'd recognize the girl who'd once blushed at his kindness.
The 10-year reunion invite arrived in her inbox, a neon-lit promise of nostalgia. Elise, now 28, RSVP'd without hesitation. She'd hit a 350-pound deadlift that month, and her confidence was ironclad. She chose a fitted black dress that hugged her quads and showcased her lats—subtle, but a far cry from the floral wallflower of prom night.
The venue buzzed with familiar faces, aged and softened by time. Elise scanned the room, her heart thudding when she spotted Matt Dudley. He stood by the bar, broader than ever, his button-up straining against his traps. He laughed with old teammates, a beer in hand, still radiating that quiet intensity. She adjusted her stance—shoulders back, core tight—and walked over.
"Matt Dudley," she said, voice steady. "Still lifting cars, I bet?"
He turned, brow furrowing as he studied her. "Do I... sorry, you look familiar, but—"
"Elise Carter," she supplied, smiling. "Prom, senior year. I was the one gushing about your regionals win."
His eyes widened, then darted over her frame—her delts, her forearms, the way she stood like she owned the floor. "Elise? Holy—wow, you've changed."
"So have you," she teased, nodding at his chest. "What's your bench these days?"
"Four plates—405," he said, grinning. "You?"
"275," she replied, casual but proud. His jaw slackened.
"No way. You lift? Like, lift lift?"
"Deadlifted 350 last month," she said, sipping her drink. "Started a few years back. Guess I caught the bug."
Matt's laugh was warm, unguarded. "That's insane—in the best way. I've been following these women online who pull 500, 600 pounds. You're not far off. What got you into it?"
She hesitated, then decided on honesty. "You, actually. That night at prom—you were so kind, but so focused. I never forgot it. Then I saw your posts, all those strong women you admire. Figured I'd see what I could do."
He blinked, processing. "Wait. You started lifting because of me?"
"Not just you," she clarified. "But you were the spark. I kept the hots for you, sure, but it became about me too."
Matt set his beer down, leaning closer. "Elise, I had no idea. Back then, I was so tunnel-visioned on lifting, I didn't see much else. But now..." He gestured at her. "You're unreal. Strong as hell and gorgeous. I'd have been an idiot to brush you off if you'd been like this."
She smirked. "Guess we both needed a decade to figure it out."
"Guess so," he said, his gaze lingering. "You competing?"
"Not yet. Thinking about it. You?"
"Still at it. Next meet's in June. You should come—maybe lift with me sometime."
Her pulse quickened. "Like a date?"
He grinned, that old intensity flaring in his eyes. "Yeah, like a date. Me, you, and a barbell. Best kind there is."
Elise laughed, feeling the weight of ten years lift off her shoulders. "You're on, Dudley."
They spent the night trading stats and stories—her first failed squat, his latest PR. The ember she'd carried all those years flared into something new, forged in iron and mutual respect. By the end of the reunion, they'd swapped numbers, a gym session penciled in for next week. Elise walked out into the night, uninhibited and unstoppable, her crush no longer a dream but a promise.

Here's the revised chapter with the specific change you requested—everything else remains intact, preserving the heightened romantic tension.
The Iron Dance
The reunion's clamor faded as Elise Carter and Matt Dudley slipped away from the bar, their conversation—a tangle of PRs and gym war stories—still buzzing between them. They found a quiet nook by a window, the glass framing a shadowed garden beyond. A small table sat between two chairs, a fragile barrier in the charged air. Elise eased into her seat, the black dress stretching tight across her quads as she crossed her legs, her every move deliberate. Matt dropped into his chair, his hulking frame making it creak, his eyes already snagged on her. The room dimmed around them, and the tension coiled like a spring under load.
She caught his stare—dark, intense, the same focus he'd once aimed at a barbell—and her pulse kicked up. "It's warm in here," she said, her voice a low purr, thick with intent. Her fingers grazed the collar of her dress jacket, teasing it open. She peeled it off with agonizing slowness, the fabric snagging on her traps—those massive, sculpted ridges she'd forged through years of shrugs and pulls. She tugged harder, a faint strain flexing her arms, and the dim light danced across her sweat-slicked skin. Her muscles gleamed: traps rising like cliffs, delts swollen and defiant, and her pecs—overdeveloped slabs from relentless benching—straining the dress. The faint outline of her erect nipples pressed against the fabric, sharp and taut against the raw power above them.
Matt's breath stopped. His beer hovered midair, trembling in his grip, as his eyes devoured her. A sheen of drool glistened at the corner of his mouth, unnoticed, primal. Those traps—thick enough to hoist a yoke—sent a shudder through him. Her pecs, broad and chiseled, were a powerlifter's fantasy, a testament to years of iron, and those nipples, rigid beneath the dress, punched the air from his lungs. He'd scrolled endless feeds of women like this, but Elise was flesh and fire, close enough to touch. His chest tightened, his voice a gravelly rasp when he finally spoke. "Elise... you're a goddamn vision. Those traps—I'd trade my soul for half that size. And your pecs..." His gaze lingered, tracing every curve, every hard-earned line, snagging on those erect points. "They're killing me."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her traps flexing higher, her pecs shifting under the fabric, nipples still stark against it. The air thickened, her smirk a slow burn. "Years of heavy pulls. You like what you see, Dudley?"
"Like?" His laugh was ragged, fraying at the edges. He shifted closer, the table creaking as his knee brushed hers—a jolt neither acknowledged but neither broke. "I'm unraveling here. You're everything I've obsessed over—every rep, every post. Strength like yours... it's not just beautiful. It's a damn siren call."
Her skin prickled, heat flooding her core. She'd built this body for herself, but his words—raw, reverent—stoked a fire she'd buried since prom. Their knees pressed together now, a steady current humming through the contact. She tilted her head, letting her hair graze her shoulder, exposing more of that glistening trap. "Took me a decade to catch up to you. Guess I've been chasing that spark you lit."
His hand twitched on the table, inches from hers, fingers flexing like he was gripping a phantom barbell—or fighting the urge to grip her. "I was blind back then," he murmured, voice dropping lower, rougher. "Too locked on the weights to see you. Now? You're all I see. Every inch of you's got me pinned, Elise."
Her breath hitched, loud in the quiet. She slid her hand forward, brushing his knuckles—a fleeting touch that seared them both. "Good," she whispered, eyes locking with his, daring him to close the gap. "Because I've been burning for you since that night."
The space between them shrank, the table a flimsy shield against the pull. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes, dark with want. Her traps flexed again, involuntary, and he groaned softly, a sound that vibrated through her. They were teetering, the tension a loaded bar at max weight, ready to snap.
Then, a lifeline—or a torment—cut through: a slow, aching melody from their high school days spilled from the DJ's speakers. That song, the one she'd swayed to alone while he'd been across the room, oblivious. Matt's head tilted, recognition flaring. He stood, towering over her, and extended his hand, palm rough with calluses. "Dance with me." His voice was a command wrapped in velvet, trembling with need.
She took it, her grip firm, her traps rolling as she rose. His fingers tightened around hers, a spark igniting where their skin met. They moved to the floor, the crowd parting, awed whispers trailing the gargantuan pair—two titans sculpted from steel. His arm slid around her waist, possessive yet tender, his thumb grazing the edge of her lats. She pressed her hand to his shoulder, feeling the slab of muscle tense beneath, and they swayed. Slow, seductive, their bodies brushing—her quads against his thighs, her pecs grazing his chest, nipples still erect, pressing through. His breath stuttered, hot against her ear, and she tilted her head back, letting him see the full sweep of her traps, glistening still. The room stared, but they were lost, locked in a rhythm that felt like foreplay.
The song bled into the next, slower, heavier. Matt's hands tightened on her hips, pulling her flush against him. Her arms looped around his neck, traps bulging, pecs pressing into him, nipples sharp against his chest, and his eyes darkened, pupils blown with hunger. The tension crested, unbearable—and then it broke. He surged forward, capturing her mouth in a mad, passionate kiss, all heat and desperation. His lips were rough, insistent, tasting of beer and longing; hers answered with equal fire, a decade's worth of want unleashed. His hands roamed her back, tracing the ridges of her lats, while she gripped his traps, nails digging in. The kiss deepened, a groan rumbling from his throat, and the crowd melted away—nothing existed but the press of their bodies, the clash of their strength.
They parted, gasping, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. His voice was a wrecked whisper. "Next time, we dance in the gym. You, me, and the barbell—I won't survive otherwise."
She laughed, husky and raw, her lips brushing his again. "Deal, Dudley. But you'd better keep up."
The night stretched ahead, electric and inevitable, their kiss a vow etched in iron.


The Iron Brew
The morning sun spilled through the windows of Brew & Barbell, a cozy coffee shop two blocks from the powerlifting gym where Matt Dudley trained. Elise Carter pushed through the door at 9 a.m. sharp, her gym bag slung over one shoulder, a sly grin tugging at her lips. Last night's reunion still hummed in her veins—the way Matt had turned to butter when her erect nipples pressed through that dress, his drool practically pooling on the table. She'd seen the crack in his armor, the way her strength and body lit him up. Today, she'd go for the kill.
She'd chosen her outfit with precision: a sheer black sports bra, thin enough to leave nothing to the imagination, her nipples stark and proud against the fabric. Her pecs, slabs of muscle from years of benching, framed them like a sculptor's masterpiece. Below, she wore super-short shorts—barely a whisper of material—hugging her gargantuan quads and hamstrings. Every step flexed those tree-trunk legs, veins snaking under her skin, a testament to countless squats and deadlifts. Her traps rolled as she adjusted her bag, and she caught her reflection in the glass door—uninhibited, unstoppable, and ready to wreck him.
Matt was already there, sprawled at a corner table, his massive frame dwarfing the chair. A black coffee steamed in front of him, and his phone glowed with what she guessed was a lifting video. He looked up as she approached, and his jaw went slack. The cup froze halfway to his mouth, his eyes raking over her—traps, pecs, those nipples piercing the bra, down to the quads that could've crushed steel. His Adam's apple bobbed, hard, and a faint flush crept up his neck. She'd seen him stare last night, but this—this was devastation.
"Morning, Dudley," she said, voice smooth as honey, dropping her bag with a thud that flexed her lats. She slid into the seat across from him, leaning forward just enough to make her pecs pop, nipples pressing harder against the sheer fabric. "Sleep okay after last night?"
He blinked, dragging his gaze back to her face, but it was a losing battle—his eyes flicked down again, snagged on her chest, then lower to her legs. "Elise," he croaked, setting the cup down with a shaky clatter. "You're—you're trying to murder me, aren't you? That..." He gestured vaguely at her, words failing. "That's not fair."
She smirked, crossing her arms to flex her traps higher, knowing exactly what she was doing. "Fair's overrated. Thought you liked strong women—figured I'd give you the full show." She shifted, letting one quad ripple as she stretched her leg under the table, brushing his shin. The contact jolted him, and he sucked in a breath.
"Full show?" he rasped, leaning closer, elbows on the table. His voice dropped, thick with heat. "You're a walking PR, Carter. Those pecs, those legs—I'm deadlifting 600 and still don't come close to this kind of power. And that bra..." His gaze locked on her nipples, unapologetic now, and his tongue darted out, wetting his lips. "You're playing dirty."
"Good," she purred, uncrossing her arms to rest her hands on the table, inches from his. Her traps glistened under the shop's lights, and she tilted her head, letting her hair fall aside to expose more muscle. "You melted last night when you saw me. Thought I'd see how much you can handle before you break."
He groaned, low and wrecked, his hand twitching toward hers but stopping short, like he wasn't sure he'd survive the touch. "I'm already broken. You walk in like that—nipples out, quads like goddamn pillars—and I'm supposed to keep it together? I've been dreaming about legs like yours since high school, and now you're here, real, and I'm a mess."
Her pulse thrummed, his words stoking that fire again. She slid her foot forward, pressing her calf against his, a slow, deliberate tease. "A mess, huh? You're still talking, so I must not be trying hard enough." She flexed her quad under the table, letting him feel the hardness through the contact, and watched his eyes darken, pupils swallowing the brown.
"Elise," he growled, voice raw, "you keep this up, and I'm dragging you to the gym right now. We'll see who breaks first—me or the weights." His hand finally moved, brushing her fingers, rough calluses grazing her skin. The touch sparked, and neither pulled back.
She leaned in, close enough that her breath ghosted his lips, her nipples a hair's breadth from grazing his chest through the table's gap. "Gym sounds good. But first..." She paused, letting the tension hang, then smirked. "Order me a coffee. Black, like yours. Then we'll see who's lifting who."
He laughed, a shaky, desperate sound, and flagged the barista with a hand that trembled just enough to betray him. "You're gonna kill me, Carter," he muttered, eyes still locked on her, drinking in every inch. "And I'm gonna love every second of it."
The barista approached, setting a second steaming cup on the table. As the server retreated, Elise leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear, voice a sultry whisper. "I can pec dance better than anyone on your social feeds, Dudley. Watch this."
Matt lifted his coffee, taking a sip, and that's when she struck. She straightened in her seat, rolling her shoulders back, and unleashed her arsenal. First, a slow ripple—left pec, then right, a deliberate wave that made her nipples shift beneath the sheer bra, teasing the fabric. Then she upped the ante: a rapid twitch, both pecs firing in sync, popping up and down like pistons, her control so precise it was almost mechanical. She added a bounce, flexing hard to lift her chest an inch, then letting it drop with a shudder that sent her nipples tracing arcs against the bra. Finally, she isolated the outer edges, a subtle flutter that rolled from the sides inward, framing her nipples in a hypnotic dance of muscle and power.
Matt choked mid-sip, coffee splashing as he slammed the cup down, eyes wide, locked on her. His breath came fast, ragged, and he gripped the table's edge, knuckles white, like it was the only thing keeping him from lunging across it. "Jesus, Elise," he rasped, voice thick with awe and something darker. He leaned in, his gaze burning, recognizing the complete control she wielded—not just over her body, but over him, his every nerve pinned under her spell. "Forget the workout," he said, his tone dropping to a low, suggestive growl, dripping with intent. "Let's skip straight to the body pumping—me and you, right now."
Her smirk widened, heat flooding her as his words hung between them, heavy with promise. She gave her pecs one last flex—a slow, rolling wave that ended with a sharp twitch—then slid her hand over his, squeezing hard. "Finish that coffee, Dudley," she murmured, eyes blazing. "You're gonna need the energy."
The cups sat untouched as they traded stares, hands locked, the air crackling with what came next—two powerlifters ready to trade iron for something far more primal.

The Iron Trap
Elise Carter had planned this moment down to the last rep. After the coffee shop left Matt Dudley a stuttering wreck—her pec dance still echoing in his wide-eyed stare—she knew she had him hooked. The Brew & Barbell sat beneath a sleek hotel, and her room, a plush suite on the top floor, was her endgame. She'd studied his online trail for years—his likes, his comments, his fixation on strong women in tiny thongs—and turned it into a playbook. Today, she'd set the final trap.
"Wanna see something better than coffee?" she'd teased as they left the shop, her voice a velvet lure. She'd brushed his arm, her traps flexing under the sheer sports bra, and watched his resolve crumble. "My place is upstairs. Got some gear you might like."
Matt's nod was instant, eager, his eyes still darting to her nipples and quads. "Lead the way, Carter," he'd rasped, voice thick with anticipation.
The elevator ride was torture—silent, electric, their shoulders brushing as the numbers climbed. When the doors slid open, she guided him into her suite, a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. But the view wasn't the draw. The room was a shrine to his weaknesses: a rack of dumbbells and kettlebells gleamed in one corner, a lifting belt draped over a chair, and a table spilled over with thongkinis—red, black, neon green, every color he'd ever double-tapped on Insta****. She'd even hung a pull-up bar on the bathroom doorframe, a subtle nod to his obsession with functional strength.
Matt froze in the doorway, jaw dropping as he took it in. "Elise... what the hell is this?" His gaze snagged on the thongkinis, then the weights, then back to her—his breath hitching like he'd just maxed out a deadlift.
She smirked, stepping closer, her quads rippling under those tiny shorts. "A little research. I know what you like, Dudley. Pick a thongkini if you want—I've got your favorites." She gestured to the pile, then turned, letting her traps roll as she grabbed a full-length jacket from the closet. "But first, sit. I've got something special."
He sank onto the edge of the king-sized bed, his massive frame sinking into the mattress, eyes locked on her. She slipped the jacket on—black, tailored, covering her from shoulder to thigh—and buttoned it slow, teasing him with the mystery. "You've seen me lift," she said, voice low, deliberate. "Now watch me pose."
The routine began. She started with a double biceps, the jacket straining as her arms flexed, peaks rising like mountains. She turned, hitting a rear lat spread, the fabric pulling tight across her back, lats flaring wide enough to split seams. Step by step, she unbuttoned—top down, slow as sin—revealing the sheer sports bra beneath, nipples erect and unyielding. Matt's hands clenched the bedspread, knuckles white, his chest rising fast.
She shrugged the jacket off, letting it pool at her feet, and transitioned to a side chest pose—pecs twitching, nipples dancing as she flexed, her quads popping under the shorts. "You like control, right?" she purred, peeling off the sports bra with a flick, tossing it at his feet. Bare now from the waist up, she hit a front lat spread, traps exploding, pecs rippling in waves—slow rolls, rapid twitches, a bounce that sent her nipples quivering. His groan was audible, a low, desperate sound.
The shorts came next. She bent forward, sliding them down her gargantuan legs—hamstrings bulging, calves diamond-hard—revealing a black thongkini, his favorite from a post he'd captioned "Perfection" two years back. She kicked the shorts aside, straightened, and launched into the finale: a full bodybuilding striptease. A side triceps pose, arm carved from granite, then a slow turn into a quad flex—leg shaking with power, veins pulsing. She spun again, hitting a rear double biceps, glutes tight in the thong, every muscle gleaming under the room's soft light.
Matt's eyes were glassy, his breaths shallow, but she wasn't done. She faced him, planting her feet wide, and sank into the most muscular pose—traps peaking, pecs exploding, nipples stark against the flex, quads and abs locked tight. Her body was a symphony of strength and seduction, every fiber under her command. She held it, trembling slightly, letting him drink her in.
He broke. Matt slid off the bed, dropping to his knees in front of her, hands hovering inches from her thighs like he was afraid to touch the divine. "Elise," he choked out, voice raw with lust, "you've ruined me. I'm done—done for. I need more. I need you."
She stepped closer, towering over him, her most muscular pose still locked, thongkini straining against her glutes. "Then take it, Dudley," she whispered, voice a sultry challenge. "You've got the green light."
He lunged, hands gripping her quads, lips brushing her abs as he worshipped the body she'd built—the trap she'd set, now fully sprung.

[bigjake737]

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[Wookey]

Hope this doesn't stop here. The next chapter as they consummate their relationship then build muscle together will be electric.  K++++

[bigjake737]

Here you go on another chapter in Matt's and Elise's life


Chapter: The Vows Forged in Iron
Elise Carter had always been a strategist, and Matt Dudley had been her most calculated conquest. But as the months unfolded after that night in her suite—his hands tracing her quads, her traps flexing under his awe—she saw something beyond the trap she'd set. Matt wasn't just a mark; he was a mirror. His discipline matched hers—rep for rep, meal for meal—and his honesty was unshakeable, a quiet steel that anchored her wildfire ambition. By the time he knelt before her again, this time with a ring instead of reverence, she didn't hesitate. "Yes," she said, her voice steady as a deadlift bar, "because I know you'll never slack on me."
The wedding plans came together fast, a union forged in iron and cemented with sweat. Family poured in from everywhere—her cousins from Chicago, his aunts from Texas—drawn by the spectacle of two titans tying the knot. Elise and Matt didn't want a quiet ceremony; they wanted a stage. Months before the date, they'd agreed: they'd step into marriage in peak bodybuilding contest shape, their physiques a testament to the life they'd build together. Contest prep became their foreplay—shared macros, tandem gym sessions, and a mutual pact to outmuscle every couple that ever flexed.
The wedding day arrived, a crisp spring afternoon, and the venue—a sprawling outdoor pavilion—hummed with anticipation. Elise emerged last, a vision in a strapless wedding gown that defied tradition. The fabric, a shimmering ivory, hugged her like a second skin, cut high to showcase her quads and low to frame her lats. Sleeveless and backless, it spotlighted her vascular traps and delts, veins snaking across her shoulders like rivers on a map. The bodice clung to her pecs, accentuating their striated curves, while the skirt flared just enough to hint at the glutes beneath—hard-earned and unapologetic. Every step flexed something new, her biceps twitching as she gripped her bouquet, her calves popping with each stride down the aisle.
Matt waited at the altar, his tuxedo tailored to his own contest-ready frame—lats stretching the jacket, quads testing the seams. His eyes locked on her, wide with the same hunger she'd sparked in the suite, now softened with something deeper. The vows were short, sharp, and ironclad: "To lift you up, to push you harder, to grow with you—always." The crowd erupted as they kissed, her traps flaring under his grip, his biceps bulging against her back.
Their first year was a symphony of muscle and magic. Mornings began with ritual protein shakes—hers chocolate whey with a scoop of creatine, his vanilla isolate blended with oats—downed side by side at the kitchen counter. Daily encouragement became their language: "One more rep, babe," he'd growl as she squatted a new PR; "Flex harder, you're a beast," she'd counter as he curled dumbbells that dwarfed most men's. They tracked their gains like scientists—calipers on quads, tape on biceps—each week pushing past limits no couple had dared. Gym selfies flooded their feeds, her thongkinis now matched by his posers, their physiques a living gallery of power and devotion.
By their first anniversary, they stood together in the suite where it all began, mirror reflecting two bodies more massive, more defined, than either had dreamed alone. Elise hit a double biceps, traps kissing her ears; Matt answered with a lat spread, wings blotting out the light. "We're unstoppable," she said, smirking as she flexed her pecs, nipples twitching under the strain. He grinned, pulling her close. "Damn right, Carter. Let's get bigger."
The trap had evolved—once hers, now theirs—and the world would never see them coming.

[Wookey]

Thank you for continuing the story? Any measurements of the couple? Especially as they grow