Well, diary, it's official – I, Gwen McCauley, am embarking on a date—a proper date, mind you, the first in nearly a year. It's not as if finding a date was a monumental task. Quite the opposite, really. The issue at hand was that I simply wasn't feeling it. Well, that's a bit of an understatement. It was more about my state of mind— a mindset that had been meticulously crafted by the fears, thoughts, and behaviors I picked up during the past decade of the great pandemic. Extricating myself from that train of thought turned out to be a lot trickier than you'd imagine.

Fast forward to today, over two years since the pandemic had sputtered to its end. After surviving years of relentless, nearly apocalyptic catastrophes, life was finally starting to regain some semblance of normalcy. That bizarre, otherworldly disease was pretty much history, and it’s only now most of the emergency measures have been ditched. It's like we've just emerged from a year-long cocoon of isolation, endless Zoom Meetings, working in my PJs, Netflix binges, and virtual happy hours with my trusty few friends.

Describing my return to the long-lost "normal" as unsettling and a bit disorienting would be the understatement of the century. I'd fared better than most during those years, mainly because I'd spent them with my parents and my grandma. You could say I'm a bit of an odd duck. Isolation didn't hit me as hard as it did my peers. I'd spent most of high school, undergrad, and grad school cloaked in isolation, navigating life through the lens of a computer screen. Don't get me wrong; it was no walk in the park, but solitude, in many ways, had been incredibly freeing for an introvert like me. There was something liberating about not having to put on a facade in front of others all the time. At times it felt almost therapeutic.

But the aftermath of years of global chaos and isolation left its mark, even on us introverts. It wasn't just those unfortunate souls who battled the worst of the virus head-on. Even those of us lucky enough not to have been cursed with the two oncogenes were scarred in our own way. My generation missed out on all those quintessential coming-of-age experiences – the high school drama, the proms, road trips, part-time jobs, dorm shenanigans, epic parties, and spring break adventures. Even those universal rites of passage, like puberty, we experienced mostly in isolation. And as much as I adore my alone time, even I had to admit that the craving for human connection was real.

And just like that, it was over. The world suddenly gave us permission to go out, to mingle, to visit friends, to hug, kiss, and revel in our humanity. The return was a struggle for everyone—governments, societies, businesses, families, friends. We were all in this together, embarking on a journey that would take years to get back to what we once considered "normal."

Honestly, I was terrified at first. The idea of interacting with people, of stepping out of my cocoon of safety and into the unknown, was unnerving. It felt a bit like emerging from a dark cave into the blinding sunlight. I hesitated to visit stores, dine at restaurants, or engage with strangers. But, you know what they say, you've got to face your fears. So, I dabbled in it, bit by bit. It was like taking one step forward and two steps back, but eventually, I sort of, kind of, found my groove with this "new normal."

What my generation and I discovered was that we had all, even the fortunate ones, lost a part of our humanity during the pandemic. Learning to reconnect and interact with each other presented a formidable challenge for many of us. It was as if we had been frozen in time, our emotional development stunted, and the mere act of being around people had become more difficult than ever before.

Then there was the dating part. During the pandemic, I had dipped my toes into the world of virtual "dates" and even experienced an impulsive teenage hook-up where I lost my virginity. Now, in this post-pandemic world, I found myself in a rather unexpected predicament. It was as if the floodgates had swung open, and I was suddenly inundated with a deluge of attention from men. They were practically falling over themselves to ask me out, eager for a taste of intimacy and connection that had been sorely lacking during the pandemic's darkest days. In fact, it seemed like everyone was caught in the throes of an insatiable longing for human connection, bordering on the downright lustful.

The atmosphere was charged with an unmistakable sense of desire, and it felt like everyone unattached was on the prowl, seeking solace and pleasure in one another's company. Everyone, that is, except for me. While the world around me seemed to be embracing this newfound liberation with open arms, I couldn't help but feel like an outlier, as if I were observing the chaos from the periphery of a wild party to which I hadn't received an invitation.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I was right there with everyone else when the world reopened. But I just wasn't ready for the whirlwind of drama that dating seemed to entail. Men, oh, they were something else. They came on so strong, like they were auditioning for a reality TV show, not even pretending to form a real connection. Every choice felt like a high-wire act, one misstep away from hurt feelings or worse. Saying no was like navigating a minefield, with the looming possibility of dealing with a man's disappointment, anger, or whatever other undeserved expectation or emotional baggage he brought along. I mean, it might sound silly because, let's face it, most women have been through it, but it just didn't seem fair. Dating was an emotionally risky business, sure, but I didn't sign up for this level of pressure.

After about a month of trying out clubs, enduring blind dates, and swiping through Tinder profiles, I threw in the towel. There were other things in my life that needed my attention, and I couldn't be bothered with affairs of the heart. That is until I met Ian.

I had a rather old-school encounter with Ian, if you can believe it. It all began in this quaint British literary chat group, dedicated to the 18th and 19th centuries. Forget the swiping and profile browsing; our connection happened serendipitously, just the way Jane Austen might have approved. Ian had joined the group on a whim, driven more by a desire to discuss the cultural and political influences of the Regency era, while I, on the other hand, was all about my love for literature.

Being young Americans sharing an obsession with late 18th-century Britain made us the eccentric ones in the group, especially considering that most of the members were decades older than us. From snarky comments and lively debates on each other's posts and essays, we progressed to texting, exchanged pictures, and eventually took the plunge into Zoom meetups and online dates.

It was almost uncanny how much we had in common. Our interests aligned perfectly, and our likes and dislikes seemed to mirror each other's. We even discovered that we were both born and raised in Afton.

Ian came from old money, with an old Virginian family name. His parents were surgeons, and he was essentially a trust-fund baby, though you'd never guess it from his down-to-earth demeanor. He had recently completed his graduate program at the University of Edinburgh and had also been involved with an NGO during his last semester there. Ian's backstory had raised a few suspicions, but a quick Google search confirmed its authenticity.

I hadn't been looking for a relationship when we crossed paths, but sometimes life throws you a curveball. I couldn't help but fall for Ian. He was intelligent, had a great sense of humor, and was incredibly sensitive. Strangely, it was as if he could read my mind. He seemed to know exactly what I needed, without me even having to ask. He had this emotional radar that left me dumbfounded. No prying questions or pushing; he knew when to show up and when to give me space. Our conversations flowed so naturally that I felt at ease sharing my deepest thoughts with him.

Even though the pandemic was finally behind us, we were still doing the whole pandemic dating thing. There was one tiny snag, though – I had never actually met Ian in person. He was still in Edinburgh, knee-deep in his final semester, while I had landed my first gig at Fickland University. Ian was a bit of an enigma, an American living abroad. His online footprint was next to non-existent, with few friends to speak of, but he didn't come across as a recluse. He was just a private guy, and that was something I found rather appealing.

Now, all this happened last year, but just recently, he made his way back to the States after snagging a remote gig with an investment group. You know, the ones that were financing start-ups with groundbreaking technologies aimed at helping Nexie survivors. Ian had been back in town for almost two months before he dropped that bombshell on me. I couldn't help but feel a tad miffed about it, but Ian wanted to get all settled in his new place before we finally locked eyes in person.

Oh, the jitters were real. It was like stepping back into the world of actual dating, you know, the kind where you eat indoors in a public place, just like my parents used to do when they were my age. Sure, I'd gone out and embraced the single girl life for a couple of months, but afterwards, I sort of slipped back into my cozy isolation cocoon. But this was different; this was Ian.

I sat there in my apartment, feeling like a silly teenager on her very first date, anxiously awaiting his arrival. My heart was doing its own little tap dance. Ian would be here any minute. I snuck a final peek in the mirror and, well, I couldn't help but feel a bit bashful about my appearance. I'd gone for a daring, skimpy floral minidress, bordering on the edge of what some might call "slutty," paired with my brand-new four-inch heels.  I mean, Ian was about six feet tall (thank you, old profile stalking), a smidge on the shorter side for me. But hey, an inch and a half from the heels wasn't going to kill anyone, right? Plus, the dress and heels made my legs look absolutely fab, and that's exactly what I was going for.

I kept glancing at my phone, anxiously awaiting that text – he should be here any second. I was being ridiculous, fretting over nothing. "Calm down, Gwen," I muttered to myself. "It's just a date. We've practically known each other for a year. All secrets and insecurities are out in the open. He knows me. He hasn't sprinted away in terror. What's left is just the physical consummation of our relationship. No biggie, right?" As I contemplated texting him, my thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound – a gentle tapping at the door.

My heart skipped a beat. How long had Ian been standing there? And why was he knocking instead of just ringing the doorbell?

"Coming!" I called out, all the while hastily smoothing out invisible wrinkles on my dress. I took a deep breath, pulled myself together, and finally, with my heart doing somersaults, I swung the door open.

"Hi, Ian! It's so nice to fin…"

But wait, there was no one there. I blinked in confusion and did a quick scan from one side of the door to the next. Did I just imagine someone was at the…

"Hi, Gwen! It's so nice to meet you in person. Wow! You look amazing."

The voice was... below? I couldn't believe my eyes as they followed the sound down to its source.

"Ian!?" I exclaimed, both surprised and taken aback.

It was indeed Ian, in the flesh, only one thing was glaringly obvious – he was not tall. Actually, he wasn't just "not tall"; those words fell painfully short of doing justice to Ian's stature. He was TINY. And when I say tiny, I mean it in every sense of the word. He was looking up at me, holding several long-stem roses that were almost as long as he was. I couldn't help but just stand there, dumbfounded, at a complete loss for words. I'm pretty sure he didn't even come up to my knees.

"Ummm, hi," I managed to stammer.

"Sorry I'm late," he squeaked, seemingly unfazed by my surprise. "My Uber took forever to get to my place." He extended the roses up towards me with a cheerful smile, seemingly oblivious to the gaping difference in our heights.

"Here, these are for you."

I stood there, mouth agape, barely registering his gesture. I bent down, way down, to accept the roses. “Oh, thank you, these are lovely”, I mumbled. Ian smiled, he seemed oblivious to my shock. Ian didn’t tell me he was an “Opa”, which in this case is not a German grandfather but judging by his size an OPA70 gene carrier, a Nexie.  Or to be formal, a NExVID survivor. I wasn’t expecting this. The enforced isolation of the pandemic had left most of my generation naive about the pitfalls of dating, including me. Though I was mindful about checking out a story, it never occurred to me to ask him if he was a Nexie. I just assumed when I saw a profile pic in my google search that he was six feet. Plus, he’s a townie like me. He looked tall in the pics and videos he sent me. Then I mentally kicked myself. I never saw a pic of him next to other people or even everyday objects. Just selfies of him on his hikes in the barren highlands.

I don’t know why, but for me it’s difficult to talk about the pandemic. The online fantasy world I created was an escape from the awful reality. I never asked any person I met if they were one of the victims. I didn’t really want to know. It seemed obvious to me that most of them were not. Now I wasn’t so sure.

“Ummm… are you ready? The uber driver is waiting.” I blinked as if woken from a stupor. Ian was staring up at me perplexed. I hoped I wasn’t still staring at him with my mouth agape. Nope, I was still paused in mid-crouch holding the roses. “Our reservation at Céline’s is a little over an hour, but I thought we could sit at the bar for a drink.”.

I was left utterly dumbfounded. Why did Ian keep this from me? Why hide something like this? Anger surged within me, blinding me to everything else. He hadn't exactly lied, but he had certainly kept a significant detail hidden. I wanted this man more than I'd ever admitted, but now... well, now, things felt different. We had this amazing relationship, and yet he'd concealed this from me. Nine months of dating, and it felt like a betrayal.

I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I couldn't let him see me like this. "Ian, I need to grab a few things. I'll be right back. Just wait here," I blurted out without waiting for his response.

I rushed back to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. Sitting on my bed, I couldn't hold back the flood of tears any longer. He lied to me! This doll-sized man showed up at my doorstep, thinking everything was just fine. I was aching for so long to take this man, but now, I wasn't sure I even wanted to touch him. I began sobbing, trying my best to stifle the sounds, but it only seemed to make things worse.

What do I do?  Do I slam the door in his face? Throw the flowers at him? Call him a shrimp and tell him to fuck off? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. That's just not me. I was never really good at being an angry bitch, even when someone absolutely had it coming. I could've gone the easy route and tell him I'm not feeling well, and then ghost him. Just ignore him. He would eventually get the message.  But that wasn't really my style either. No matter how tough the situation, I've always been one to tackle things head-on. I couldn't just toss aside all those months we spent together. This wasn't okay, and he needed to know exactly how I felt. Maybe, just maybe, giving him a dose of reality would make him think twice before treating another woman like this. Why on earth would an Opa think it's acceptable to hide their size? That asshole should stick with his own kind!

"Okay, Gwen, that wasn't cool," I muttered to myself. Love comes in all shapes, genders and sizes, right? Now, on top of everything else, now I’m a shallow bitch, I was wrestling with guilt and shame in this bubbling stew of emotions. "Thanks, Ian. Thanks for tossing this delightful mess into my lap," I bitterly laughed between sobs. An inner voice chimed in, trying to soothe my guilt. "You're not shallow, Gwen, you know that. You don't judge a man by his height."

So, yeah, I’m tall. Not towering basketball or volleyball girl tall, but tall enough to easily break six feet in a pair of heels. But you know what? I'm perfectly fine with it. Back in middle school, being tall was a bit of a nightmare, but I've grown (pun not intended) to embrace it. I'm comfortable rocking a pair of heels and towering over people. As for dating, I don't have a strict height requirement. It really depends on the guy. I do have a soft spot for someone with an athletic build and a bit of scruff on their face, but being tall is not a must. I could see myself dating a guy who's 5'7 or even 5'4.

But an Opa? Seriously, how tiny is he? I didn't get a proper look at him, but I doubt he's even two feet tall. Trying anything physical with Ian would be utterly ridiculous. Plus, I could accidentally hurt the itty-bitty guy.

My thoughts were interrupted by Ian’s high-pitched squeaking. “Gwen, are you ok?” Geeze! His voice sounded even more shrill than previous, why did he sound normal online?

I mean, what's a girl to do? My brain was a swirling mess of tangled emotions, making the choice of whether to ditch Ian even more of a Herculean task. Seriously, what was I supposed to do? I loved the guy, no doubt about it, but I was also angry and, more importantly, hurt. I felt betrayed, and that pain triggered a darker side of me, one driven by the desire to hurt him back. But how?

 And then it hit me, this wickedly brilliant idea. He wants a date, right? Well, let's give him a date—a big, epic date. Let's see how much fun the tiny runt has trying to keep up with me.

So, I decided to play it cool. "Oh, Ian," I called out, putting on my best "I'm totally fine" voice. "I've had this on-again, off-again headache all day. But I popped some Advil right before you showed up, and I'm feeling way better now. Did you mention Céline's?"

"Yeah," came his tiny voice.

"It's only a few blocks away, and the evening is just so beautiful. Why don’t we walk?"

"You want to walk?" Ian sounded, like, totally baffled.

I popped my head out of my bedroom door. I hope he couldn’t tell I was crying, though from his vantage point I doubted it. He stood by the front door in my living room, resembling Gulliver in a Brobdingnagian apartment.

Taking a deep breath, I summoned all my composure and shot him a sweet, sunny smile. "Yeah, it’ll be fun!" I replied.

Ian appeared uneasy, his hand nervously finding its way to the back of his neck. "Umm...okay," he replied, his eyes meeting mine with a hint of determination. A faint smile graced his lips. "That would be fun."

"Great! Just give me a few more minutes, and I'll be right out," I said, my faux enthusiasm covering my anger.

Ian hovered by the door, looking slightly lost. "So, why don't you settle up with the driver and meet me back here?" I suggested.

He glanced up, a bit startled. "Oh, sure thing. I'll be right back."

I watched as he half-walked, half-climbed down the three steps to the sidewalk. I retreated to my bedroom, determined to fix the mascara that had been ravaged by my earlier tears. After gathering a few things, I made my way back to the living room, where I found him waiting. The door was still ajar, and I had a pretty good idea why—it was likely too big for him to close. And that dear diary, was when I had to suppress a laugh.

Now, I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge that he looked ridiculously handsome standing there. The soft lighting played on his blue shirt and jeans, highlighting those muscles and chiseled features in all the right ways. Perfect, except for one glaring detail: he was standing next to a pile of my shoes by the door, that absolutely dwarfed him. His confidence only added to the absurdity of the scene. the heels of one pair easily came up to his knees!

What made this situation all the more maddening was his stubborn refusal to acknowledge the fact that he's an Opa. He just stood there, this awkward reality hanging over us like a dark cloud. I stared at him, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment, some sign that he understood the elephant in the room. But no, not a word. No, “Hey Gwen, I’m so sorry I should have told you…” or “I guess we have things to discuss…”  It took every ounce of restraint not to scream.

"Ready?" I finally asked, breaking the tense silence.

"Yup, let's go," he replied cheerfully, as if the past few minutes hadn't been the most bizarre dating moments of my life.

I strolled past him, and I couldn't help but notice that he had to tilt his head almost vertically to meet my gaze. I looked down at him and did a quick mental measurement. Yup, not even up to my knees. The situation was getting more surreal by the second.

Unfortunately for Ian, despite my best efforts to conceal it, my anger was seeping through, evident in the determined tap of my footsteps. I wasn't quite stomping, but I was definitely channeling that powerful-woman-strutting-in-heels vibe. Ian, of course, was in no danger of being flattened, but my right foot came down with a tad more force than expected.  Startled, he accidentally stumbled backward, right into a pair of my flip flops, toppling onto my shoes in a heap.

I paused, gazing down at him as he untangled himself from the shoe jungle, and a giggle escaped my lips. "Oops," I quipped, a smirk playing on my lips, before sauntering outside.

I waited impatiently by the door as he stepped outside, brushing off the dust from his little fall. After locking the door, I began to stride away, feeling thoroughly embarrassed. I mean, seriously, I must look like a colossal monster. Maybe it hadn't been the wisest idea to take a stroll down the street with an Opa chasing me, but anger had taken hold, and I was determined to make him pay for keeping this secret from me. If he wanted to date a giant, well, then I'd give him the full giant experience.

I glanced back to check on Ian, and there he was, a good ten feet behind me, sprinting at full throttle. So much for our romantic moonlit hand-in-hand walk. If we were going to have any kind of conversation, it seemed like it would involve me carrying him, and that was definitely not on my agenda.

We exited the courtyard of my apartment building and strolled along the tree-lined sidewalk, heading toward the trendy pedestrian mall a few blocks away from the university. The neighborhood was a mix of new condos, older renovated apartments like mine, and charming boutique shops and eateries. I tried to maintain a leisurely pace, my usual long strides shortened by my heels. I wasn't actively trying to ditch Ian, but it quickly became clear that I'd be leaving him in the dust if I didn't occasionally pause to let him catch up.

Thankfully, it was a delightful, cool April evening, which spared Ian from turning into a sweaty mess. He attempted to strike up a conversation as he got closer, but I decided to play it cool. I'd flash a pleasant smile, nod along as if I were interested, and then, just before he reached me, I'd gracefully turn around and continue walking. I was pissed and I would have it out with him about all of this, but not now, not in the middle of this weird "catch the giant girl" chase.

Afton, your typical affluent Virginia college town, had a unique twist. It stood as one of those rare gems that had largely escaped the worst of the pandemic's devastation, thanks to an unexpected factor: the scarcity of people with the dreaded OPA and MNE genes. Sure, everyone eventually caught the bug, but very few experienced its most unusual consequences. The college students had been sent packing years ago when the university temporarily closed its doors, barely scraping by on its endowment. This resulted in mass layoffs for most of the faculty and staff, including my parents. The newcomers and people without local ties had long since left town, seeking refuge back home. That left us, the true-blue townies, most of whom traced their roots back to the original settlers , bearing no trace of the vulnerable genes.

But, naturally, in other corners of the globe, the exact opposite scenario was playing out—whole towns resembling something straight out of Lilliput.

Seeing an Opa or even a smaller Mini on the streets was a rare sight, to say the least. Occasionally, you'd spot an Opa—like one of my new co-workers, who had evidently shrunk from my height to a dainty three feet tall. As for the Minis, well, the world was still figuring out what to do with them. I mean, what do you do with a group of people who couldn't lift a pen, safely navigate a sidewalk, manipulate a smartphone, or even hold a conversation without shouting to be heard? It was a conundrum.

Some people advocated for limited rights, making them wards of the state, keeping a close watch, providing protection, and maintaining control. Others pushed for full equality, demanding that they be treated just like any other person. I mostly fell into the latter camp, although I couldn't help but wonder how truly free one could be if the simple act of going for a walk meant risking being squashed by a careless toddler. That was my concern, not the concept of equality but the practicality of it. Accidentally stepping on one was my nightmare. Gracefulness wasn't exactly my strong suit, and I had a knack for getting lost in my thoughts. Just the mere thought of being around a Mini made me incredibly nervous.

The sidewalks buzzed with newly returned Ficklin University students, all basking in the warmth of the first April weekend of the spring semester. It had been years since the last in-person semester, with only the Nexies remaining online as the university figured out the myriad details to safely bring them back to campus. It was still early, but the blend of young adults and college students was already making its way to the bars, clubs, and restaurants that lined the street.

It seemed to me that we might be the only mixed-size couple in the entire mall, or at least the only couple catching everyone’s attention. Apparently, the spectacle of an Opa trying to keep pace with a tall woman made for amusing street theater. I couldn't say for certain if we looked like a couple, but it was crystal clear that Ian was in hot pursuit of me. Passersby couldn't help but snicker and exchange whispers as we walked by. A group of girls even burst into laughter, with one shouting, "Don't give up, little guy! You can catch her if you try harder! Just run faster!" I couldn't help but feel a mix of embarrassment and amusement.

Glancing back at Ian, who was sprinting in a futile attempt to bridge the gap between us, I couldn't resist a small smile. I hoped he felt the sting of humiliation, being the object of ridicule for all the towering women looking down at him. "Serves him right," I muttered, but a pang of shame quickly followed. I was angry and hurt, sure, but this wasn't the right way to handle it. This was Ian—my Ian. I'd fallen for him, or at least the Ian I met online, and I would never have wished this on him before tonight. This whole charade felt petty and mean.

I looked down at Ian again and it dawned on me that at his vantage point he had a perfect view of my ass. “Oh my God! “I hissed through gritted teeth. Has he been looking up my dress this entire time? I can’t believe this tiny perv is looking up my dress! A voice in my head piped up, a protest from the "Good Gwen" side of me, you know, that sunny, Disney-princess version who's never encountered a truly bad person in her life. She started nagging at me. "Why are you getting so worked up about this?" the voice inquired. "After all, you've been sexting and exchanging nude pics with him for the past four months."

My thoughts were interrupted by Ian’s squeaky voice, "Wait! Wait! I need a moment," he called out. I halted in my tracks and spun around. He was twenty feet behind me, hunched over against a garbage can, his face flushed, and his breathing labored. I strolled back toward him, wearing an expression of sheer puzzlement, as if I were entirely clueless about his struggles to keep up.

"What's wrong?" I asked with all the innocence I could muster.

Ian gasped between breaths. "I just need a moment to catch my breath."

Raising an eyebrow, I replied, "But I thought you were a regular hiker and runner?"

"I am," Ian replied, his voice strained, "but this feels more like sprinting."

With a feigned air of ignorance, I remarked, "Ian, it's just a short walk. I'm wearing heels, and my feet aren't even hurting." I watched him incredulously, waiting for the inevitable. The first comment, the first complaint, the first plea to slow down—or worse, the request to be carried like a baby. I placed my hands on my knees and peered down at him, not really caring if he was looking up at my dress anymore. "Come on, say something, pipsqueak," I mused to myself, "Just admit you can't keep up with the big, mean bitch."

But to my surprise, Ian just looked up and flashed that dazzling smile of his (seriously, he had such a gorgeous smile!). "I'm good," he said brightly. "Let's keep going!"

“We need to hurry.” I replied flatly, “or we’ll miss our reservation.”

I couldn't have cared less if we ended up being late; I just wanted to watch him sweat trying to keep up with me. Or at least, that's what I thought I wanted. As I swiveled on my heels, fully intending to lengthen my strides and pick up the pace, that persistent voice in my head started to suck all the satisfaction out of my revenge and punishment plot. "Why are you being so cruel?" it persistently prodded. "I get that you're pissed, but this is just wrong."

Gradually, I began to slow down and stopped even more frequently. That annoying voice was right. I'd never relished watching anyone suffer, even when I had strong reasons to dislike them, and I most definitely didn't hate Ian. In fact, I was head over heels in love with the guy. I'd even blurted out an "I love you" during a late-night phone call three months ago, as I drifted in and out of sleep—an event that had sparked ongoing discussions about the future of our relationship.

The truth was, I was seething with anger, but beneath it all, Ian had deeply wounded me. I had trusted him completely, and now that trust was shattered. If only he had told me earlier! But then, what? I brushed away a tear that had escaped down my cheek. Of course, if I had known about his condition from the start, I might have put the brakes on our relationship at the first sign it was moving beyond friendship. But now, it has progressed well beyond that point. I couldn't simply switch off the feelings I had for him. Just an hour ago, I had seen Ian as close to perfect. Now? Well, he was everything I ever wanted in a man, except for being four feet too short.

The nagging voice wouldn't let up. "Fine," I conceded to myself with an internal sigh, "I'll attempt to be an adult about this." I stopped seeking pleasure in turning our date into a living hell for him, but I had no intentions of sparing his feelings either.

We miraculously arrived at Céline's with only a minute to spare. Ian was panting but wore a triumphant look. I peered down at him, bemused. "Congrats, Ian," I thought to myself, "you conquered a whole six blocks. What's next? Scaling a flight of stairs?" I couldn't help but think about how minuscule he appeared. With my heels on, he barely reached mid-calf. At that moment, I wasn't entirely sure if Ian qualified as an Opa; he looked more like a Mini.

Comparing the size of my feet and calves to his body made me feel absolutely enormous—like King Kong holding that tiny woman in his giant ape hand. Standing next to him dredged up memories from middle school when I had shot up a foot and a half in sixth grade. Back then, I was all gangly limbs, and all the boys seemed like hobbits. I even outgrew most of the teachers. None of the boys had shown any interest in the awkward, clumsy giant that was me. And now, here I was, facing a similar situation.

I glanced at the restaurant door, then down at Ian, who was gazing up at me expectantly. Oops, it seemed I was responsible for ensuring my itty-bitty date could navigate through this ginourmous world. I glanced down to make sure he had clearance from the doorway and carefully held the door open for him. How on earth did he manage to get around? That was a question that continued to boggle my mind.

Céline's, like many other businesses along the mall, was housed in an old Victorian building, in this case, a former tobacco warehouse. Retrofitting these historic structures for the reduced had proven to be quite the challenge, and I couldn't help but notice that only a handful of businesses had managed to complete the necessary modifications. The restaurant itself was a stunning space, featuring exposed brick walls and beautifully refinished, tobacco-stained pine plank floors. I could only assume that the building's original construction had made it quite tricky to carve out little doors and construct walkways for any tinier clientele.

Approaching the hostess's station, I was greeted by a leggy blonde woman in her early twenties who looked up and flashed a welcoming smile. "Welcome to Céline's. Are you waiting for someone?" she inquired.

"Actually, no," I replied, shaking my head and pointing toward the tiny man standing between my legs. The hostess's eyes widened slightly when she looked down, but she swiftly concealed her surprise and maintained a pleasant smile. "We're here for a reservation for two at 6:00," I explained.

"Of course. Your name?" she asked, efficiently noting down the details.

"It should be under Ian Kennon," I responded, trying to suppress my awareness of how insensitive I was being. According to all those recent university DEI small persons awareness seminars I'd attended, I was essentially "talking over and speaking for a small person." But I had to admit, I was doing it on purpose. I knew it wasn't right, and I had promised myself not to punish Ian or derive any joy from his discomfort. However, my anger was making it incredibly challenging to rein in my impulsive behavior.

"Here he is," the hostess chimed in with a smile, her actions implying that she was more than willing to disregard Ian and treat me as the sole adult in our party. “We have a lovely spot outside on the patio.” My mouth dropped. No, no, no, no. I was not in the mood to be tonight’s show of mixed-size dating couples.

"Um, I had a migraine this morning. I'm feeling better now, but I'm trying to avoid too much light," I improvised quickly. "Do you happen to have a table toward the back, maybe in a corner?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me check," she said, pausing briefly. "Yes, I do. I'll just swap these reservations. If you could follow me, I'll take you to your table."

As I started following her, Ian dashed ahead and blocked my path. "Gwen, are you sure? I reserved one of the best tables here," he urged. I walked right past him, ignoring his protests.

Thankfully, the hostess led us to a dimly lit back corner, tucked away from the other customers. It was still relatively early, and my hope was that we could finish our meal and make our exit before the place filled up any further.

However, just when I thought this disastrous date couldn't get any stranger, another odd twist came our way. The table she guided us to was not at all accessible for Ian. The hostess glanced at me, sheepishly and stammered, "Um, I'm not sure we have something suitable for your...date."

"Friend," I quickly corrected her.

"Of course. Let me see what we can do. Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess replied, placing the menus on the table before hurrying back to her station. I eased myself into my chair and looked down at Ian standing by the oversized table. Even sitting in a chair, I still towered over him. "Ian, did you even call ahead to check if they had accommodations for you?" I asked.

"No, I don't usually limit myself to restaurants based on accessibility," he answered. Gripping one chair leg, he glanced up with a grin. "Don't worry, I'll manage." Ian began climbing the chair leg using both hands and feet, making his way up until he could reach the chair back and hoist his leg over the seat.

Climbing onto the chair, Ian stood up, the top of the table clearly reaching past his chest. He grinned proudly and declared, "See?" Oblivious to my stunned expression, he leaned forward over the table and stretched his arm out, attempting to grasp a menu that the hostess had thoughtlessly placed out of his reach.

I could only look at him in bewilderment. Giving up any pretense of ignoring his condition, I asked, "So, are you planning to stand on your chair for the entire meal?"

"If I have to, then yes," he replied with determination.

"Seriously?" I exclaimed, my frustration now all too evident.

"Ian! This is..."

"Hi, I'm Chloe. I'll be serving you tonight," a friendly young woman interrupted, appearing at our table.

"So, Lori told me that you guys need some help with your table. I just talked to the manager, and..."

"Hi, Chloe," I stood up and interjected, "I know this isn't your fault, and my friend should have called ahead to check for accessible tables. But we're here now, and he can't spend the whole evening standing on a chair. Just look at him; he can't even reach the flatware."

I wasn't angry because of the inaccessible table, nor was I trying to advocate for Ian's needs. I was just plain mad. It had only been an hour with him, and I was already over his tiny people problems. Ian seemed so helpless—unable to walk at an adult pace, incapable of opening doors, and dwarfed by everything around him, including me. This was just our first hour together, and it was nothing like the date I had envisioned. I didn't want to be this mean, angry shrew. I wanted to scream at someone, and unfortunately for Chloe, she had become the unwitting target.

"As for the flatware and glassware, I assume you don't have an accessible set either?" I added with irritation.

"Um, no," Chloe replied, appearing as if she'd rather be anywhere else than dealing with this seemingly unhinged woman who had suddenly transformed into the ultimate Karen.

"Wonderful," I retorted dryly.

"Gwen, I think it's best if I handle this," Ian squeaked, trying to get a word in edgewise. I was so engrossed in my complaints that I barely heard him. When I finally looked down, there he stood, between two towering women, appearing tiny and powerless. This doll-sized man who had audaciously catfished a giant. I peered down my nose at him.

"Please don't interrupt, Ian. I've got this," I replied coldly, turning my attention back to Chloe.

“It’s been over a year, since the emergency mandates have been lifted, and you still don’t have fucking accommodations for pandemic survivors!!??”

"Gwen!" Ian interjected.

I glanced down at Ian, who was looking up at me with irritation. "Not now, pipsqueak! The big people are talking!" I hissed, shutting him down.

That was it; I had definitely crossed a line, and there was no denying it. Disney princess Gwen had morphed into a yelling, irrational ogre. "What is wrong with you? This girl has done nothing to you! You're being a horrible bitch!" I scolded myself internally, feeling smaller than Ian at that moment and wishing I could just disappear into a hole. I turned around, fighting back tears, and muttered a feeble, "Sorry," to no one in particular.

Ian's jaw practically hit the floor, and Chloe's face went from anger to something more akin to understanding. She glanced at me for a moment, then closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. When she looked down at Ian, she gracefully dropped to her knees. "Hi, Mr. Kennon, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you. As I was telling your... umm, date."

"Hi, Chloe. You can call me Ian. It's nice to meet you. I apologize; my girlfriend can be a little overprotective sometimes," Ian replied with a warm smile.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to interrupt. Please continue," Ian said.

"No worries, Ian," Chloe said, giving him a compassionate look. "We're committed to providing a fantastic experience for all our guests. I've spoken with my manager, and here's the scoop on retrofitting our space to accommodate little people. Over the past year, we've been holding ongoing discussions with our architect and contractors. Accessible furniture and furnishings were ordered six months ago, but due to supply chain issues, we haven't received them yet. Our vendor expects the shipment in the next two weeks. We're planning to close for a month during the summer for renovations. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. I did find a highchair in the storage room, and I can check if we have any smaller flatware. However, we are a child-free restaurant, so I can't make any promises, but I'll see what I can do."

Ian flashed a charming smile and performed what I could only describe as diplomatic magic. With a graceful mix of charm and self-deprecating humor, he expertly diffused my earlier temper tantrum. He apologized for my behavior without throwing me under the bus, subtly painting me in a more sympathetic light. Then, with effortless finesse, he showered Chloe with compliments for her efforts to make us happy and effortlessly transitioned into casual conversation about her life. His warmth, sincerity, and genuine interest were palpable, and I couldn't help but watch with begrudging admiration. Ian had a real knack for this.

The conversation ended with Chloe standing up, laughing at one of Ian's jokes. She practically radiated positivity. "I'll go check on that chair, Ian. I'll be right back."

Ian gracefully hopped down from his chair and turned his attention to me. It was hard to tell if he was angry at me for making a scene and calling him a "pipsqueak" earlier. He looked more concerned than anything else.

"Are you okay?" he asked with genuine worry.

Shame washed over me. I couldn't meet his gaze and just looked down, feeling utterly embarrassed.

"I mean, I know we've never been together in real life, but I've never seen you act this way," he continued, trying to understand.

At that, I shot him a glare. He should know exactly why I was upset! Why was he acting so befuddled about my behavior?

"I'm fine!" I huffed, taking my seat and grabbing a menu, pointedly ignoring him. From the corner of my eye, I peeked over the menu at him. He stood awkwardly next to his chair, wearing a defeated expression. It seemed that my outburst had finally taken the wind out of his sails. Yup, Ian, it looks like you've finally realized that this date isn't going well.

Chloe returned with a petite wooden highchair and deftly moved Ian's chair out of the way. Ian hurriedly sidestepped, avoiding a collision with the petite woman’s legs. She positioned the highchair next to mine with a warm smile. "There you go," Chloe said cheerfully, then glanced over at me. I must have looked completely blank, lost in my thoughts. After an uncomfortable silence, Chloe directed her gaze down to Ian and then back at me.

"So, ummm... we're not allowed to handle, umm... I mean touch our guests, you know, for liability reasons," she explained tentatively. "Could you help him get in his chair?"

"Oh my God," I muttered to myself, rolling my eyes at the absurdity of the situation. With a deep sigh, I rose from my chair and reached down with both hands. This was it; touching Ian for the first time, and sadly as he was my would-be boyfriend, the first time I handled a reduced man. I had assumed it would be akin to lifting and cradling a newborn; after all, he was about the same height as one. However, I soon discovered that this was far from the truth.

Describing it as "weird" would be a massive understatement. Lifting Ian felt more like handling a living, breathing doll – I know, I kept using that word, but it was the most fitting description. It made me think of how I'd never liked dolls, not even as a child; they had always given me the creeps. Yet here I was, on a date with what felt like a doll. I half-expected his skin and hair to be made of plastic, not living flesh. My hands easily encircled his torso, with my fingers extending across his hips to his chest. I could feel his minuscule hands grasping my fingers, like a tiny, fragile creature seeking comfort.

I glanced down, noting that his wrists were just slightly thicker than my fingers. My touch confirmed the presence of firm abs and well-sculpted pecs. He was undeniably a perfectly formed, beautifully sculpted man, just in miniature. As I gently lifted him, expecting it to be akin to lifting a baby, I was surprised by how incredibly light he felt. It was more akin to picking up a kitten, which made me realize that I could probably lift him with just one hand. Ian's body was delicate, incredibly so. His tiny arms and legs were connected by delicate sinews and muscles, surrounding bones that seemed no thicker than twigs. I had seen Opas before, but I had never held one, let alone one as small as Ian. The experience of holding a human so tiny was surreal to the point of being almost incomprehensible. Despite his impressive physique, Ian was incredibly fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain that I could easily break if I were careless.

I placed him in the highchair and nearly laughed out loud. He looked so ridiculous. All of this was so comical. I just put my date in a highchair, I thought. I shook my head ruefully and settled back into my chair. Ian looked up at me as I returned, saying, "Thank you, Gwen." All I managed to reply with was a simple "Yup," hiding behind my menu.

"Hmmm... I thought this would work," Chloe mused, drawing my attention away from the menu. She was, peering down at Ian, who was now sitting in the highchair, only to discover its tray was level with his chin. It turned out that even the dining chair designed for babies and toddlers was too big for him.

Both Chloe and Ian looked at me with bated breath, assuming I was about to have a new tantrum. Ian laughed. “Wow! This town must have some big babies! No wonder management doesn’t allow them on the premises!”

Chloe, attempted to stifle a giggle but failed at Ian’s joke. “You have no idea, Ian. They are huge!” she replied laughing.

Ian thumped the tray with the palm of his hand. “This is fine Chloe, I think I can manage.” “No, Ian, I want you to be comfortable.” She replied. Chloe put her hand to her chin. “Let me see..hmmm...” She smiled and looked at Ian. “I got it! I’ll be right back!” Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and rushed back to the kitchen.

We both waited in awkward silence, Ian sat in his oversized chair looking forlornly at the other tables. I remain hidden behind the menu. I sighed and ruminated over the decision to go out with him. I should have had this fight with him at my apartment. I should have told him how I felt and sent him away. But therein lay the dilemma – I wasn't entirely sure I wanted him to leave. If this were just a first date, it would be easier to brush off, but it wasn't. I had invested so much in this relationship, and right now, all I yearned for was to turn back the clock to a time when I believed Ian was a full-sized man, back when I was lost in the fantasy of being with him in our perfect long-distance relationship.

“Ok, Ian let’s try this.” I looked up, Chloe had returned, looking cheerier than ever. I didn’t mean to dislike her, but her damned sunny disposition was setting my teeth on edge. She was holding a stack of paperbacks.

"I went to my car and got my textbooks out of my backpack. You have to promise me you won't mess them up," Chloe said playfully.

"Like pour a glass of wine on them?" Ian responded with a smirk, his tongue firmly in his cheek.

"That's right, mister! Don't do that!" Chloe replied, adopting a faux-stern tone. "No Béarnaise Sauce either!"

Ian and Chloe seemed to be hitting it off at this point. I was impressed by how Ian was handling the situation with grace. Most of the men I had dated, if they were in Ian's shoes, would have completely lost their shit by now, feeling utterly humiliated and belittled by two towering women treating him like a child.

But it was me who felt embarrassed. The other diners were starting to take notice of Chloe's efforts to get Ian comfortably seated. Some were openly staring, and one woman was even giggling. Ian didn't help matters either, as he climbed onto the highchair tray and engaged in a loud amiable conversation with Chloe. His comically high-pitched voice was unmistakable as the waitress placed the books on the chair one by one.

"There!" Chloe exclaimed, looking quite pleased with herself. "Give that a try." Ian clambered onto the stack of books and sat down, making it work in a fashion. He couldn't lean back against the seatback, and his legs dangled in the air, but at least the tray was now at a reasonable height.

"So, what would you like to start off with?" Chloe asked, and that was my cue to jump into action.

Ian stood on his stack of books, his eyes fixed on the menu that Chloe had opened and placed on his tray. I then reached over and grabbed Ian's menu. He looked up, surprised, as I began to rattle off our order.

"I think we'd like to start with the Pan Roasted Scallops with whipped cauliflower and golden raisin-caper butter sauce. Doesn’t that sound so interesting Ian? I'd like the Beef Tenderloin with black truffle and béarnaise sauce, and Ian will have the Agnolotti alla Panna. As for wine, what would you recommend?"

Chloe glanced at Ian and back to me, a bit nervous, not entirely sure how to react. I was ordering for Ian as if he were a child. Chloe seemed to be a genuinely good person, and if I had witnessed someone like me treating an Opa this way, I'd probably want to speak up too. I also realized that night that I really sucked at being a bitch. This whole act was hurting me as much as it was Ian, yet I pressed on.

"Well, with beef, you can't beat a good Cab Sav."

"Cab Sav?" I replied, revealing my lack of wine knowledge. I was more of a beer and whiskey snob, thanks to my dad. Wine wasn't really my thing, and I was clueless about the different styles.

"Cabernet Sauvignon," Chloe explained. "We have a 7-year-old Château Cos d’Estournel that would pair nicely."

I crossed my legs and placed my hands in my lap, trying my best to exude the air of a sophisticated junior leaguer, which I most definitely was not.

"That sounds lovely," I replied, feigning refined good taste. "We'll take a bottle."

Chloe's eyes widened, and I could see her mentally calculating the cost of our dinner. She then looked down at Ian. "Ian, is there anything you would like to add or change?"

Ian gazed at both of us, a hint of anger flickering across his expression. Then he flashed a smile at Chloe. "No, this sounds perfect. I can't wait to see what the chef creates for us."

Chloe seemed relieved, willing to stand up for my guy, but clearly not wanting to be caught in the middle of a lovers' spat. Note to self: call the restaurant tomorrow to profusely apologize to her for my dreadful behavior.

"Great, I'll put in your order and bring out your wine," she said and then quickly walked away.

As I watched her stride off, I contemplated what to say to make amends when I heard Ian clear his throat. I glanced down at him. "Do you order for all your dates?" he asked, irritation in his voice.

"Only for the ones who can't reach the seats of their chairs. I hope you brought your wallet," I retorted, my tone ice-cold.

With that, I decided to put an end to my little charade. I hated playing these games, being a petulant child trying to hurt him. I stopped pretending and took a deep breath, realizing I'd already humiliated Ian enough. It was time for honesty.

"Gwen, I think..." Ian began, but I cut him off, pointedly looking down at him.

"I think your problem with this oversized furniture," I paused, making a show of languidly crossing my legs and draping myself over the petite café chair, "well, to you," I continued, "is a perfect segue for tonight's conversation. I mean, after nine months, we supposedly know each other so well. I was curious about what we'd talk about tonight. But now, it seems we have much to discuss. So, shall we address the tiny elephant in the room?"

Ian gazed up at me, his eyes a mix of sad resignation and confusion. "The tiny..."

Once again, I cut him off. "You know, the teeny tiny elephant sitting on a stack of textbooks in a highchair."

"Gwen..."

"Ian, I know what you're going to say," I interrupted, my voice filled with anger and frustration. "You're going to say I didn't lie to you because I never asked. So fine! You didn't lie to me. However, don't you think not telling me that you're an Opa is really lying?"

"Gwen, I..."

"I'm not done, Ian," I snapped, my emotions bubbling over. "I can't believe you hid this from me! We've been dating for over nine months! Did you ever consider telling me!? Then you just show up tapping at the bottom of my door! I just can't believe you did this!" Tears were now streaming down my cheeks, and I was struggling to hold back a scene. "Then! Then!! You just presumed that everything's fine! You're just standing there under my knees like ... this! Like this is normal! Oh my God, Ian! I feel like a giant monster standing next to you! Like I'm the fifty-foot woman!"

"22 feet," Ian replied sheepishly.

"What?" I asked, bewildered.

"You're like 5'6" and 120, right?"

"No," I sniffled, wiping away a tear, "I'm 5'9" and a half, and 130 pounds."

"Oh, it's hard to tell from my vantage point," Ian mused.

"So, to me, you're closer to 24 feet tall and 4 tons."

"To you, I'm 24 feet tall and I weigh FOUR TONS!!??" I exclaimed incredulously. "Oh my god, Ian, you are not helping your cause!" I struggled to comprehend the vastness of our physical differences. To him, I weighed more than an SUV. I could literally crush him.

"Okay, let's just get this out of the way," I said, resting my chin on my hands and fixing my gaze on Ian.

"So, Ian, how small are you?"

Ian hesitated, his gaze avoiding mine. "Ummm..."

"Come on, Ian, just be honest."

"I'm a little over 18 inches and weigh almost 3 pounds," he replied quietly.

My mouth dropped. He was a foot and a half tall and not even three pounds. He weighed less than my purse, less than a gallon of milk.

"I could pick him up with one hand," I muttered to myself.

"No, you couldn't," Ian retorted, irritation in his voice.

"Oh my god! You are fucking delusional, little man!" His comment had stirred anger within me for some reason. I was furious. "I curl eight times your weight at the gym!” I don't know why, but his comment angered me. I'm not some frail old woman! Couldn't he be honest with me? Honest with himself? He's a ridiculously tiny man! No amount of pretending would change that. How would we even begin to work as a couple? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I wanted to walk out and leave, but I didn't. Not without figuring this out.

"Ian, I'm just spinning my wheels here, trying to make sense of this. You need to know how much you hurt me. I trusted you, believed in you. I fell in love with you. I don't understand why you would hide this from me!" My eyes welled up with tears again. I really wished now that we had this fight in my apartment. "I can't believe you did this to me."

I glanced over at Ian, who was looking up at me, not with anger or defensiveness, but with a look of guilt and shame. "If I had told you, would it have changed anything?"

"Of course, it would! I'm not going to lie to you, Ian. If I had known you were an Opa, I would have never let this go past friendship."

Which was the truth, if an Opa as small as Ian asked me for a date, I would have politely declined. But that ship had sailed. Ian and I had constructed a romantic relationship built on distance and perceptions. What happens when a fairy tale love story smashes headfirst into reality? My attraction to Ian had always been more than just physical; I'd fallen in love with him for who he was, and in almost every aspect, he was still that same man. That was the crux of my dilemma: how to reconcile this new reality with my deep feelings for him. I couldn't deny that some of it had been an illusion, but I didn't know which was worse - that he was only 18 inches tall or that he had shattered my trust in him.

"Ian, how did this... okay, that's a stupid question. I know how, but when? Jesus! I have so many questions, but can you at least tell me why? Besides fear of rejection, why didn't you tell me?"

"Here's your bottle of Château Cos d’Estournel," Chloe returned with the wine bottle. We both mustered awkward smiles as she presented it to Ian. "Oh, that looks lovely," he said, marking the beginning of a new chapter in Ian's personal Gulliver's Travels. Chloe opened the bottle with practiced precision and poured a small serving. Then she paused before handing the oversized glass to Ian.

"Ian, would you mind if I tasted it?" I asked trying to head off another awkward problem.

"Of course, Gwen."

I was through being a bitch, and it felt good to drop the façade. Chloe looked relieved as she handed me the glass. "Thank you so much, Chloe, for being so considerate in serving us tonight. You've been incredibly thoughtful." That was genuine gratitude; I was truly appreciative. However, I also hoped she wouldn't decide to spit on my food.

I made a show of sniffing and tasting the wine, even though to me, it all tasted like, well, wine. A $300.00 bottle of wine was utterly wasted on my unsophisticated palate. "Mmm, this is good," I replied with a white lie. Looking at Ian, I continued, "Ian, would you mind using a straw to drink yours? I know it's not ideal..."

"It's fine, Gwen. That's a great idea. Chloe, could you bring me a straw, please?"

"Of course," Chloe replied, heading away.

"I think she deserves a very nice tip," I said to Ian.

"I think we both agree on this," Ian concurred.

"Ian, I want to apologize for being a giant bitch tonight," I couldn't help but chuckle.

"What's so funny?"

"Well, it's just, you know... if someone said they're being a giant bitch, you'd think, 'Oh, they're being very bitchy.' But in your case, I truly am a giant bitch. There is so much wrong about tonight; you just have to laugh at things."

Ian looked at me, his expression crestfallen.

"Anyway, I want to apologize for my behavior. I'm angry, heartbroken, and I'm feeling a lot of other unpleasant emotions. So, when you showed up at my door like this, I was mad, and I wanted to hurt you. Which is really weird for me because I never thought of myself as being vindictive." I started tearing up again, finding it almost impossible to keep from crying.

"That was very heartless and immature of me, and it's not who I am. For that, Ian, I apologize. I wish I was smarter and just had this out with you in my apartment, so at the very least, I wouldn't have to worry about fucking crying in public!"

"Gwen, you don't have to apologize," Ian said, his voice a mixture of understanding and sadness.

"Yes, I do, Ian," I replied firmly, my emotions still running high. "Because I don't treat anyone like I've treated you or the poor waitress. Anyone. But, like I said, I'm beyond pissed and heartbroken. It turns out I've been living a lie for over nine months! So, come on, Ian, tell me the truth. Why did you do this?"

Just then, Chloe returned with a striped straw that could be bent at the end. I quickly wiped away my tears and looked up at her with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Chloe. I can take it from here." With a sense of purpose, I poured the wine into Ian's glass, tore open the package containing the straw, and placed it on his tray, as though it were a juice box for a toddler.

I leaned back in my chair, my gaze fixed on Ian. It was strangely fascinating to watch him try to manipulate objects meant for normal-sized people. He had to stand on the stack of books to reach the oversized straw.

"If that doesn't work, we can try something else," I offered, concern in my voice. "Maybe a shot glass or a water bottle cap, or—"

"No, this is fine," Ian interrupted, taking a break between pulls from the straw.

I looked down at my wine thinking, “Why was I so trusting?” Without prompted I voiced the reason I'd never questioned Ian's height before. "You know Ian, the reason I never asked if you were a Nexie was that I just assumed, being a Kennon, you were a townie like the rest of us."

Ian sighed, and a hint of sadness crossed his face. "Only half. I was conceived via in vitro fertilization. Unfortunately, the donor was a carrier."

"Lucky you," I replied, my tone laced with regret.

"Lucky me," he echoed.

"Okay, Ian, I'm listening, why didn’t you tell me?" I asked in a softer tone.

He hesitated for a moment before he began to speak, "Where do I even begin, Gwen? I guess the best explanation is that I'm a coward. I'm so sorry, and there's really no excusing what I've done. I'm truly sorry for hurting you and breaking your heart. I never meant to catfish you, and it's the truth that I wasn't looking for someone when I met you."

I couldn't help but feel a mix of confusion and frustration. "I get that! No one wants to admit to having flaws, but hiding this for nine months? I don't understand."

Ian nodded. "You asked when this happened, which sort of fits with why I did this. It's funny, I've had this imaginary conversation with you about this so many times, and here we are, and it's still so difficult to discuss."

"Ian, just try," I pleaded, my heart aching.

"Please, Gwen," he implored. "One thing I've learned is that it's easy for your kind to interrupt a little person. You asked for an explanation, and I'm trying to give you one. I just need to start at the beginning…”

“The beginning?” I interrupted. “Ummm…Ok I guess”

“You asked me when I got sick. It was during the last big wave, a little over two years ago."

I gasped in shock. "Oh my God, you're a Deadender?"

Ian nodded solemnly. "That's one term for it, but yeah."

My mind raced, struggling to process this revelation. "You managed to avoid getting sick for almost ten years?"

"Yeah," Ian replied with a heavy sigh.

"How?" I exclaimed, in disbelief.

Well diary, I bet you’re wondering what a “Deadender” is. Everyone, regardless of their genetics, had fallen ill, and the consequences were catastrophic. The disease had been relentless, especially for young people. It felt like the world was in a constant state of turmoil, with periodic waves of NExVID wreaking havoc. However, as time passed the disease, at least to people without the two vulnerable genes, became less pathogenic. People grew complacent and desperate after years of isolation, lockdowns, and countless emergency restrictions that often did more harm than good.

During a prolonged period of quiet, some scientists even dared to hope it might be the long-awaited end. For most of us, the virus had lost much of its deadly grip. In fact, scientists later discovered that almost all humans harbored a residue viral reservoir without experiencing symptoms. Assumptions were made that it might be safe for Opas and Minis as well. Many of the last holdouts, the "Deadenders," gave up their isolation, whether out of sheer exhaustion or blind optimism, and ventured back into the world. That rash decision triggered the final, devastating wave, collectively known as the heartbreak wave, as it began shortly after Valentine's Day.

"So, you remember when the pandemic started, and no one knew why some people were shrinking?" Ian asked.

"Yeah," I replied, shuddering. "I was so freaked out that I'd wake up a few inches tall and get eaten by my cat."

"Well, my parents were on the frontlines, working back-to-back shifts at the hospital. They just assumed it was going to happen to one or both of them. So, they moved me to the pool house, and that was the last time I had any physical contact with them... Well, until last year. When the link between the specific oncogenes was discovered, they became stricter. I had to stay inside when anyone was on the property. Meals were left at my door, and we mostly talked online. They made sure they worked different shifts, so one of them was home all the time."

I couldn't help but empathize with Ian's ordeal. "So basically, it was solitary confinement. I can't even imagine. That must have been incredibly tough," I said, shaking my head.

Ian sighed, a mix of emotions crossing his face. "It was, and I was often angry with them, but I was scared too. I didn't want to die, and I definitely didn't want to shrink. But it meant basically being a prisoner on the family property for over seven years. I don't mean to sound like I'm whining. I'm not," he added with a wistful smile. "Okay, maybe I am, but I also know I'm incredibly privileged. My parents had the means to keep me safe and built an isolation fortress. I know that most people didn't have any means of protecting themselves. But even knowing that didn't make the isolation any easier."

Ian was sharing his pandemic story with me. It was a story that everyone had in those trying times, but the Nexies, like Ian, undoubtedly had more dramatic tales to tell. Normally, I'd be annoyed because it was beginning to sound like an excuse for his behavior, but this was different. I had never met a Deadender before, and if he hadn't told me, I would have never known. He seemed so well adjusted, which was surprising. You'd think he'd be afraid of his own shadow and have the social skills of a hermit. Despite my lingering anger, it was difficult not to feel a sense of empathy for him.

"I know," I replied, my voice softening. "I felt that way myself a couple of times during the pandemic. But, compared to your experience, mine was a walk in the park. Well... I mean, it was bad. I was in bed for almost a month the first time I got sick, and it took me half a year to fully recover. But I never had to worry about shrinking. It must have been truly awful. So, did you stay in the pool house?"

Ian shook his head. "No, eventually they had a cabin built for me on the far side of the property. It was secluded and fenced, positive pressure ventilation, UV air purification system, the works. Other than walks by myself or a pressure suit if my parents were around, I was almost always by myself. I finished high school and college in that cabin. We went to such crazy extremes."

I looked down at Ian's tiny form with a mixture of sadness and understanding. "Maybe it sounds extreme, but it doesn't sound crazy to me," I replied sincerely. "The threat was obviously very real."

I couldn't help but share a glimpse of my own pandemic experience. I thought I had it rough. When my parents lost the house, we moved in with my grandmother. It was a huge farm in Greene County, right up against the Blue Ridge. It had been in my dad's family for generations. Now, I'm not exactly a country girl, but I'm definitely outdoorsy. It was tough. I was sometimes lonely, often bored, but it was home, and it was safe. I had my family, homegrown food, the woods, the farm animals, and even the chance to sneak out every once in a while. Although, that's exactly why we all got sick the first time. Evidently Ian just sat in a cabin by yourself, enduring years of solitary confinement.

"Well, maybe," Ian admitted thoughtfully, "but was it worth it? I was basically wasting away in that cabin. Despite weekly therapy sessions and medication, it just wasn't enough. The isolation was slowly eating me alive. By the time I graduated, I was in a really dark place, contemplating things I shouldn't have been. I finally mustered the courage to tell my parents that I needed a break, some real human connection instead of just staring at faces on a monitor. During my junior year, I started researching International Relations programs, and I became fixated on the one at the University of Edinburgh. My parents, of course, wanted me to continue at William and Mary, but I had this insatiable urge to move to Scotland."

My eyes widened with incredulity. "But how on earth did you manage to convince them, especially with your risk, to let you study abroad?"

Ian shook his head, chuckling quietly. "Well, it wasn't easy. They could see me fading away, and my therapist saw it too. Eventually, my parents realized that it was better to risk catching NExVID than to watch me succumb to depression and suicidal thoughts brought on by isolation. It was an agonizing decision for all of us, but they chose to let me go. I swung back and forth between sheer terror and unbridled excitement about leaving that cabin."

I nodded, suddenly feeling like there was so much I didn't know about his journey. "You know," I confessed, "I always had a lot of questions about your time in Scotland and how you managed to navigate all those travel restrictions."

Ian replied with a hint of amusement, "You never asked."

I looked down at my wine feeling slightly embarrassed. "Honestly, I was curious, but I guess I never thought much about it. Living out in the boonies for nine years can make a girl a bit sheltered and naïve."

Ian leaned in as if revealing secrets, "Well, I was indeed a rare American allowed to travel to the UK. One of my dad's frat brothers worked for the State Department at the American embassy in London. He pulled some strings, got me special clearances, and helped pave the way. Of course, there were other obstacles, and my parents did some persuading and, well, greased a few palms along the way..." Ian paused and laughed, shaking his head. "Fuck, I do sound like a snotty, entitled rich boy, don't I? Perhaps that's a more plausible reason for you to find me repellent, wouldn't you say?"

"No," I stammered, "Well, I didn't mean that's a reason. Damn it! I growled in frustration. "What I mean is, you're not repellant, just..." I sighed deeply, failing to find the right words. "Just tiny. Anyway, you're not a snotty rich boy. I've crossed paths with my fair share of wealthy assholes, especially in Afton, but you're incredibly self-aware, down-to-earth, and kind. You've been nothing but wonderful..." I hesitated, my disappointment evident in my voice, which caused Ian to look ashamed. “It’s one reason I find why you hid this so difficult to understand.”

“I’m sorry I keep interrupting. I just have these questions.” I replied. I stifled the urge to argue with him, I didn’t want this to turn into a hostile interrogation.

“No, it’s fine. You have questions, ask away.” Ian replied. “This is the part of my life you don’t know about. I just want you to know this isn’t an excuse, or a ploy for pity. This an important part of who I am. Actually, this is cathartic. I feel so much better getting it off my chest. It was wrong of me to keep it from you, and before you go, I want you to know this last part of me.”

“I understand,” I replied solemnly. Ian seemed resigned to the end of our relationship. I understood, and part of me believed that ending it might be the right choice, but after being with him, and despite the shock of this new revelation, I still loved Ian. I had no intention of walking away. My inclination was more toward not pursuing a romantic relationship or anything physical with him, but I remained determined to keep him in my life.

"Gwen, to answer your question, and probably many others about how I managed to do what I did, it's because I'm wealthy."

"So, you're like Batman?" I asked with a playful smile.

Ian laughed. "Yes, but more like Lego Batman. I can easily fit into many Lego sets."

We both laughed, and he flashed that beautiful smile. Ian was undeniably handsome. It was just…just his Size. If I could just get past the squeaky voice and the fact that he was only a little longer than my hand and forearm, I might be willing to give this a go.

"So," Ian continued, "I applied for the program, and I got accepted. My parents purchased and renovated a farmhouse and property near a tiny village west of Edinburgh. I boarded a private medical jet, isolated from the crew in a special cabin, wearing a respirator and a biohazard suit. I landed at a private landing strip near Edinburgh and was transported in a special isolation van to my cottage. Once again, I found myself in an isolated space in the middle of nowhere."

I burst into laughter. "Well, of course, you wee idiot! Did you honestly think you'd be allowed to rent a flat and wander the streets of Edinburgh freely? I mean, what would have been the point? Your parents must have shelled out millions for this!"

Ian shot me an annoyed look. "Still using the word 'wee,' are we?"

I shrugged with a playful grin. "Well, yeah, I picked that up from you, remember?" Ian fell silent, and I could tell my last remark had struck a chord.

"Sorry, Ian," I said, feeling guilty. "You know I don't always have much of a filter."

"It's fine," he replied, dismissing it. "Anyway, to answer your question, you giant ginger…"

I burst into another fit of laughter, nearly bending over from the hilarity of it all. It took me a moment to regain my composure. "That was a good one! I've never been called a 'giant ginger' before. "Well executed, Mr. Kenyon, admirably executed indeed, good sir." Dammit, it was tough to resist his wit and charm. We were slipping into our old Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet-style banter, something we had always enjoyed. His rich imagination was one of the things I loved about him. We both had a strange passion for inventing characters, skits, and songs, and he played along so wonderfully. Our online conversations often veered into the quirky and absurd, but I wouldn't have changed them for anything.

Ian flashed a charming grin and executed a slight bow. "Thank you, Miss McCauley. I perceive that your sense of humor remains unscathed despite the affronts of this evening. As I was about to elucidate before I was regrettably and most discourteously interrupted..."

"Oh, pray forgive me, Mr. Kenyon. I beseech you, continue!"

We both broke down in laughter.

“As I was saying” Ian replied still stifling a laugh, “I was isolated, but Scotland was a bit different. Yes, I was in another cottage, but I had the Highlands at my doorstep. The property bordered the Trossachs National Park. I even had an electric car, and..."

"Wait. You had a driver's license?"

"Well, yes."

"How on earth? I mean, I passed the online written part when I was 16, but with the fuel rationing and the farm equipment, we could never scrounge up enough gas to do the driving proficiency test. I finally got my license just last year. And you? A Nexie. How?"

Ian seemed embarrassed as he spoke about his wealth and privilege. "Um, well... We had enough property on the estate to set up the proficiency test. We simply put some traffic signs up and mounted cameras on the car, so no one had to be in the car with me."

"But that's not how the test..."

"Money," Ian admitted sheepishly. "I know, I know. It was a crazy time, and people were willing to look the other way for a handout. It wasn't ethical, but my parents just wanted me to be safe and happy. Though I understand that doesn't make it right."

Ian was taking the scenic route to explain why he concealed his Nexie survivor status, but honestly, I no longer cared. He'd already admitted to being a coward, in his own words. He'd merely wanted to keep this hidden, likely knowing, quite accurately, that it would be a relationship deal-breaker. My anger still simmered, but as I sat there, listening, I realized that hearing his story was oddly cathartic for me too. Most of our evening had been spent in a whirlwind of frustration and shock over his secret, without truly processing this new reality of our relationship. Setting my anger aside, and simply listening, felt like a decent starting point. It didn't excuse his actions, nor did I feel obliged to give him anything more than my ear. Nevertheless, it seemed like this was a story he needed to share, and I believed he deserved to be heard. Despite everything, I couldn't deny that I still saw Ian as a fundamentally good man who had, in this particular instance, behaved poorly. As I looked at him, I couldn't deny that I was still very much attracted to him. Well except for the obvious stumbling block of him standing only a foot and a half tall.

Ian grinned. "It was nice, Gwen. I mean, I went full native, or at least what I imagined was native. I had a cozy cottage, morning tea in hand, and evening dram by the fire. I'd take long drives through the countryside, and I could step right out my back door to explore the stunning park nearby. Of course, I kept a respirator in my backpack, just in case, but it was all so remote that I rarely needed it. And if I had to avoid people, I had all the space in the world. As for my other needs. Food and supplies were brought to a storage shed located just inside the property, and classes, of course, were online. My supervisor insisted on making a monthly trip to visit me... well depending on the weather. We would meet outdoors, both clad in hazmat suits, and I had an assistant who helped with gathering materials and handling any in-person tasks.”

“Wow, that was some setup, I could have used an assistant to help me schlep the mountain of crap for my program.”

Ian smirked, teasing me. "Jealous?"

I giggled and shook my head. "Nope," I replied with a grin. "Being a broke grad student builds character and muscles, you know."

Ian’s tone became serious, “Gwen, I know I had the means to... “

I decided it was time to put an end to his self-imposed guilt. “IAN, I. AM. NOT. JUDGING.

YOU! Seriously, you need to stop apologizing for being rich. I'm just being snarky. It’s not like you’re telling me a story of how you wasted your parent’s fortune on hookers and drugs. I completely understand why you did what you did. You just wanted a shot at being an independent adult and chasing your dreams. It's not your fault you had to go to such lengths to make it happen."

“I know Gwen, but I do feel guilty for even complaining. So many more people had it so much harder than me.”

I nodded, understanding. "I get it. But it's not a competition. We all faced our challenges during those tough years. You, as a Deadender, spent most of that decade in isolation. No matter the help you had, it must've been incredibly tough."

“I guess.” Ian replied grudgingly.

"You did Ian, you had it tough too,” I replied quietly. “There’s no guessing about it.” I looked up at Ian apologetically. “Sorry, I’m not trying to argue...I just care…well you know” My voice drifting off. “So!” I exclaimed, changing the subject. “Back to your story. It sounds like your life in Scotland was simply enchanting. So, spill the tea, when did your luck take a nosedive?".

Ian laughed. "Always straight to the point, aren't you?"

I rested my chin on my hand, tracing the rim of my wine glass with the other. "No filter, ‘member?"

Ian grinned. "That's one of the things I adore about you, Gwen."

I nodded, eager to hear the rest of his story. "Alright, spill it. What happened?"

"It was early March, a typical Scottish weekend. I was in the midst of my second year of grad school, and it was one of those rare days when the skies cleared up, and the weather decided not to freeze my toes off. After enduring a month and a half of gray, rainy misery, I was itching to bask in some sunshine. So, I planned to make a day of it, and decided to hike up to Ben Ledi."

I laughed, "Of course, Scottish weather being Scottish weather, I bet it turned on you."

He nodded, his eyes distant. "You guessed it, and as fate would have it, the sun began playing hide-and-seek behind clouds, and a heavy mist descended upon me. Yet, I soldiered on. The trail up the mountain is usually bustling with hikers, so I'd developed a habit of veering about 30 yards parallel to the trail, if possible, to stay safe. It made for a rougher trek, but it was worth it. That day, though, the trail was deserted, and I reveled in the peacefulness. Just me, the Highlands, and the weather. Towards the middle of the day, I took a breather and settled down for lunch. I was perched on a boulder on the side of the trail next to a stand of gorse. “

I made a face, imagining the chilly dampness. "Sounds like quite the chilly, wet hike."

Ian grinned, “Det finnes ikke dårlig vær, bare dårlig klær.” He replied with a laugh.

“Wha, what?” I asked laughing.

Ian laughed “There is no bad weather, only bad clothes!” It’s a Norwegian saying. One does not trek through the Highlands without proper clothing. I was warm and dry, and I had a very nice lunch.

“You speak Norwegian?”

“No, I’m just fond of that saying. I loved hiking, and sometimes, the worse the weather, the better the hike.”

“Loved Hiking”; I couldn't help but notice the past tense. Did he still carry that passion, or had it faded like an old photograph? I mean, he appeared quite fit, probably a necessity in a world dominated by giants. But realistically, I doubted he could conquer that mountain now. What I considered a pleasant stroll around Mint Springs Park would likely be a long hike for him. I did love hiking; I know everyone says that. I know, it's a common response when someone asks about your hobbies or when you're trying to impress someone new. But in my case, it wasn't just lip service. I'd spent countless hours trekking along the AT in Shenandoah National Park. I'd even experienced the peculiar joy of hiking in the pouring rain and the hush of a snowy forest. But now, a dark sadness swept over me as I contemplated the idea of sharing even a simple walk with Ian. Even if I was wearing heels he couldn’t keep up with me, not even on a flat sidewalk . Sure, I could carry him around in my backpack. He weighed less than three pounds, after all, so his weight would be trivial. But honestly, carrying my boyfriend in a backpack wasn't a romantic scenario I'd ever envisioned. I'd much rather have him by my side, hand in hand, exploring the world together.

"So, do you remember what you had for lunch?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"Of course," Ian replied, his eyes distant as he recounted the memory. "I remember everything from that day. It was the last day of being normal. I was sitting on that boulder with a hot thermos of tea, alongside some cold smoked salmon, rowies, cheese, and strawberries."

"Lipton?" I inquired with a playful smile.

"No! Do you think I'm some barbarian?" Ian exclaimed, feigning offense. "It was Taylor's Yorkshire Gold, of course!"

"Of course!" I replied giggling.

"With sugar, and a dollop of milk," Ian added.

"Well, that would be scandalous to drink tea without sugar and milk," I replied, feigning shock.

"I'm pleased; you know your way around a kettle," Ian said with an impish grin.

"Ian, we've had this discussion before. I know waaaaay more about the brewing and drinking of tea than you do."

"I would beg to differ," Ian grumbled in faux irritation.

I rolled my eyes, not in the mood for this old debate. "So, moving on. What's a Rowie?"

"You're very interested in that lunch," Ian observed suspiciously.

"Well, I'm just curious. What's wrong with that? From what I remember, this started from my question of why you didn't tell me you were an Opa. Since we're in the middle of your story, I think it's proper to ask questions for clarification."

"I take it you want me to get to the point," Ian replied.

"No, I didn't say that. I'm actually interested. So, please, take your time."

"A Rowie is a Scottish bread, a cross between a roll and a croissant," Ian explained.

"That does sound delicious," I replied teasingly.

"It is," Ian replied with a wistful smile. "It was the most perfect day. I was just sitting on a boulder, watching the low gray clouds pass over the heather. I remember closing my eyes, enjoying the warmth of tea in my hands, and the smell of coconut from the newly blooming gorse. I was startled by a woman's voice. I had my back to the trail and hadn't noticed them approaching. Two Scottish girls, around my age."

"Aha!" I exclaimed with a grin, leaning forward in anticipation. "The plot thickens. So, you didn't freak out? Run away? Scramble for your respirator?"

Ian's expression darkened, and he spoke softly, "No, I didn't. I guess I should have... But, Gwen, I was just so tired. Tired of running, tired of being afraid. Tired of being lonely. I was face to face with two pretty college girls, and I just gave in."

"I understand, Ian. Again, I'm not judging," I reassured him. "So many people made the same decisions that year. So, who were these mysterious Scots-women?"

"The chatty one was Moira," Ian replied, his voice lifting as he recounted the memory. "A petite redhead with a heavy sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose. The other one was Katie, a bit taller, blond hair, and more reserved. They asked if they could sit next to me and share a lunch."

"Wow, that's bold. I thought the Scots were more reserved," I remarked.

"Actually no," Ian explained. "As my observation, I've found them to be friendly, maybe not as outgoing as the Irish. These two were over the moon that they were having a trail lunch with an actual American."

"Why? What's so amazing about us?" I asked with genuine curiosity.

"Well, they haven't seen any Americans before the pandemic," Ian said with a smile. "It was so funny, the way they gawked at me when I opened my mouth. They had so many questions. They loved my accent and wanted to hear me speak. To be fair, I loved theirs too. It was fun! No, more than fun. It was just glorious. Being alone for so long with very few chances to talk to anyone in person. I can't really describe the feeling. Being with people up close, just chatting in the mist and gloom. Moria's laughter was so infectious, and Katie had a quick wit." Ian shook his head ruefully. "I'm sorry, I must sound like a dork... 'Hurrr, Hurr! Look, it’s two girls!'"

Listening to Ian, I was hit with another wave of empathy. I felt another tear running down my cheek. I knew where this story was going, what it led to. Yet, I understood why he had been so careless. I could feel his loneliness and the sheer joy of simply chatting with two pretty girls. I couldn't imagine what it was like to spend years with nothing more than disembodied voices on a screen.

Ian noticed my wet cheek, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

With a reassuring smile, I wiped away my tears and replied, "You didn't. I think after your isolation, your reaction is perfectly normal. Do you remember that old Tom Hanks movie, 'Cast Away'?"

"Vaguely, is that the one where he's stranded on an island and talks to a soccer ball?" Ian asked.

"Yeah, his character sorta reminds me of you..." I began, but Ian interrupted with a laugh.

"Well, it wasn't that bad. I never talked to a soccer ball, but I did once converse with a very friendly football," Ian admitted, looking up at me with a cheeky grin.

"You're such a smart ass!” I replied laughing. “I know it wasn't that bad, but in a sense, you were on a deserted island. I don't think you're a dork for gushing over two pretty girls. So, what happened to you and your two new friends?"

Ian began, "I planned to ask if they wanted to join me, but they beat me to the punch and asked if they could tag along with me to the summit. Then that was that. We spent the rest of the day climbing up to the summit and hiking back down to the trailhead. I discovered they were two undergrads from Edinburgh off on a three-day holiday to the Highlands. They were staying with Katie's parents in Callendar. So, we talked, flirted, laughed, and took selfies. "

"It was just this amazing experience, like a dream or a fantasy. We parted ways at the trailhead. The girls were walking to their car when Moira turned around and ran back to me, reached up and gave me a long kiss. It was so fast. I couldn't stop her even if I wanted to. I was shocked, frozen in place. I think the last time I was kissed was in middle school. I can still feel her hands holding my face. Moira was so tiny; I doubt she was more than 5'2". She had to stand on her tip toes to reach me. She brushed the red hair from her eyes and gave me her number. She ran back to her car giggling. It was the last time I ever saw her."

"And that was that," Ian finished with an air of finality.

"And that was that," I repeated, sadly.

Ian looked away wistfully, his gaze lost in some distant memory. As he turned back to me, his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered softly.

"Don't be," I replied, my heart aching for him.

But deep down, a question gnawed at me, one I was hesitant to voice. Was it worth it? The sacrifice, the risk, all for one kiss. A horrible disease passed along by a pretty wisp of a girl. Yet, I knew it wasn't fair to ask that of him. My dad, the history professor, would have called it "miasma" - bad air, a concept that, in centuries past, Europeans believed caused the Black Death before they discovered germs. My dad had a way of making history come alive, and his students loved his dramatic lectures. The word "miasma" seemed fitting for this disease too, as it seemed to lurk everywhere, carried in every breath we exhaled. The virus was twice as contagious as measles and lay dormant in most of us, passed along with every exhalation.

Ian could have easily caught it from just walking within 30 feet of anyone along a trail. The only way to truly avoid infection was complete isolation, and most of us weren't built for a life of solitude. So, in a twisted sense, I guessed it was worth it. Eighteen inches for one kiss. Better than catching it on a crowded bus to a dead-end job, or in a busy supermarket checkout line. Thinking about this, I felt a strange rush of jealousy. I wished I were the one who had kissed Ian, who had held him close and taken him to my bed. But then guilt washed over me. What if I were the one to infect him? Or worse, what if he never caught the disease, and I remained forever out of reach, unable to touch or be close to this amazing man I had grown to care for so deeply?

For Ian, the danger had passed, and he was now safe. Safe to rejoin the world, to touch and feel once more, even if he was only 18 inches tall. That was the price he had paid for immunity, and it was a price I had to come to terms with as well.

Ian wiped away a tear, his emotions still raw, and took another long pull from his straw. I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him.

"Ian," I began gently, "I know this doesn't make it any better, but I'm glad you experienced that day. It sounds like it was truly special."

Ian managed a sad smile, his eyes filled with a mixture of longing and nostalgia. "It was, Gwen. That kiss... it's a memory I'll always cherish. I still think of Moira as tiny, I doubt I'd even come up to her knees now. But I have these incredible memories from that day. Probably the best day of my life until I met you. Still, sometimes I dream about Moira and Katie…Weird dreams."

"Weird Dreams?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Ian looked down, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "It's nothing, really," he replied, his voice softer now. "My therapist mentioned that men, especially bigger or athletic men, can have a tough time adjusting to being... reduced."

Ah, those dreams, I thought, recalling the recent reduced persons diversity training I had attended. One chirpy facilitator had lectured on Reduction Adjustment Disorder, and her presentation led me to connect the dots. Men were more prone to this disorder, and one of its manifestations was intrusive thoughts of emasculation. This was another potential minefield. Depending on his self-esteem and my tendency for unfiltered remarks, I could inadvertently wound his ego, reducing him to feeling as tiny as a mouse.

The word "emasculation" danced through my thoughts, casting a shadow of self-awareness. It served as a constant reminder of our stark size differences, making me acutely conscious of how I must appear, towering over him. My intention was never to make him feel less than a man, but at 18 inches tall he was physically at least …well…less. I was much bigger, not just bigger, but much faster, much stronger. Ian at least physically was no more than a helpless kitten compared to me. My greatest fear was that, in a thoughtless moment, I might inadvertently vocalize these unsettling assessments.

"I can't imagine those dreams are pleasant," I said, my voice soft with empathy.

"No, they're not," Ian replied with a heavy sigh.

"Did you ever try calling Moira?" I ventured.

"No, I don't know what I would even say," Ian replied despondently, his gaze falling to the ground. His words hung in the air, creating an awkward silence that begged to be filled. But I sensed it was best to let that subject drop.

"I take it you got sick shortly after?" I inquired gently.

Ian let out another sigh, his eyes distant. "That night, after walking home. I should have known better. Well, deep down, I did. I just didn't want to face the life-altering decision I had made. I was a mess of emotions, Gwen. Excited, angry, scared. Excited about the possibility of a girlfriend, and furious with myself for being so delusional. I walked back to my cottage, mentally berating myself for my recklessness, and hoping against hope that I wouldn't be infected. But a few hours later, the fever hit me."

"So, you called 911?"

Ian chuckled wryly. "In Great Britain, it's 999, and no, I didn't call. I got drunk.

My mouth dropped, “Ian, you’re such an idiot! Why!??”

I thought calling for EMS would be admitting the inevitable, and I wasn't ready to face that reality just yet. Instead, I decided to do some normal-sized things before I started shrinking." Ian's voice grew somber. "Unfortunately, the only 'normal-sized' thing I could think of was downing a man-sized shot of whiskey. That led to a few more, chased by some beers. I turned on the TV and watched one of the first isolation-waived matches between the Hibs and the Celts. My mind bounced between worrying about infection and the oddity of watching football in March, which was way off-season."

Anyway, I started feeling worse. I kept thinking, maybe I'll luck out. Perhaps it won't be so bad, and I'll just end up on the taller side, like three or three and a half feet. Not great, but still more or less human-sized. I repeated that over and over like a mantra, as if it could protect me from shrinking. To be honest, the last thing I remember was being drunk and feverish, yelling at the match. Then I just passed out." I woke up to something shaking me, my vision filled with a massive, gloved hand pressing down on me. My gaze traveled upward to meet the eyes of the largest woman I have ever seen, peering down at me. I freaked out. Panic surged through me, and I tried to bolt up, but the giant's hand slid up to my chest and effortlessly pushed me back down. Then, from behind me, another giant woman appeared. It slowly dawned on me; the women weren't giants. They were just two normal-sized nurses, and I was in a hospital. They informed me that I had been in a light coma for a little over a month. I had shrunk, really shrunk. Later, I found out that I was in the 90th percentile of size reduction. I was so weak, even the useless effort of shaking off the nurse's hand had exhausted me. I just laid there, tears streaming down my face. I had spent ten years hiding from this disease, and it was all over now. So much effort for so little."

As I sat there listening to Ian's story, I felt my anger and resentment from earlier melting away. I loved Ian, and hearing about his loss was heart-wrenching. Despite my discomfort touching him, I wanted to pick Ian up and hold him.

"Ian, I'm so sorry this happened to you."

"Thanks, Gwen. I appreciate your kind words, but I'm not special. This happened to billions of people across the world."

I rolled my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. Sometimes, Ian's humility drove me crazy, and this was definitely one of those times.

"Ian," I said, my voice softening, "I know that, but all I care about is that it happened to you, and..."

My eyes welled up with tears, and I scolded myself internally. Dear God, Gwen, stop with the tears! I just wanted to punch something at that moment.

"...and it hurts me that this happened to you, and I wasn't there. So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you faced that alone."

Ian looked up at me, his expression a mix of embarrassment and shame.

"Gwen, I'm so sorry. You don't have to hear this. I can stop. You know I can just pay the bill, and we can go our separate ways. I'm awful for hiding this from you, and you have every right to be angry wi..."

"Ian," I interrupted, my voice firm, "I don't want to go anywhere. Please just continue."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, if I cry, I cry. I'm a big girl, literally," I replied, wiping away a tear. We both smiled at my attempt at humor. "I can handle it. I'm only crying because I really care about you. So, what happened next?"

      I sat there dabbing at an unexpected tear and aimlessly swirling my wine, doing my best to appear put-together. Inside, though, it was a different story. I was berating myself for getting too emotional. Ian was struggling to share his story, his confession, and here I was, teetering on the edge of tears.

Ian’s guilt and shame were so thick in the air, I felt like I could almost touch them. It was clear he loved me deeply, and it pained him to see how his experiences during the pandemic were affecting me. He appeared to be trying to do the noble thing, offering me an out, suggesting I could walk away and spare myself the pain of hearing more. To quietly accept my punishment for hiding he was an Opa.

That bit really got to me. Didn't he know me at all? I'm not the sort to run at the first sign of trouble. We've been through the wringer, him, and I, sharing those dark, messy parts of our lives. When the world felt like it was crumbling beneath my feet following my dad's death, Ian was my rock. And when I was bedridden for a month, recovering from a terrifying artery dissection, who was there to talk me down through every panic attack, every night terror afterwards? Ian, always Ian, despite oceans and time zones, he was always just a text away.

There were times when my impromptu Zoom calls had pulled him out of sleep, the screen lighting up to reveal his groggy face in the dark room halfway across the world. Guilt had washed over me in those moments, seeing the evidence of my intrusion into his night. But never once did he make me feel like a burden.

So why now? Why did he doubt my strength, my capacity to listen to him through whatever his Nexie pandemic story might reveal? True friendship and love, they're all about navigating the crazy, the perfectly imperfect stuff together. They're supposed to get stronger in the chaos, all about accepting the real, raw bits of each other. And honestly, I'm not sure I'm fully there yet, or if I ever will be. I was angry, heartbroken even when I saw him at my door— Not now. The thought of walking away never crossed my mind.

So, let me just say, I have zero patience for those fair-weather friends. You know the type, right? The ones who disappear at the first sign of a storm or tune out when you start sharing something that's hurting, because oh, it makes them "feel bad." That's never been me. I pride myself on being the one who's there, truly there, for my friends. Holding hands in their darkest hours or simply sitting beside them in silence, even when words of comfort escape me. I would've hoped Ian knew this about me by now, considering we've been through enough seasons together, nearly a year's worth.

But then, I've got to admit, part of this mess is on me. I didn't find the courage to just sit him down in my cozy, albeit slightly chaotic, apartment and lay it all out on the table. It's not like me to make snap decisions, but I could've at least been upfront, telling him, "No, we're not doing this," sharing how I was feeling, and perhaps asking him to leave so I could sort through my emotions. But here we are, in the middle of this restaurant, trying to pretend everything's fine when it's anything but.


So, I told myself, "Okay, Gwen, no more tears tonight." It's time to buckle up, listen, and navigate this date like the emotionally mature adult I sometimes pretend to be.

Apologizing to Ian, I couldn't hide my embarrassment. "I'm over here being a drama queen," I said, rolling my eyes at myself.

Ian, with his ever-present kindness, just gave me this look of total understanding. "You're actually being really kind and gracious," he told me.

I couldn't help but laugh, trying to shake off the heavy air. "Gracious, maybe. But never graceful. I’m a big gangly dufus —a walking disaster zone! Honestly, you should probably keep a safe distance. I might trip and accidentally turn you into a pancake."

Ian just grinned, his bravery or maybe his sense of humor shining through. "Well, I never said graceful! I'm willing to live on the edge though," he joked.

"It'd be like having a tree fall on you, ‘Cuz basically," I said with a nervous giggle, "I’m this 23-foot tall, 4-ton giant, right?" I glanced down, shaking my head slightly. " Still trying to wrap my mind around that one," I added quietly, just under my breath.

"How severe was your case?" I asked, changing the subject, and stopping myself before I rambled anymore.

"I met with Dr. Campbell that morning. She laid out the facts for me, detailing the severe extent of my reduction. The silver lining, though, was that there wasn't any neurological damage, no RNA sequencing abnormalities during the passage, and my lungs were on the mend. Just some muscle atrophy and a bit of brain fog, but she assured me those would improve with time," Ian recounted.

"That's good, considering everything," I responded, genuinely relieved for him.

"Yeah, I got really fortunate. It definitely could've turned out much worse," Ian acknowledged. "Then, the nurse came over with my phone to update my parents. I didn't even have the strength to hold it myself, so she did it for me. Talking to them about everything that happened was incredibly tough," he shared with a hint of sorrow.

"Really? Why?" I questioned, concern lacing my voice. "Did they blame you?"

"Oh, not at all. My parents were incredible, as they always are," Ian responded. "They actually made it clear that they didn't blame anyone, just relieved that I was alright. Still, I found myself apologizing over and over. I felt so guilty." He paused, a contemplative look crossing his face. "I never mentioned the part about kissing Moira to them."

Gazing at him with a mix of empathy and amusement, I remarked, "From what you've shared, it seems like it was quite the kiss. If you're going to go down to NExVID, might as well make it epic, right?" The words were out before I could gauge their impact, and I winced, adding, " I’m sorry Ian. That sounded incredibly flippant. I guess I’m trying to find a bright side."


Ian's laughter eased the tension. "It’s fine, Gwen. I get where you're coming from. And yeah, it was a memorable moment. You mentioned looking for a bright side? I did the same thing that night, trying to list the perks of being a Nexie."

“What did you come up with?” I asked.

Ian paused, racking his brain. "Well, for starters, I was going to save so much money on food and booze. I think the other one was I could turn a small condo to a mansion.”

Laughing at what he said, I chimed in, " Oh I got one. My dad was obsessed with dragging me to every historical park and museum known to mankind when I was in middle school. Right after I shot up half a foot and looked like a giraffe. The number of times I've lumbered around and smacked my head on low doorways or beams is just... well, it's a lot.
But you? You're in the clear. You’ll never have to worry about knocking yourself unconscious on ancient architecture. Just imagine all the exploring you can do." I said grinning.

Ian chuckled. "I never thought about that! I've always had a thing for old buildings."

"You’re quite welcome," I said, still laughing. "I bet I can come up with a few more perks. So, how long did you end up staying in the hospital?"

"I was at the hospital for a little over two weeks. The Nexie ward was overflowing with new patients, so they kept me in a regular room for three days, before moving me. It was once a maternity ward they had converted and subdivided. I was put in a 4 by 4-foot room on a 3-foot platform that was opened on two ends so the nurses could treat me. It was more like a pen than a room, but it came with a tiny bed and a tiny bathroom. Some of the nurses were Opas, but most were Bigs."

"Bigs?" I asked with a puzzled expression.

"Yeah, that's a nickname we call normal-sized people," Ian explained.

"Bigs?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Really?"

Ian smirked. "Why? Are you offended? I mean, everyone calls us 'Opas' or 'Minis,' 'Tinies,' 'Shrinkies,' and on and on."

"No, I'm not offended," I replied, "it's just not very creative. I would call us 'Zillas,' as in Godzilla. Get it? Get it?" I added laughing, trying to lighten the mood with my best Fozzie Bear impression. I was pleased my joke earned a smile and a chuckle.

I was surprised how quickly I went from tears to laughter and jokes, then back again. This is how it went with Ian and me, and it appears that even with this newfound reality, things haven't changed. I've always been a bit mercurial, something I often strive to conceal. I've been told I'm overly sensitive, a badge I wear with both pride and hesitation. Yet, Ian always made me feel utterly at ease—no judgments, no need to censor my thoughts or feelings. Being with him was like slipping into warm, comfy slippers.

Ian truly understood me.

"Meh," Ian deadpanned, "it could use some work. Well, if it makes you feel better, the hospital staff referred to normies as Jotuns which I suppose is a more poetic word for giant. However, in the UK Nexies refer to your kind as 'Thuds' or sometimes 'Thudders,' or 'Thuddies.'"

"Why?" I inquired.

"Because your kind creates seismic impacts when you walk."

"Oh... Do I thud?" I asked, feigning concern.

"With those heels? Most definitely!" Ian replied, breaking into laughter.

"Are you calling me fat, tiny?" I asked with feigned anger. I quickly covered my mouth with embarrassment. "Tiny" just slipped out. "I'm sorry!"

Ian laughed again. "Why are you apologizing? I am tiny. I've grown accustomed to that descriptor. It's okay, Gwen, I'm not offended. Besides, you called me both 'Little man' and 'Pipsqueak' earlier."
I buried my head in my hands, unable to look at him. "Oh my God, please don't remind me of that. Ian, I'm so sorry! My bratty outburst was so awful. I'll never live that down!"

"It’s ok Gwen. I sprung this on you. You had a right to be angry."

I tried to steer the conversation back to a lighter direction. "Can we just forget the first part of our date? I like this part more," I suggested. "Besides, you never answered my question. Evidently, I'm causing these earthquakes when I walk, you must think I'm fat." I gave Ian an exaggerated look of indignation. His smile quickly faded into a nervous expression of alarm, which I couldn't hold back a frown for more than a few seconds before breaking into a smirk. "Well?" I teased.

Ian exhaled a sigh of relief and laughed. "No, Gwen, you are not fat. Tree-sized, yes, but most definitely not fat."

His words struck me, even though I knew he was joking. "Tree-sized," "Giant Ginger." Is he okay with that? It never occurred to me whether he found me attractive. I assumed so because he followed through with meeting me, but he seemed really taken with Moira's small stature. Maybe he feels compelled by our emotional bond like me, maybe he's just as repelled by my size. What if he thinks I'm some hulking beast? Seriously, Gwen? "Hulking beast"? Overdramatic much? Well...

"Gwen, did I offend you?" Ian asked.

"No, Ian, I was just lost in thought," I replied, snapping out of my inner turmoil.

"Are you sure?"

"Yup, was just thinking."

"Oh, okay? I wonder where our food is. I'm starv..."

"Ian, are you bothered I’m a Normie? I mean..." I paused for dramatic effect, then gestured as if making a surprising reveal, "Well, I'm a 'Big.' Are you attracted to tree-sized women?"

"Well, I do like leggy girls," Ian replied with a grin.

"Ian, be serious."

"Gwen, growing up, when I was in high school and college, all I really wanted was to find that someone special," Ian started, his voice carrying a mix of reflection and a hint of humor, as if he were sharing an inside joke with the universe. "Naturally, I pictured her close to my height, of course a bit shorter—a Normie, obviously. But given there was no magic cure for my condition, I sort of resigned myself to thinking that might never happen. But then, NExVID changed everything for me, freeing me in ways I hadn't anticipated. Now, I find myself at a crossroads, unsure of what I want."

He paused, his gaze drifting down to his wine glass, a moment of introspection in the candlelit ambiance. Then, looking up, Ian's eyes met mine with an openness that felt both vulnerable and honest. "I'm open to the idea of dating Bigs, Opas, or Minis. I understand the complexities that come with mixed-size relationships. Ideally, being the same size would ease a lot of things for both of us, but life's messy, isn't it? It doesn't always give us what we want."

Ian's reflection deepened, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a heavier, more contemplative tone. "I've been navigating this transformation for over two years now, and at times, it's been overwhelming, trying to make up for all the time I felt I lost. My therapist and I have been unpacking this, piece by piece. It's a lot to process, and... I’m sorry Gwen. I hope you understand, this is a touchy subject."

Ian looked up at me, his expression filled with what seemed like genuine adoration. "Gwen, I know this. I'm truly attracted to you."

"Like physically attracted?"

"Very physically attracted."

I blushed with embarrassment. I was flattered, relieved even. And…well… weirdly proud?? If only I was as attracted to him.”

"I'm sorry," I replied, "that was pathetic. I must sound so insecure."

"Why? We're no longer on screens. I think it's normal for both of us to feel insecure," Ian reassured me.

Wisely Ian didn't ask me the same question, as my answer would be much more complicated. That said, I didn't want to give him the chance.

"I keep interrupting your story," I admitted awkwardly, again changing the subject. I opened my arms expansively as if I were the storyteller. "So, there you were at the hospital surrounded by giant nurses. I hope they were at least pretty."
Ian flashed a grin, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Yes, some of them were attractive, though I confess it took me a bit to get used to two-story tall women. I didn't receive anything special, just some light physical therapy to help me regain weight and treat the effects of being bedridden for a month. Doctor Campbell also asked me if I wanted to participate in a study to evaluate antigenic drift, which I stupidly agreed to. I spent much of my hospitalization being poked and prodded, lifted, and carried from place to place for treatments, measurements, and tests. Some of the nurses were Opas assigned to work with us. All the medical staff were professional and caring, but all business. The Opas treated us better. Like we were real people."

Ian stood up to take a long pull of wine before continuing, "It was worse for us last wavers. All of us had taken extreme precautions to avoid getting sick. None of us were used to being around people. Not only were we in the presence of people, but we were with giant people. Some of the patients were almost feral, and unfortunately, that caused some of the doctors and nurses to treat us like lab mice. There were other hardships. The hospital lacked Nexie patient resources because it was assumed they were no longer needed. There weren't enough Nexie hospital gowns to go around, so most of us only had pieces of surgical drapes to wear. Occasionally, I had to strip for tests and treatments. Being stripped and handled by giants wasn’t fun to say the least."

"That doesn't sound fun at all. It sounds terrifying," I replied with a shudder. "Did your parents come see you?"

"My parents weren't allowed to come over because of the reimposed emergency travel restrictions and UK law dictating eight months mandatory isolation for newly recovered pandemic survivors. I was by myself. I made a few friends, and being the only Yank made me popular with the staff and patients." Ian replied.

"Ian I know I keep saying this, and I know I didn't even know you then, but I am sorry. I wish I could have been there.”

“I know Gwen, I know you would” Ian replied wistfully.

“So, were you just released from the hospital? Surely there's more than that."

Ian took a sip of his wine, or at least attempted to. He hadn't made much progress as his glass looked untouched. Drinking from an oversized straw looked exhausting. He sat back down, breathing heavily.

"No," he replied breathlessly, "then there was rehab."

"Rehab? I didn't think you had any other complications," I responded quizzically.

Ian leaned in closer as if he were revealing a great truth. "You just don't release an Opa, or Mini, back into the wild. There's rehab. One must learn to live in a world of giants."


"Oh, I guess that makes sense. Was that at the hospital too?" I asked.

"My parents were able to get me admitted to an exclusive Nexie treatment and rehabilitation facility outside of Aldbourne, a village west of London. It was housed in an old Georgian country estate. It was a cross between a resort and a hospital. And..."
Ian paused, glancing at me with a hint of uncertainty. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

I grinned, eager for more details. "Well yeah! I don't even know what rehab for Nexies is like."

He smiled at my enthusiasm. "Well, as I said, it's an exclusive rehab center, and I'm about to tell you rich people stuff."

"Well, duh! I assume your parents sent you to a great hospital," I replied grinning.

Ian's cheeks turned slightly pink as he admitted, "It’s just…I feel very self-conscious."

I couldn't resist teasing him. "Well as I said before, as long as you didn't waste their money on giant hookers and blow."

We both burst into laughter, and Ian shook his head with amusement. "You are such a awful smart-ass."

I preened proudly and bowed. "I do have my moments."

Ian chuckled at my playful interruption and resumed his story. "Ok then, so my time at rehab. I was discharged from the hospital on a late Friday afternoon, I found myself aboard a medical flight bound for London. However, my journey hit a snag at Heathrow due to some bureaucratic hiccup regarding my isolation status. Eventually, I was transferred to a medical transport van and arrived at the Lollingdon Downs Rehabilitation Centre close to midnight. Unfortunately, my late arrival meant that the welcome and onboarding staff had already left for the day. Nevertheless, the night reception staff were incredibly hospitable. The atmosphere was akin to checking into a luxury resort rather than a medical facility. No scrubs in sight, and the décor was beautiful. They promptly assigned me a room and penciled in appointments for an intake exam and on-boarding sessions the following day. Additionally, they kindly outfitted me with more comfortable clothing. Do you recall the buzz surrounding the introduction of nanofiber?"

I furrowed my brow, trying to recall. "Vaguely," I replied.

"It was just starting to be manufactured, but it was super expensive," Ian explained.

"When I arrived, I was stuck in this oversized hospital gown and socks. Both were meant for a child. The hospital never found proper Nexie gowns. They were uncomfortable, scratchy, and utterly cumbersome. The nurse on duty during the night shift sympathized and mentioned that the resident tailor wouldn't be around until Monday. Surveying my sorry state, she rifled through a bin and handed me a bundle of clothes. Flannel pajamas, a plush bathrobe, snug slippers, socks, and even several pairs of boxer briefs—all crafted from nanofiber. For a moment, I was on the verge of tears. It was like a revelation. For the first time in over a month, I had clothes that looked and felt like they belonged to someone my size!"
"Real clothes?" I replied quizzically. "I never really thought about that. I confess to being oblivious to what people who are reduced experience."

Ian reassured me, "Don't beat yourself up. Most Bigs don't. After NExVID stopped killing Bigs, the rest of us became unfortunate curiosities."

I nodded. "I know, and I understand how people are, but it still sucks."

I was struck with guilt at my own ignorance. Had Ian not been an Opa, I'd have remained blissfully unaware, drifting through life as if the pandemic were a distant tragedy. But now, through Ian's eyes, I was seeing the pandemic with a newfound clarity. As he shared his struggles, describing the discomfort of wearing cloth tailored for giants, I couldn't help but feel a pang of empathy. It was a mere glimpse into his reality, yet it spoke volumes. This deeper understanding and honesty between us ignited yet another question in my mind.

"Ian, since you're using the term 'Big'..."

"Is it offensive? I'll stop."

"No, no, Ian, it's fine. You can call me whatever you want, though I do think you should give 'Zillas' a try," I replied, smiling. "Would it be okay with just you, if I’m more informal and used other words like 'tinies'? I don’t mean to be offensive or insensitive…it’s just I need the emotional room to work through this…and well you know me, always putting my foot in my mouth. I always felt comfortable around you and I just need you to be patient if I say something stupid.

"Gwen, I understand. I’m not going to judge you I don't get too hung up on the language depending on intent. If you want to use other words, that's fine with me."

"Are you sure?"

Ian looked up at me and smiled mischievously. "Yes, Gwen. If you want to be a mean Ginger 'Zilla and use bad language, who am I to try and stop you?"

I laughed out loud. This felt nice. I enjoyed being with Ian. I felt the simple joy of being with someone I loved. For this brief moment, I didn't feel like a giant. I felt removed from that struggle and just saw him as the man I met and knew. I closed my eyes and savored the moment.

"Gwen, are you okay?"

"I am, shrimp. I'm just enjoying your humor. So, tell me more about tiny rich people rehab."

Ian laughed. "Atta girl. Okay, I'll try not to be overly pretentious."

"Awww, but I like pretentious!"

Ian laughed and resumed his description of the rehabilitation center. "Ahem... As I was saying, the rehabilitation center was meticulously designed to provide a comfortable environment for individuals of all sizes. Minis had spacious apartments nestled into the walls, positioned about five and a half feet off the floor, with accessible elevators and walkways. Opas, on the other hand, had rooms tailored to their specific scale and physical needs."

"That makes sense," I replied cheekily. "A tiny wouldn't need to worry about …Thud, (I rolled my eyes at that word) induced earthquakes in such a setup."

"Exactly," Ian agreed seriously. "The entire facility was engineered to minimize seismic vibrations." Ian continued, delving into the details. "Additionally, the staff was made up of Bigs, Opas and Minis, which proved useful for various tasks such as room and dining services, counseling and medical care.

I giggled at the mental image of tiny cleaning staff busily tidying up shoebox-sized rooms. "Tiny room service! Talk about perks!” I exclaimed with a grin.

Ian's grin widened as he kept regaling me with his tale, obviously relishing my fascination. "They had the works," he went on, his excitement palpable. "Spa treatments perfectly sized for us, skilled masseuses, top-notch cuisine, bespoke tailoring – you get the idea. And they insisted on calling us guests, not patients. Everyone had these little scooters to zip around the place effortlessly. And then there was the special Mini park, tucked away in a greenhouse, adorned with tiny plants and tended Bonsai trees, meticulously sealed to keep insects out."

"Wow!" I nodded, marveling at the details. "So, did they separate everyone based on size?"

"No," Ian replied. "If a task or service could be performed by anyone, they assigned it accordingly. However, certain tasks, like room service, were designated for those who could literally fit the role. They were committed to making us feel like humans again, not hamsters in cages. That's why they used Nexie scaled equipment whenever possible."

"You're making it sound more like a luxury resort rather than a hospital," I remarked, amused. "I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me they gave everyone tiny Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops!"

Ian laughed. "Funny you mention that. It was 'Tropical Holiday Week' when I arrived. Even my therapist was wearing a tropical dress. Meanwhile, I was stuck with the reception starter pack. Didn't even get my swim trunks until the end of the week," he added, feigning disappointment.

"Poor baby!" I teased. "So aside from lounging in swimsuits in Bonsai parks, sipping miniature Pina Coladas, and indulging in giant masseuses' finger massages, what rehab did you d……"

“And here are your scallops.” Chloe announced cheerfully, as she placed the appetizer on our table. Her sudden appearance startled me and interrupted our conversation. "I apologize for the wait; your main course should be out soon. I'm sorry, Ian, I looked, but it seems we don't have any smaller flatware." Chloe glanced at me with a weary expression, and I felt a sting of shame for my earlier outburst. I glanced down at my plate, feeling sheepish, and took a sip of my wine. "However," Chloe continued, brightening slightly, "I do have a bit of good news. We're going to comp your meal tonight."

I looked up very relieved. I guess Ian was still on the hook for the bottle of wine, but I didn’t have to bear the guilt of sticking him with everything.

“I know this sounds crazy, but you’re our first Opa…I mean little person, and we should have been prepared. My manager and I want to extend our sincerest apologies and hope you and your date will return.“

“Thank you, Chloe, but there’s really no need to apologize. I’m sure many of the businesses here have similar problems. I’m just pleased the management is taking steps to address these accessibility issues.”

“Thank you so much Chloe.” I replied. I was trying to be anything but the angry shrew earlier this evening. “You’re quite welcome.” She replied politely and gracefully departed. I took Ian's napkin and crossed the table to set it in his lap. However, given Ian's diminutive stature, there wasn't ample space for a regular-sized napkin. He had to clutch it tightly to prevent it from slipping away, making it resemble more of a bedsheet than a napkin. I then reached over and grabbed Ian’s plate and placed a scallop on it. “I guess you’re stuck with the giant flatware.” I remarked matter-of-factly. I busily divided the scallop into smaller, more manageable pieces, adding cauliflower and sauce. Then, I slid the plate closer to Ian, ensuring he could reach it comfortably. Cutting Ian’s food and putting it on the tray of his highchair made me feel like his mom. Like I should feed him, make choo-choo sounds, and praise him for being a good boy for finishing his veggies. My attraction to Ian dimmed again as the stark reality of our differences reared its ugly head.

"Thanks, I imagine this isn't very comfortable for you," Ian said, as if he could read my thoughts.

“It’s fine.” I replied flatly.

I popped a scallop into my mouth and watched him struggle with his fork. I’m not going to feed him, I’m not going to feed him, I thought to myself. I’m just not ready for that level of shrunken man weirdness. I could however make up for my previous awful behavior.

"Ian, I apologize for ordering for you and sticking you with a hefty bill," I began, sincerity lacing my words. "I... umm... will cover the cost of the wine." My words hung in the air, and I almost winced at the thought of how it would dent my next paycheck.
"There's no need, Gwen, you picked a wonderful Cab Sav," Ian replied warmly.

I hesitated, my sense of fairness urging me to repay him for the wine. "Oh? Well, thanks. I still owe you though. I insist."

Ian brushed off my offer with a playful grin. "Nope, I'm taking this home and adding it to my collection."

I persisted, proposing a compromise. "How about half?"

“How about this? How about you pay for the next meal?"

His words hung in the air, and I found myself grappling with their implications. Was he suggesting lunch as friends, or was it a subtle invitation for another date, something more? My reservations about opening the door to "more" left me uncertain. I decided to sidestep that loaded question, and redirected the conversation, focusing on my plate as I speared another scallop.

"So, tiny people rehab, what did you do?" I asked.

Ian's gaze turned distant. "I learned to live in a world of giants," he replied softly.

I furrowed my brow, trying to decipher the cryptic statement. "Okay," I ventured, "but what exactly does that mean? Like, don’t get stepped on and remember to use your 'outside' voice?"

Ian's irritation was palpable as he glanced up at me. Instantly, I regretted my flippant remark. "Sorry," I backtracked quickly, "I didn't mean to make light of it. Sometimes I resort to sarcasm when I'm nervous. I can see this is a sensitive topic for you. I'm not always the best at being sensitive."

"It's fine, Gwen. I already have a therapist, and I'm not seeking your pity," Ian replied tersely.

I looked at him mouth agape, realizing I'd struck a nerve. Yup, I definitely pissed him off.

Ian noticed my expression and realized he'd snapped at me. "I'm sorry," he said, his tone softer. "I didn't mean to come across as so angry."

"Ian, there’s no need to apologize, we’re both vulnerable here. I think we need to cut each other some slack," I replied sympathetically.

Ian nodded in agreement. "You're right. We should give each other space to listen. And if we're being honest, I know this is harder for you. We both know who's the liar and who wronged who."

"Ian, you did lie to me, and it hurt deeply” I responded softly, "...but I don't believe you're a liar. Besides one notable misstep, you're a good man, and you're still the man I fell in love with."

His blush was endearing. "Thank you, that means a lot to me," he replied.

“I’ll shut up now.” I replied. “So about rehab…”

"Yes, to answer your question, we learned a bit of everything. It was just difficult. Particularly for my group. Most of us were last wavers not just coming to grips with reduction but years of isolation too. The staff had their work cut out for them. Don't get me wrong, it really was a peaceful retreat, but the physical therapy, the counseling, the education was for a reality that not many of us were ready to accept. Every little person lives in their own world of giants and littles. In my world, the Bigs are on average 20 to 25 feet tall, but to other little people, their world can be with Bigs as much as 200 to 280 feet tall. That, of course, doesn't count how little people relate to each other. To a Mini, I'm a giant. It's an isolating and lonely experience. We all live in a personal world that doesn't fit us."

"So, Gwen, that's what Lollingdon is all about. Teaching Nexies emotional, physical, and psychological acceptance of new realities. The place was nice, the therapy was hard," Ian explained.
Ian sensed my desire for a more detailed picture and confessed, "Though I guess that explanation is still a bit vague. So, the first thing they did was fatten me up. I had to regain the weight I lost... well, proportionally. Once I was deemed fit enough, I dove into physical therapy, which was a lot of weight and endurance training. I managed to pack on almost half a pound of muscle during my time there."

Suppressing a smirk, I discreetly hid a giggle by sipping my wine. He seemed quite proud of the accomplishment, and while I understood that half a pound held more significance for someone his size, it still highlighted his tiny stature.

"Wow!" I exclaimed, trying to sound impressed while struggling to conceal my amusement.

Ian caught on quickly. "I know what you're thinking, Gwen."

"Yeah," I admitted with a laugh, "I was thinking I should never play poker."

“Absolutely not!” Ian replied, joining in the laughter.

"Ian, just ignore my cheekiness,” I said, still giggling. “I'm always the unrepentant smartass. But seriously, not that I'm complaining, but why did they want you to get so jacked?"

"Because the next part of therapy was learning how to manipulate normal-sized things and move and climb in a normal-sized world," Ian replied.

"Why? Shouldn't tinies have everything scaled for them?" I asked.

"Here's a hypothetical question, what if you took my wallet, put it on the table, and walked away?"

I pondered for a moment. "Do you mean your tiny backpack? Umm... ask a Big to get it for you? Climb? The way you climbed that chair. That was impressive by the way." I remarked, though I couldn't help finding it amusing to watch a tiny man scale a chair like a tree.

Ian confirmed my guess, "Where do you think I learned to climb giant furniture?"

"Ahhh. I see. So, you learned to parkour in a giant world," I replied grinning.

"Well," Ian responded with a laugh, "they called it independent living skills, but parkour sounds much more exciting."

"It does!" I replied laughing. "I can just see you, somersaulting off of coffee tables and leaping onto sofas." I mentally kicked myself. I felt like I was mocking Ian, "I'm sorry." I stammered, "I don't mean to make fun of you."

Ian grinned reassuringly. "It’s fine, Gwen. That was funny. Anyway, I liked the idea of being a mini-Batman, using my parkour skills to chase down tiny supervillains."

I couldn't help but giggle at the mental image of Ian dressed as Batman, chasing a tiny Joker over the table, knocking over plates of food and wine as they darted into my lap and onto the floor.

I laughed louder, I said, "Okay, this is getting a bit too silly! So, how long were you there?"

“Almost five months.” Ian replied.

“Five months!” I exclaimed. “Really? You were there for almost half a year? Why?”

“Because, the transition, well, no pun intended, is enormous. There's a lot to learn, and it takes time. During my intake, orientation, and assessment, I was assigned to a rehabilitation team. There was the medical component, with doctors, PTs, and rehab specialists, and then there was the mental health and size transition therapists. Guests were given consideration of the makeup of the team depending on who they were comfortable with. My team was mostly made up of Bigs, mostly women.

"Why do you think that was?" I leaned in, genuinely curious about his perspective on navigating mixed-size relationships post-reduction. “I’m just assuming as a newly reduced man you’d have feelings about being around normal-sized women."

"Well, women just seem...easier to be around, somehow," Ian shared, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Nodding I added. "It's interesting. There's this idea that women are inherently more nurturing, though it's definitely not a universal rule. Women can be nurturing, sure, but it's not exclusive to us."

“I never really thought about it.” Ian replied. Ian's eyes met mine, reflecting a mix of curiosity and appreciation. "You know, it's odd. Before tonight, I’d always pictured…or well just pretended…us as a regular-sized couple.
But now, it's hard to see you as anything other than this leggy 23-foot woman. The questions you're asking—they're insightful. I appreciate your curiosity, really. It's just that...these aren't things I've pondered much until now. It does make me wonder, if the roles were reversed, and you were a Nexie, would you care about such things? Like would you who was on your care team? Like, does the idea of gender play into who you'd want helping you through something like this?"

I looked at Ian alarmed. “Oh, no, no, no! I couldn’t do the tiny woman thing. I just couldn't," I started, the words tumbling out in a rush. " When my genetic screening came back clear, it was as if I could breathe again. The very thought of being so... small…being at the mercy of giants, of losing my autonomy... I can't even begin to express how terrifying that prospect is to me." Mid-confession, I realized I was unveiling deep-seated fears from my childhood — fears of being a Nexie, and I abruptly turned away, a flush creeping up my cheeks. That was the heart of it, wasn't it? The gnawing insecurity that had taken up residence in the back of my mind, quietly festering over the years. I couldn’t face what Ian faced. Looking at him sitting there in a highchair looking up at me in his personal oversized world. It struck me then—this was the crux of my unease with him. Perhaps not the entirety of it, considering the complexities of having a physical relationship with a man who didn’t even come up to my knees. But I could see my childhood fears were a significant part, nonetheless. Being with Ian tonight, really being with him, had forced me to confront these fears head-on. It was as if he held up a mirror, showing me not just his world but the parts of myself I was too afraid to examine closely.

Shame washed over me as I looked down at him, the weight of my own words pressing down on me. "Who's the coward now?" I silently chided myself. My next words were heavy with remorse. "Ian, I'm so sorry. That was completely thoughtless and insensitive of me. There's no justifying what I said. I'm so, so sorry."

But Ian, with a gentleness that erased my feelings of guilt, simply said, "Don't be. There's no need to apologize. You were being honest, and that's important. I think every Nexie has felt or said something similar at some point during their transition. I know I have."

“I guess, though I feel awful, like I’m just this shallow bitch just judging and piling on you and making things worse between us.” I replied sadly. “Anyway, I think, you’re made of sterner stuff than me.”

Ian's response was immediate, a rebuttal wrapped in kindness. "Gwen, you’re not giving yourself enough credit. You're much tougher than you think.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I replied doubtfully. “But to go back to your question, I'd probably pick a team like yours, or well anyone but male. Given my history with the male species being what it is—let's just say, not great— I’d hate to live in a world where they were four times my size.” I looked down at Ian, still embarrassed by my insensitivity. “Ian, I don’t mean to disparage your disability. You’re just asking these questions and well…I’m being honest.”

“I know.” Ian replied. “No one wants to be a Nexie.” Ian paused and smiled. “Well, almost no one.”

I didn’t want to spend any more time delving into my childhood pandemic fears and quickly put the conversation on a different track. "So, I get the whole opting for a female-centric team, but don't you think having more Nexies around would've been more productive? You know, to sort of guide you through the ropes?"

Ian nodded, "Yeah, there were a few Nexie clinicians, but a big part of the therapy was getting comfortable around Bigs—kind of a crash course in navigating a world where everything else is, well, gigantic."
"Ah, that makes sense," I said, nodding, my curiosity piqued over the rim of my wine glass. At Fricklin, they've started this whole initiative, kind of a big deal, really. They’ve rolled out mandatory Nexie awareness trainings for all of us. It's part of this big push to get ready for next fall. And you know what? I was surprisingly drawn in, so much that I've already signed up for a few more. But, let's be honest, they only skim the surface, leaving so much of the real experience of Nexie rehab and transition unexplored. So, from your experience, what was the most challenging part?"

"The counseling," Ian confessed, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "The team didn't stick to just one method—they used a whole spectrum, like CBT, IPT, Behavioral Activation, EMDR—each one tailored to match what each of us needed."

I blinked, feeling a tad out of my depth. "Okay, you might need to slow down for me. I'm not exactly well-versed in all the therapy speak. " I laughed, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. "But it seems like you managed to find something in that mix that helped?"

"Helps," he corrected me with a slight smile. "I'm still seeing a Size Transition therapist. Honestly, before all this happened, I couldn't tell you the first thing about psychological treatments. Now, I'm somewhat of an aficionado. It's been a tough journey, especially with the isolation. But I'm in a much better place now." He chuckled, a bit self-consciously, "I guess I shouldn't be unloading all this on our official first date, especially when I'm trying to impress."

But honestly, I found his openness refreshing. "Actually, I'm impressed by a man who knows when to seek help," I admitted. I've been toying with the idea of therapy myself. Trying to adjust to post-pandemic life has left me acting a bit like a hermit."

"Well, I certainly found counseling helpful.” Ian responded. “Though I confess, sometimes it was exhausting. There was group therapy, social skills training, and intimacy skills training," he listed, each item punctuated with a sigh that hinted at the sheer magnitude of it all. "If I wasn't being put through the wringer by a particularly sadistic PT, I was in the trenches with a therapist. Lucky for me, I was assigned Áine. She was a rock star. She really helped me get a grip on things during those first rocky months... "Plus, you know, the fact that she has these incredible long legs didn't exactly make my sessions a chore," Ian confessed, a blend of sheepishness and amusement in his tone.

A smirk play across my lips, as I looked down at Ian. "I'm not entirely sure 'doing the therapeutic work' is supposed to include hitting on your giant therapist," I teased, unable to resist the jab.

Ian's mock horror was practically Oscar-worthy. "Excuse me, I'll have you know I was the very model of a gentleman around Áine! I didn't hit on her—not once! I merely appreciated the scenery," he retorted, his tone riding the fine line between indignation and amusement.

I laughed and replied in my most posh Regency accent, “Well of course, Mr. Kennon, it would be most unbecoming of me to tarnish the esteemed regard in which your gentlemanly character is held, merely on account of your discerning appreciation for the more refined aspects of the gentler sex's most graceful appendages."

"Okay, are we seriously channeling Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy again?" Ian asked, barely containing his grin.

"Well, yeah," I replied, grinning. "You're giving off some serious pocket-sized Mr. Darcy vibes." And honestly, if Mr. Darcy had been about four and a half feet shorter, he'd be Ian's doppelganger, brooding looks and all.

Ian's grin didn't waver; if anything, it grew more mischievous. "Oh, so that makes you what? A troll-sized Miss Bennet?" he shot back, clearly enjoying our back-and-forth.

"Troll-sized? Excuse you!" I retorted with mock indignation, barely able to keep a straight face, "Why! Why...I ought to stuff you into my purse and hang you from a coat rack!" I exclaimed laughing. It was fascinating, really, how the night had unfolded—from my initial horror on going on a date with an Opa to finding such joy in our lighthearted teasing. Ian's reaction to my playful digs, his confidence and ease in himself… I confess I found that genuinely attractive.


Ian's laughter was warm and contagious. "Oh, well, that huge sigh of relief for me. For a sec, I thought you were going to drag me back to some dank, dark troll cave!" he says, still laughing.

My jaw dropped in mock horror. “Why you impertinent little bug!” And just like that, we're both doubled over in laughter, completely oblivious to anyone else around us.

As our laughter gently faded into the ambient sounds of the restaurant, I found myself gazing down at Ian, my fingers absentmindedly playing with the edge of my wine glass. The moment felt suspended, almost ethereal.

"You know, I actually could," I murmured, the words slipping out with a mix of whimsy and introspection.

"Could what?" Ian replied.

"Fit you into my tote bag," I said, my voice carrying a quiet confidence. "I have this really cute Coach tote that you'd fit into perfectly."

Ian's laughter tapered off, and he regarded me with a seriousness that seemed to pull me into a deeper conversation. "How does that make you feel?" he asked, his tone gentle yet probing.

There it was—his question throwing my own observation back at me, making me pause. Was I pushing buttons I hadn't intended to push? "What, that I could pop you into my tote?" I responded, a trace of uncertainty coloring my voice.

Ian's expression softened, the earnestness in his eyes inviting me to truly consider his question. "Yes, exactly that. How does it feel, knowing you could easily tuck me into your cute Coach bag?"

The candor of the moment caught me off guard. "Honestly? I'm not sure," I admitted, letting out a small sigh. "But strangely, I'm starting to find a certain...acceptance in the thought." I paused, allowing myself to fully inhabit the role reversal of literally being the much bigger person. My gaze intensified. "And what about you, Ian? How does it sit with you, being so small that I could effortlessly lift you into my tote?"

Ian's response was quick, his grin returning with a playful glint in his eye. "Well, Gwen, that all hinges on how cute this Coach bag of yours is," he quipped. "I'm not about to become an accessory in just any old tote. I have my standards, after all."
I smiled at his witty comeback yet pressed for a genuine answer. "Ian, be real with me," I urged, seeking the sincerity that had underpinned our interactions thus far.

Ian's demeanor shifted to one of quiet confidence. "Gwen, I've been living in this reality for over two years now. I've got nothing left to prove. After all the hurdles I've overcome and the support I've received, I've come to realize that, size aside, my identity isn't defined by how easily I might fit into your handbag. I’m still a man and I am, and always will be, just me." Ian looked at me plainly, without shame, nor averting my towering gaze, his confidence practically radiating off him, making him seem larger than life—or at least larger than his 18-inch stature. And suddenly, I felt a wave of relief. Yes, I know I’m nearly four times his size, and I could easily toss him like a throw pillow, but I realized I couldn’t easily squash his ego and that meant something. Despite his voice, that could easily be mistaken for a squeaky toy and the sight of him handling his fork like an oversized prop, not to mention his struggle with the wine glass, I found myself feeling this unexpected pull towards him.

"You know, Ian," I started, feeling a mix of affection and a bit of self-reproach, "you've been incredible, really. Here I am, making awkward comments about tote bags and teasing you for being an Opa. I guess there’s this dysfunctional part of me that’s pushing you to snap. but then I end up feeling guilty and apologizing for being thoughtless, even though you're always quick with a witty comeback. I'm actually having a great time, but there's this expectation that you'd get upset with me because, well…Because you're so little."

Ian looked up; his gaze filled with nothing but understanding. "Gwen, why would I get upset?" he asked, genuinely curious. "I'm having a great time. You're being the amazing woman I've fallen for, and your sense of humor? It's one of the many things I adore about you. And it's not like I can change being a Nexie."

I sighed, thinking back to the year before we met. "Ian, before you, I went on so many disastrous dates. Guys can be so touchy if they feel outdone by a woman. When you first showed up, missing …well more than a few feet from what I expected, I braced myself for another letdown. I was very angry you hid this from me, but more than that, I was frustrated thinking you'd want me to tiptoe around your size to preserve your ego.”

“Gwen,” Ian started, "You don't need to walk on eggshells around me. I'm a big..."

"Big boy?" I couldn't resist cutting in, a playful arch to my eyebrow as I gazed down at him. The irony wasn't lost on either of us, and a smile quickly found its way across my face. "Well, Ian, you might not be big in the way most people expect, but your maturity and self-confidence more than makes up for it," I acknowledged, the warmth in my tone reflecting my growing affection.

I continued, the realization settling in. "And that's just perfect because just look at us. No amount of me trying to act feminine and delicate is going to make you feel any taller. I mean, sure, I have my moments, but the idea of playing the demure lady to an 18-inch-tall man? It's just not feasible." I let out a light laugh, "But you know what? That's totally fine. Being the quintessential 'delicate flower' has never been my strong suit."

Ian's response came with a softness, a reassurance that only he could provide. "Gwen, I've never wanted you to be anything other than yourself," he said, his voice sincere. "To me, you're still Gwen, just with a bit more...altitude."

I laughed at his joke and hearing those words from him. "Ian, that's exactly what I needed to hear," I admitted, feeling a significant weight lift off my shoulders. "I need to be able to have these conversations, to make awkward jokes, and yes, even to tease and push you a bit. It's all part of me trying to understand this...to understand us.”

Ian nodded, his expression open and understanding. "I get it," he said. "And I wish I'd been upfront about being an Opa from the start, instead of trying to hide it. And if I couldn’t laugh at this, the whole cosmic absurdity of catching a fucking shrinking disease, I don’t think I would still be here. So, tease away, I have a whole library of 50-foot woman comebacks to throw back at you.

"Oh, you just try it!" I shot back, laughing. “But seriously," I continued, a bright smile spreading across my face. "You've been absolutely incredible tonight. You've made me feel so at ease, so genuinely happy, which, after the rocky start we had, I wasn't sure was possible. I was worried our easy back-and-forth, that special vibe we clicked into right from the start, would just...vanish. But you've proved me wrong, and I couldn't be more thrilled.”

Ian mirrored my sentiment, "I feel the same."

Catching myself mid-ramble, I glanced down at my wine, a flush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. "Oh, listen to me, just blabbering on and totally steamrolling your story."

“Well, I don’t have to finish.” Ian replied, “We can talk about something else. I feel like tonight’s been all about me.”

Quick to correct him, I insisted, "No way, it's not like that at all. Getting to know about your transition—it's a huge part of who you are to me, and honestly, it's incredibly important. I'd really like to hear more if you're okay with sharing?"
Ian's response was all warmth and encouragement, "I don't mind at all," he assured me. "And actually, your 'interruptions'? They're the best part.
"
Feeling my cheeks warm with a blush, I shifted my gaze, curiosity getting the better of me. "So, what else did you pick up during rehab?"

“Well,” Ian replied, continuing his story. “There was also orientation and mobility training. It's basically learning to safely move around without, you know, becoming a sidewalk pancake. They teach us to read the room—or, well, the street—reading people's body language, spotting those little signs to dodge Bigs without getting squished. They also taught us survival tricks like hugging walls or using gutters if things go sideways."

"Kind of like our trek to Céline's?" I ventured.

"Exactly," Ian confirmed.

Then it hit me, and I stared at Ian, absolutely mortified. "Wait, that was super dangerous for you, wasn't it?"

Ian started fidgeting, "Yeah," he confessed, "Being on a sidewalk for someone my size is pretty much like you walking down the middle of a freeway. We're supposed to steer clear of crowded places, especially at night…and places with teenagers and young adults. Oh yeah, and…umm… places with lots of bars or drunk people.”

"So, basically all of Afton," I said, dumbfounded.

Horrified at my own cluelessness, I buried my face in my hands. “Oh my God Ian! I made you walk on a sidewalk!”

He tried to reassure me, "Gwen, it's fine. You were upset, and you didn't know.". How could you know?”

But I was already beating myself up over it. "“You idiot! I replied angrily. No, that's not an excuse! Sure, I was angry, but putting you in danger? I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you."

Ian looked so guilty it made my heart twist. "I'm sorry, Ian. I didn't mean to snap at you. I just... I care about you a lot. Just promise me, next time, if I ask you to do something you know is dangerous, tell me! Okay?”

“I promise Gwen.”

“I mean it Ian. No matter what. If you have to kick my ankle or stab me with a toothpick…” I said, barely holding back a laugh.

“Gotcha”, Ian replied with a mock serious expression, “Note to self, keep toothpick on hand in case ginger ‘zilla goes on rampage and needs to be slapped down.” He looked up at me snickering.

I laughed and rolled my eyes. “Ian you are such an asshole.” I said, half annoyed, half amused.

I topped off my glass, the reality of Ian’s life hitting me. The world was full of everyday dangers for him that I hadn't even considered. "You know, Ian," I started, a bit of awe in my voice, "I've been through all these Nexie awareness sessions, thinking I had a decent grasp on things. Now, I'm realizing I'm pretty much clueless. Like, how do you even do it? Navigating sidewalks, opening doors, dealing with elevators and stairs in a world designed for 20-foot people?"

Ian gave a small, knowing smile, glancing down at his wine. "With a lot of caution and a bit of ingenuity, Gwen. I rely on various aids and strategies. I use a lot of the technology my company's investing in, but there are simpler things too, like using Uber or getting things delivered. And I've got an assistant."

"You mean, like a home health aide?" I wondered out loud.

"Not exactly," Ian clarified. "Anna's more of an administrative assistant, although her role's a lot broader than that. We're a team; she helps me with data research, trends, liaising with startups—the works. And yeah, she also lends a hand with the physical stuff that requires a 'Big.'"

"Does this include carrying you around?" I asked.

"Occasionally, when I concede," Ian admitted. "I prefer to walk on my own, though. There are times she insists, and I've learned to choose my battles wisely."

"But she works for you," I pointed out, half joking. "Shouldn't you have the freedom to be a 'wee idiot' if you want?"

Ian pretended to bristle at my insult. "Ah, there’s that word again."

"Zip it, tiny! You are a 'wee idiot,' and I'll say so if I please!" I shot back, playfully sticking out my tongue.

Ian laughed, surrendering with a raise of his hands. "Fair Play, you got me. I am, at times, a 'wee idiot.' As for Anna, she's incredibly skilled—an Economist and a licensed Nexie aid. We're more like friends, really. Her contract explicitly allows her to step in if I'm about to do something a 'reasonable person' would deem dangerous."

"That seems...extreme," I commented. "So, she can just veto your plans to go for a walk?"

"No, not quite. Anna doesn't boss me around. She can, however, offer her 'assistance' and she often does quite assertively. So, say I decided to take a walk, she might strongly suggest accompanying me. And if we encounter anything risky, like a swarm of rowdy college students spilling out of a bar, she might insist on carrying me to safety."

"Seriously?" My eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Yeah, it's a bit complex. Because as I'm under two and a half feet tall, Virginia law tags me as a NExVID-12 survivor with 'diminished physical capacity'… well incapacitation due to reduction. This means I'm required to have a care and independence plan, either with a guardian of my choosing or one appointed by the state."

I stared at Ian, trying to wrap my head around it. "Hold on! You have a guardian who tells you what to do?"

Ian looked at me visibly flustered. I didn’t mean to, but it probably looked to him I was questioning his status as an adult. Which I guess I was. Other than the basic Nexie training and seminars I took at work; I wasn’t aware of how drastic these laws were. Yet here they were staring me in the face. My would-be boyfriend has a nanny. Did he need her permission to date me too?

"Gwen?" Ian's voice pulled me back from my thoughts.

"Oops, sorry, Ian," I apologized, snapping back to the moment. "I was just trying wrap my mind around this. What were you saying again?"

Ian's next words were aimed at clearing up any confusion. "It's not as bad as it sounds, Gwen. I chose my guardian, my parents, and we all agreed on the plan. I'm the one calling the shots in the end. Periboia Capital hires a lot of Nexies, so they've got a solid system for pairing us with assistants who help navigate the legalities while respecting our independence. Anna's more like a partner than anything else — definitely not a nanny."

He gave me a look, almost as if he read my mind. "You were picturing a nanny, weren't you?"

I hesitated, then nodded. "Sort of. But she does have influence, right? She can 'insist' on things?" My eyes narrowed as I looked at him suspiciously. "What if you decide to head out alone and she 'insists' on tagging along?"

Ian leaned back, thoughtful. "Well, her gig is mainly a Monday-to-Friday deal, during standard office hours and my adventures tend to be more of a weekend affair. But on the off chance our views clash, we hash it out. Anna and me? We're a good team. I'm not exactly a thrill-seeker. I weigh my options, and she gets that—usually. If I were reckless, or if she tried to over-mother me, we'd just shake hands and go our separate ways."

"I see," I muttered, my mind racing with thoughts. Ian looked at me, trying to decode the mix of feelings I was poorly hiding. "It's just... your world is incredibly complex," I confessed. "Laws dictating guardianship, people constantly assessing the safety of what most of us take for granted, barriers at every turn. I'm starting to grasp the whole 'living in a world of giants' thing you mentioned. It's overwhelming."

I paused, biting my lip. The truth I was hesitant to voice was my uncertainty about diving into Ian's world. It was clear as day that, despite Ian's insistence on independence, he relied on others for basic things. This very date needed a bit of logistical gymnastics – a waitress finding him a highchair, me playing server with his dinner and wine. The real question for me was whether I was ready to step into the role of yet another caregiver in his life.

Ian's response was gentle. "I understand," he said. "For a Nexie, it's like being constantly under a microscope, needing help because the world wasn't designed with us in mind. That's pushed a lot of Nexies to carve out our own special communities, where we can just... be."

Mulling over his words, a new realization hit me. The debate around Nexie rights was one thing, but seeing the clear division in Ian's eyes was something else. He saw me as different. To him I was a 'Big,' a giant, even though we shared so much in common. Despite our shared heritage, upbringing, and hometown, it felt like a vast gulf lay between us. I found myself questioning, could a relationship between us truly bridge such a gap?

"So, Ian," I began, swirling my wine glass absentmindedly, "I've got to wonder then, why invite more 'Big' complications into your life? And I'm not just talking about my height here. Diplomacy isn't my strong suit. I'm the type to leap before I look, trying to fix things without asking, often ending up in a bigger mess. As a kid, 'bossy' was a label I couldn't shake off. And sure, I've grown, tried to curb that impulse to manage everything around me out of anxiety. But when it comes to us," I paused, a sigh escaping me, "it would be complicated."

I paused, a contemplative frown on my face. "Ian, I am passionate about Nexie rights and advocating for a world where size doesn't dictate one's ability to lead a fulfilling life. Yet, I can too easily imagine myself overstepping, aiming to 'fix' your challenges because, well, because you're so tiny. I know, I know, that sounds terribly 'big'-oted, doesn't it?" I allowed myself a small grin at the pun, hoping to lighten the mood. Ian listening intently smiled as well.

"But here's the rub, Ian. You'd have to stand your ground, and push back with all your might, and still, there might be times you might not “win”. Not because you're wrong, but simply because you barely reach my knees. It's a bitter pill to swallow, it's frustrating, and I sincerely want to avoid being that overbearing 'Big'...but there's always a chance I might slip up."

What I kept from Ian was my own hesitation. The idea of having to constantly police my own behavior, to ensure I'm not accidentally steamrolling over him due to our size difference, seemed like a massive, maybe even insurmountable, challenge. The thought of constantly second-guessing whether I'm being the 'bullying giant' in our relationship, felt like an uphill battle, possibly more than I was ready to undertake.

"I don't see you as a ‘complication’ Gwen," Ian reassured me thoughtfully. "You're strong-willed, sure, but it's never been too much for me. Honestly, I've actually enjoyed our little squabbles. We haven't really had a serious fight—aside from tonight, that is. And I don't think my being a Nexie would prevent me from holding my own against you. It hasn't stopped me so far."

"But Ian, that was all online. Until now, our whole relationship was virtual. Not to downplay that, because it’s real and it mattered. But being physically together changes everything. What does everyday life for us look like now? What if you want to do something that I think is dangerous, and I say no? Or if I just decide it's easier to move you aside or tuck you under my arm without asking. It’s not that I don’t respect you. It’s just sweety…” I looked down sadly at Ian and sighed. “You’re not even three pounds. In the spur-of-the-moment if I without thinking, just decided… I don't know, just pluck you up, well physically, you can't really stop me. I've never been known for my tact or awareness. You might end up resenting me for these daily indignities." I said, feeling a bit disheartened.

"That's a valid point," Ian admitted sadly. “I may. And I’m not even assuming there is a relationship from what we had before met in person tonight. But regardless of what we are, I don't see myself as too fragile to handle being accidentally 'woman-handled' by you, and I believe I'm fully capable of standing up to you when necessary. Our superpower has always been how well we communicate. Sure, Gwen, you might not always notice everything—especially from where I'm standing," he quipped, earning a small laugh from me. "But it's not like you're callous. You've got a big heart, even if you try to keep it under wraps," he said with a grin. "I believe we could work out the kinks, find our way around the physical and emotional hurdles, and establish what works for us after a bit of trial and error."

"Ian, I'm just not sure," I admitted, feeling a tug of uncertainty. My feelings for Ian felt like they were on a seesaw.

"I get it, Gwen," Ian responded with understanding. "Tonight's been a bit of a whirlwind, hasn't it? And yes, I’ve thrown most of those curveballs. I know we’re not going to solve everything tonight. But just being here with you, face to face, that's something I'm really grateful for."

I found myself chuckling at his choice of words. "Curveballs"? That wasn't exactly the first analogy that came to my mind.

"What's got you smiling?" Ian inquired, noticing my bemused expression.

"Oh, it's nothing," I said, trying to brush it off. "Just thinking this feels more like a rollercoaster than a baseball game. You know, with all its thrills, screams, highs, and lows," I explained, my voice trailing off a bit.

Noticing Ian's downcast look, I quickly reassured him, "Ian, listen, I'm not revisiting the tearful drama from earlier. In fact, I'm glad, too. It's really nice to finally meet you in person. And you look great! Your photos and all our video chats didn't do you justice. You're very cute," I added, being very sincere.

"Just cute?" Ian shot back, a teasing glint in his eye.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh my God!. "You're smoking hot, okay? Happy now, you little jerk?" I laughed, throwing my hands up in mock exasperation.

"That's more like it," Ian said, feigning a dignified air, clearly enjoying the compliment.

"Ugh, you're impossible!" I laughed harder. "I'd lob a scallop your way as punishment, but I'm pretty sure it'd send you tumbling from that throne of yours."

Ian's laughter doubled. "Try it, and I'll unleash a barrage of capers with sniper-like precision before your scallop even leaves your hand!" he threatened playfully.

I squealed and I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Ok, Ok!, truce, you tiny monster. I'm not risking a food fight in my cute new dress." I said, dissolving into giggles.

"Truce accepted," Ian agreed laughing.

As our laughter waned, Ian glanced down, a contemplative look crossing his face. "I'm really enjoying myself. I'm sorry the night starte..." he began, his mood shifting.

"No, Ian, please, no more apologies," I interjected. "We seem to be going in circles, and you're right. We can't unravel all of this tonight. I think I'd rather just enjoy the moment with you."

Ian looked puzzled. "Um, isn't that what we're doing?"

"Of course, that came out wrong," I corrected myself, realizing how convoluted that must have sounded. "I mean, let's focus on the date itself. We are on a date, after all," which seemed to baffle him even further.

"Okay..." Ian responded, clearly not following. "So, what would you like to talk about?"

"Wait!" I blurted out, a mix of frustration and realization hitting me. "Ian, I'm not trying to shut down the conversation. It's not that I want to avoid 'Nexie stuff'; it's just, tonight, my thoughts are all over the place, and I might need to pause and breathe. You know how I tend to overthink everything."

Ian laughed. "That's for sure. I still remember the saga of you buying your first car."

"Why did you have to bring that up?" I groaned, though laughter was bubbling up inside me. "Choosing a color was a nightmare."

Ian's laughter grew. "Exactly! I was there, virtually holding your hand through Zoom as you weighed every option night after night.
"
"Yeah," I acknowledged, the laughter fading into a fond smile. "You were incredibly patient with me," I said warmly. "Ian, you're an amazing boyfriend."

Ian's cheeks tinged with color. "Thanks. I guess I also have my moments."

"You do," I confirmed, feeling that undeniable bond between us.

I just sat there looking at him. There was the feeling again. That old spark I'd felt during our Discord chats and Zoom dates, the random texts that brightened my days, it was all there, cozy, and familiar like my favorite worn barn coat. Except now, there were butterflies fluttering in my belly, probably because Ian was actually within reach. Seeing him in person, so much smaller than me, yet feeling this tug of attraction—it was both wonderful and odd. There were moments, amidst our laughter and playful teasing, when I could just let go and soak in the joy of being together.

Yet, every time I realized I was fully present in that joy, my brain would kick back in, loaded with all those tricky questions about how a relationship between a 'normal' girl and a Nexie could possibly work. "Come on, Gwen," I mentally nudged myself, "Take your own advice - just be with Ian. He’s in almost every way, the same guy you fell in love with. "

Snapping back to the present, I realized I had blanked out and was staring at Ian with probably the goofiest look on my face.

"Gwen? You alright?" He looked at me, slightly bewildered.

"Whoops! Sorry, Ian. Just got lost in my thoughts for a moment there. I think that’s how I survived all the lockdowns, just being utterly zoned out. Who needs drugs when you've got a brain like mine?" I joked, trying to shake off the awkwardness.

Ian chuckled. "Find any hidden treasures in that brain of yours?"

"Nah, I just got sidetracked by how lovely this place is. Feels like we've been whisked away to a quaint café in the French countryside, doesn't it? These scallops are amazing. What do you think?"

“They’re fantastic!” Ian agreed, though his ongoing battle with the oversized fork had left his meal largely untouched.

"That fork's proving to be a bit of a challenge, huh?" I asked with a mix of amusement and concern in my voice.

Ian gave a good-natured laugh. "Yeah, it might be time to start packing my own utensils while I’m waiting for Afton to become more Nexie friendly.” Then, as if struck by an epiphany, he laughed and shook his head. "I’m such an idiot!" He shot me a playful look. "Don't you dare say it," he warned with a smirk.

Trying to keep a straight face, I asked, "Say what?" feigning innocence.

Shaking his head, Ian rolled his eyes. "You know exactly what. Hey, could you flag down Chloe for us?"

I looked up - As if on cue, Chloe zoomed past just as I signaled for her attention.

She pivoted to our table and immediately apologized, assuming we were inquiring about our main course. "I'm so sorry, your order will be out shortly!"

"Oh, no worries at all, Chloe," Ian reassured her. "The scallops are wonderful! Could we possibly get a cocktail toothpick, though?" Ian's request seemed to take her by surprise.
"A cocktail toothpick? Sure…Sure thing! I'll be right back with that," she promised, darting off once more.

Ian shook his head, amused at his own oversight. "I can't believe I overlooked something so simple as alternative tools. Toothpicks as fork substitutes are like, day one stuff in Independent Living Skills class," Ian mused aloud.

I nodded, impressed. "That's actually pretty smart."

Ian pointed an accusatory finger at me, his tone playful. "This is your doing, I bet."

"Mine? How's this my fault?" I protested laughing.

“I think, you’re using your overthinking powers to addle my wits!” he accused, teasing.

"And why on earth would I do that?" I managed to say between fits of laughter.

Ian tried for solemn but landed on adorably puzzled instead. "How am I supposed to know the evil machinations of your mind?"

"Oh, you've got me, Ian," I confessed dramatically. “I am indeed employing my colossal mind powers, thanks to my not-so-little giant enchantress nature, to scramble your wee idiot brain and make you even…dumber.”

"Aha! I knew it!" Ian, feigning shock. "But how's that even remotely fair? You've got giant strength, invulnerability, AND psychic powers?"

He sounded like he was describing a formidable NPC out of D&D. What? Don’t Judge me! Virtual D&D became very popular during the pandemic and really, isn't the whole 'nerd' label a bit outdated by now?
I leaned back in my chair, making a show of recrossing my legs, and smiled flirtatiously, "It seems like you've pegged me as a cloud giant, which, honestly, isn't too far off the mark for someone of my... considerable attributes. Being extraordinarily large, unfathomably strong, and supremely clever?" I shrugged, with a smirk.

"Anyway, It’s not my fault.” I said innocently. “Hate the game not the player, right?” My eyes narrowed and I looked at Ian seductively, a hint of mischief in my eyes. "So, what's it gonna be, short stuff? Shall I fry your brain with my psychic powers or simply crush you underfoot?"

Ian's laughter came to an abrupt halt, and he shot me this look, a whirlwind of emotions playing across his face. My own laughter fizzled out, leaving me with a warm flush of embarrassment. "Ian,
I'm really sorry," I blurted, as I stumbled over my words. "I got a little too caught up in the moment. I wouldn't actually..."

I mentally kicked myself. I went too far. The hitch is I'm totally clueless on how to flirt with a Nexie. With Ian, it's like navigating uncharted seas—he's so incredibly tiny, and I can't stop obsessing over it. I find myself making comments about his size, which he seems to either find amusing or maybe he just enjoys the back-and-forth of our verbal duels. Perhaps it's my own brand of cute aggression that he finds charming.

The truth is, in spite of this new reality, I’m still crazy about Ian, but my kind of crazy is definitely on the more fiery side. Our conversations have always felt more like verbal wrestling than hearts and flowers. Under normal circumstances, we'd probably skipped dinner and be tussling on his couch right now, but given our differences in size, well... it’s complicated.

I discovered that mixing my naturally aggressive sparring with Ian while also trying to wrap my head around the whole him-being-a-Nexie has led to moments of going overboard. I'd start off with playful flirting, trying to get a reaction out of him. And then, I find myself saying something totally over the top like, "What if I smushed you like a bug?" And suddenly, I realized, I’m crossed a line. Because for many Nexies, the possibility of being stepped on is an everyday fear for them.

But Ian jumped in before I could spiral further into my apology. "It's alright, Gwen," he said, cutting through my babble with a calmness that put me at ease. "I knew you were just joking. Though…It's not exactly the kind of comment you'd want to throw around a Nexie, but... I'm not bothered."

His inflection and expression shifted, hinting at a deeper interest. Was that… desire? I straightened up, instinctively leaning in closer to him. "Bothered by what?" I whispered, hoping my voice sounded as sultry as I intended. "By the idea that I could step on you, or the mention of my feet?"

Ian didn't say a word; instead, his face bloomed with an even deeper shade of red. In a perfect world, the one where our story was the plot of a romantic comedy and Ian wasn't a Nexie, I would have playfully nudged his ankle with my toe. But here he was, perched on his high chair, his tiny ankles out of reach, leaving my only option to gently bob my leg in a teasing motion, foot pointed just so, in a bid to give him a better view.

"Does this bother you?" I asked, lowering my voice to barely above a whisper, fully aware of the charged atmosphere between us.

In case you’re wondering, Ian has....well… let's say a unique appreciation for feet.

Yes diary, a few months back during one of our Zoom dates. We were deep into sharing our sexual likes, dislikes, and those little fantasies you usually keep under wraps. Towards the very end, Ian nervously shared his fondness for women’s feet. You could tell he was bracing for me to burst out laughing or pass some kind of judgment, but honestly, I was totally okay with it. To me, my feet are just that—feet. Mine are on the larger side, not exactly something I've ever celebrated, but I've never given them much thought beyond that. Ian, though, acted like he was confessing some deep, dark sin.

But here's my take: it's all just anatomy, right? Guys have their preferences—be it a girl’s ass, breasts, or legs. Labeling one interest a "fetish" and the others merely preferences seems a bit unfair. Finding out Ian was into my feet was actually kind of refreshing. Typically, the first thing guys zero in on are my breasts, and let's be real, that gets old fast. The catcalls, the unwanted advances, it's utterly exhausting.
But Ian? His in-person desire was to treat me to new shoes and foot massages, which, let's be honest, sounds pretty fabulous. Not to downplay it —Ian definitely appreciates my other... ahem, attributes just as much as any guy. But he handles it like such a gentleman.

So, I'm more than happy to play along, to indulge his foot fascination. That's why I treated myself to a pedicure and slipped into some stunning 4-inch heels.

Ian finally broke the silence, his tone laced with mock annoyance. "So, this is your game, Gwen? Waving your foot at me as if it's some kind of threat?" he said, trying to sound irritated but the playfulness in his voice was unmistakable. "I'm hardly so tiny that you could just step on me. And frankly,” he sniffed “I'm not the least bit bothered," he added, though I noticed a slight falter in his assured demeanor.

"Why would I ever do something like that, Ian?" I responded, feigning surprise. "Use my li'l ol’ foot to intimidate you? Oh, you're absolutely right, stepping on you isn't something I could manage even if I wanted to," I said, adding a touch of flirtation to my voice. "I'm relieved we've got that sorted. But tell me, Ian, are you sure this doesn’t bother you?" I subtly lifted my leg, gracefully pointing my toes in a dancer's demi-point, making my long legs seem endless. Leaning forward, I caught his gaze with a seductive look, gently biting my lip.

I playfully nudged Ian's highchair with my foot, giving it a gentle shake. "Oops," I squeaked in a girlish lilt. "I’m so sorry. Did I scare you, 'wittle' man?"

I couldn't suppress my smile, fully aware of the flutter I was causing in Ian. "Gwen, I know what you doi..." Ian managed, his voice wavering.

"What Ian?" I cut in, "What am I doing?" I replied childlike while playfully biting on my fingertip.

Ian's eyes were glued to my foot as it subtly caressed the leg of his highchair, his cheeks blossoming with a rosy flush that spoke volumes. "You're terrible, Gwen!" he exclaimed, his laughter betraying his feigned disapproval. "You’re such a giant brat!"
"It feels like I’m really bothering you, Ian," I murmured, my voice low and flirtatious. "Is this bothering you? Should I stop?" I challenged, my words dripping with an invitation for more.

He barely managed a "No," his voice thick with desire.

"Are you sure?" I pressed on, enjoying the playful tension. "Because Ian…I really don’t want to bother you," I added, keeping him locked in my gaze, compelling him to meet mine.

Ian's attempt at feigned annoyance was betrayed by his barely stifled laugh, his struggle to stay composed making his reactions all the more amusing. "I think I've had enough of your foolishness," he said, trying to sound stern but the smile creeping through suggested he was far from displeased.

I gently lifted my foot away from Ian's highchair, giving it a playful twist to offer him a prime view of my sandals. "What do you think of my heels, Ian?" I asked, a playful innocence in my tone as I teasingly bit my fingertip. "They're Sam Edelman's. I just had to have them when I saw them at Anthropologie last week, thinking they'd be perfect for our date." I let the words hang in the air for a moment before softening my voice to that of a tempting siren.

“I just thought a man such as yourself. A man of…umm… your stature would have quite the insight into women's shoes. After all, being at such a close vantage point to the ground must give you a keen eye for detail, especially for something as exquisite as a pair of designer heels," I mused, my voice woven with playful seduction.

"Do you like them?" I inquired, my tone dripping with honey.

At this point, I had completely demolished Ian’s cool exterior and reduced him to a flustered smile and endearingly brief responses. "Yes," was all he could muster, clearly caught up in the moment.
I lost myself weaving this web of seduction with Ian, each musing more teasing than the last, while my foot, the center of his attention, moved in a deliberate, seductive dance. It felt like I was orchestrating his reactions, each move calculated yet effortless. There's something about connecting with someone on that level, noticing how they're tuned into your every gesture. It was surprisingly…arousing.

Caught up in the moment, my gaze drifted from Ian to the gentle sway of my foot. Suddenly, a curious thought popped into my head: "Being a size 10 means my feet are a little over 10 inches long, doesn't it?" That made me glance at Ian, mentally sizing him up next to my foot.. My mind wandered off on a bit of a mathematical journey, comparing sizes. And then it hit me—my feet are more than half his height. "In Ian's eyes, my feet must look nearly three and a half feet long!" The awareness of my size, so stark and unadorned, left me momentarily taken aback. I suddenly felt a wave of self-consciousness overwhelm me. "Oh my God, I'm fucking enormous!" I silently panicked. And just like that, the spell was broken; my foot came to a sudden stop, the heel of my sandal hitting the floor with a distinct clack. "No wonder they call us 'thuds,'" I thought ruefully.

“Wait.” I said out loud. Waking up as if from a daydream, I caught myself in a whirlwind of emotions. "Hold on, what's happening here?" I questioned myself, utterly perplexed by the rollercoaster of feelings I was experiencing with Ian. All in the span of a few hours. I went from being totally giddy, practically ready to pounce on him on our first real date. Then, feeling furious upon actually seeing him, wishing I could somehow make him feel even smaller— to belittle and humiliate him simply because he didn't match up to what I had envisioned.

Yet, after we sat down and talked, really talked, a sense of understanding washed over me, leading to a reluctant acceptance. I had quietly shifted Ian into the friend zone in my mind – a move that stung more than I wanted to admit, telling myself that this was all it could ever be. And now, in a bewildering twist, I found my feelings circling back, drawn to him once more. It's confounding. How am I falling for a man who stands at a mere 18 inches tall? How is this supposed to work in, like, any scenario ever?

Glancing over at Ian, I noticed his face, flushed with desire, looking as though he'd just been snapped out of a trance. "Gw...Gwen," he managed to get out. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, look, Ian," I replied dodging the question, because, honestly, where do I even start? "Our food's here. I'm starving. Aren't you?"

I nervously fidgeted with my dress, before looking up with an awkward smile as the petite waitress approached our table carrying a full plater. My gaze shifted to Ian, who seemed momentarily lost, his face blank as though he was snapping back from some faraway dream. Just as Chloe reached our table, Ian collected himself.

"I'm so sorry your meal took so long; we're short-staffed in the kitchen tonight," Chloe explained, as she set down my dish with a flourish. "Here's your Beef Tenderloin with black truffle and béarnaise sauce, and Ian, here's your Agnolotti alla Panna. I’ve also brought some smaller plates in case you’d like to share. Oh, and here’s your cocktail toothpick, Ian. Do you need anything else before I head back?"

Ian's looked up, "Chloe, this all looks amazing, but I doubt we can finish it all tonight. Could we possibly have our leftovers and wine held here until tomorrow? My assistant could pick them up before lunch."

Chloe paused, thoughtful, then replied, "Hmm… Let me check with my manager. I don’t foresee a problem, but I'll confirm just to be sure."

"Thanks," Ian replied gratefully as Chloe turned to attend to another table.

"That's a lot of food," I replied guiltily looking at the extravagance laid out on his highchair tray.

Ian looked up at me, “Remember, no more apologies tonight.” he said thoughtfully.

“Right”, I agreed, “No more apologies. However, I don’t know if you even like what I ordered for you.  We can share, or even swap meals if that’s what you want.”

Ian chuckled. "I doubt I can manage more than what you’d consider a mouthful," he quipped, gesturing towards his meal. "The pasta is fine, but maybe just a tidbit of yours if you don’t mind."

I inwardly winced at hearing Ian’s pronouncement. Nothing makes a woman feel so fem and petite then realizing that a small bite for you is a hefty meal for your boyfriend.

"Of course not," I replied with a smile, pushing aside my thoughts of insecurity. I took a small plate, sliced off a piece of my steak, and sprinkled bits of truffle and béarnaise sauce over it, before setting it carefully on his tray.

"You know," I started as I arranged his plate, "I could have taken care of the leftovers and wine. You don't need to have your assistant swing by for that."

"I know," Ian replied, his voice soft yet firm. "I don’t want to trouble you, and she’s already set to drop off some paperwork tomorrow."

"Well, it’s really no trouble at all."

"It’s fine, Gwen," Ian cut in as he began to dig into his meal. "Anna handles these kinds of things for me all the time." He paused, looking up at me. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I just didn’t want to impose on you by having you carry our takeout back to my place."

I opened my mouth to object, to say it really wouldn’t be any bother, but something in Ian’s tone suggested he’d made up his mind. "Umm…okay," I conceded.

I noticed Ian was still wrestling with his meal. Despite my efforts, the pieces I had cut for him were still too large. He had managed to spear a piece of pasta that, to him, must have looked like a pancake. I suppressed a giggle, a sign I took as progress—I wasn’t embarrassed anymore by his efforts to navigate his outsized world. It seemed I was becoming more at ease with the idea of a normal-sized girl on a date with an Opa. Sure, people might whisper and laugh, but really, things could be far worse.

"Here, Ian," I said reaching over and grabbing his plate and the cocktail toothpick he was using, "let me fix that."

"Gwen, I was fine. You don’t need to fix anything," he protested gently.

"I know," I answered, "but it’s no big deal to make your meal a bit easier to handle, right?"

Carefully, I reworked Ian’s food, cutting each item into manageable sizes but not so tiny that they’d be impossible to pick up with his toothpick.

"There!" I declared, pleased with my efforts. "Try this."

Ian looked up at me, a sheepish expression on his face. “Thanks,” He replied glumly.

"What? What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," Ian replied. "It’s just… I know you're uncomfortable helping me with… well, Big stuff. I just want you to know, you don’t have to. I can manage."

"Well, Ian, to be honest, I was," I admitted. "But that was just me being self-conscious and insecure...and... I’m sor—oops, right, no apologies," I caught myself, remembering our no apologies pledge. "What I mean is, I’m learning it’s okay. This isn't middle school. I’m not a giant, and this is fine."

"So, you’re totally cool with this?" Ian asked, a bit skeptically.

"No, I wouldn’t say I’m 'totally' cool with it yet, but I’m getting there, and that’s a good thing, right?"

"Yes, Gwen," Ian replied smiling, "it is."

“But Ian, I have to ask. Is this typical?”

“What’s typical?” Ian responded, looking puzzled.

“This,” I gestured to his full-size portion, “Going to a restaurant, ordering, and getting a 'Big' sized meal. It just seems like such a waste.”

“No, this isn't the norm,” Ian said grinning. “This isn’t exactly a Nexie friendly meal. Most places nowadays offer Nexie-scaled portions. There’s even a new trend called “Nexie cuisine”, which is more than just smaller portions—it’s about recreating dishes to have the same taste, texture, and appearance as their regular-sized counterparts. I had this amazing meal in DC, a perfect tiny version of your beef tenderloin made from tofu and bioprinted meat. It looked and tasted just like the real thing.”

“That sounds incredible, Ian,” I replied, a note of exasperation creeping into my voice, “but then why did you bring me here? Aren’t there any Nexie-friendly spots in Afton?”

“I checked. There are a couple, but they're pretty basic—mostly pub fare, burgers and fries, that sort of thing.” He paused, then added quietly, “I just wanted to take you somewhere special.”

I smiled reassuringly, “I like burgers and fries. You could have taken me to a pub,” I said, “But this is really nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Just a heads up, though,” I said with a playful grin. “I have a big appetite and a quick metabolism, so I'm pretty sure I'll finish my meal and might even snag some of yours. So, there might not be as many leftovers as you thought.”

Ian laughed. “Well, I would certainly hope so.”

I smiled back at him, “I guess it’s just those farm girl genes of mine.”

Ian’s expression turned serious. "So, I'm not apologizing, and I'm definitely not wallowing in self-pity for being an Opa, but I get why you might feel awkward being seen with me."

“Well, that sounds suspiciously like a sneaky apology, so I'll let it slide with just a warning this time. But next time, you're getting hit with a truffle,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood. "Really, Ian, other than springing this on me, it’s not your fault. I’m just dealing with my own immaturity and self-consciousness. I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you.” As I was speaking an absurd image popped into my mind, and I burst out laughing.

“What?” Ian looked at me, puzzled. “What's so funny?”

I struggled to get the words out between bursts of laughter. "Just imagining...Like... Imagine if everyone was your size and I was this 24-foot clumsy troll, and you took me here. I’d freak everyone out trying to get my fat ass through the door.  The furniture would be too tiny, so I’d end up sitting on the floor and still banging my head on the ceiling.”

Ian laughed as well, “Well, we’d just have to dine on the patio then. You could easily step over the railing, so you wouldn’t even have to deal with the door. And for the record, you’re not a troll and you don’t have a fat ass!” It’s just…” I cocked one eyebrow angrily as he paused, searching for the right words. “It’s just... proportional in scale.”

“Nice save, mister," I replied laughing.  “But as I was saying. I’d have to eat with my fingers because the utensils would be too small, just shoveling whole plates of food into my ginormous mouth. Wouldn’t you be embarrassed then?”

“No, I wouldn’t. That would be a very fun date.”

"Sure," I responded, with skepticism in my voice. "It would certainly be a terribly expensive one though. Just think of how many steaks and bottles of wine I could go through.”

“It’d be worth every penny," Ian replied affectionately.

I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks. “I guess you mean it… So, maybe being a giant wouldn’t be so bad if you were my boyfriend.”

As I looked down at Ian, I felt that strange attraction again.  The air between us was still charged, a quiet tension that punctuated every glance as we focused on our meals. We both subtly chose to avoid discussing the bout of sexual teasing that unexpectedly surfaced earlier. I made a conscious effort to keep still, to not let my foot rock or my crossed leg swing, yet I caught Ian stealing quick looks at my legs and feet. I didn’t call him out for looking; truth be told, I enjoyed the attention. After all, it wasn’t his fault. The dress and heels were chosen with that strategy in mind.

Finally, I broke the silence and asked, "So what happened after rehab? I mean, aside from school and completing your program."

Ian hesitated, as if there was more beneath the surface. “Well… you know. That’s basically it. Went back to school, got my degree, and then moved back home,” he responded, his tone suggesting he was glossing over details.

“Whoa..Whoa…Whoa! That’s it’?” I echoed his words with a mix of disbelief and curiosity.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” he said, almost apologetically.

“Ian, you just got out of rehab and entered the real world again as a newly reduced man. That’s huge, it's life changing. So, what really happened?”

Ian shifted in his chair and looked at me uncomfortably.

“Ian. Look, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I’m invested in your story, and I want to hear it all. I mean, I feel like I’m catching up on your life… I don’t want to pressure you, but you can trust me. I hope by now you realize you can share anything with me.”

“You’re right,” Ian admitted sadly. “Returning to Edinburg after my reduction was …difficult. Honestly, it’s not a memory I enjoy revisiting.”

“Ian, I’m sorry I pushed,” I said, feeling guilty for delving into such sensitive territory. “Really, you don’t have to share anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“No, it’s okay. You’ve been incredibly understanding tonight, and as I said earlier, it feels good to talk about it. I’ve been wanting to tell you who I am ever since we started dating. I just… couldn’t. Confessing has been incredibly freeing”

“I’m grateful, too,” I responded, placing my hands over my heart. “I feel like I’ve gotten to know you on a whole new level tonight. It’s a lot to take in, but somehow, I feel closer to you than ever.”

“Umm… I guess I should say you’re welcome?” Ian said, his smile tinged with embarrassment.

I laughed. “Sure, why not?”

Ian’s tone then turned more serious. “Moving back to the world was tough. I thought I was ready, but I discovered I really wasn’t. When I was at Lollingdon the staff would have a little ceremony for the 'graduates' finishing their rehab programs. My turn eventually came. We received certificates, there was cake, refreshments, funny skits, and lots of hugs from the other guests and staff.”

“Did you get a hug from Áine?” I asked with a subtle smile as I sipped my wine.

Catching my teasing glance, Ian chuckled. “Yeah, a big one... literally. She met me in the lobby as I was leaving. She picked me up and just held me there for what felt like forever.”

“You should totally add that to your list of Opa perks. Giant hugs from giant pretty girls,” I said, giggling.

Ian didn’t laugh. Instead, he looked away, seeming uncomfortable, a shadow crossing his face before he turned back to me, forcing a grin. “Yeah, that’s a good one,” he replied.

“What’s up?” I asked, sensing something was off.

“Oh, nothing,” Ian said, shrugging. “I think I bit into a peppercorn.”

“Ouch!” I winced sympathetically. “See? I told you I’m good at this. I should write a book on Nexie perks,” I joked.

“You should!” Ian laughed.

So, after rehab, there must have been some kind of process for reintegrating, right?”

"Yes, exactly," Ian confirmed. “Lollingdon has transition staff to help guests move back into the real world. Since I'm under the magic 76-centimeter mark, UK law requires Nexies like me to register with the NHS to get assigned a Reduced Persons Services Aide. Most people just call them Nexie Nannies. Depending on a Nexie's height, age, and health issues, they could end up in a long-term care facility, a halfway house, or receive home care. People like me—well, people with means—have the option to hire private aides. That’s what I opted for.”

“Really!? Government registration? That sounds terrifying and a bit Orwellian,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, it seems so extreme, but I suppose if you’re going to have comprehensive care for Nexies, it makes sense. Still, it's kind of scary, don't you think?”

Ian let out a sarcastic laugh. “Well, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. There’s a lot of criticism about the actual quality of care,” he explained. “Of course, if you can afford it, the private aides are generally better. Well, mostly."

“So, did your parents come over to help you get settled, find a nanny... umm, I mean, an aide?”

Ian chuckled. “It's alright, Gwen. Call them nannies or Nexie sitters, whatever suits you.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Sorry, 'nannies' does sound simpler.”

“No apologies, Gwen, remember?” Ian reminded me playfully.

"Shit, I forgot! Sor—Dammit!” I blurted out, laughing at my own slip. “So, did your parents help out?”

“They did help, but they didn’t come over,” Ian explained. “They were overwhelmed at work with the end of the outbreak., and since I had plenty of assistance, we all agreed it would be counterproductive for them to come over and manage things. But they were incredibly supportive. We kept up with regular Zoom calls almost every night.”

“So, who did you end up picking as your nanny?” I asked, curious about his choice.

“Well, I went to an private Nexie Health Services agency. I spent over a week going through resumes and conducting interviews, before I finally settled on Amalia,” Ian replied.

I laughed, "Another woman! Ian, you do seem to enjoy being pampered by women," I teased. "Just so you know, if you ever insist, I make you a sandwich, I will drop-kick you like a football."

“Wow! You are so violent and rude!” Ian exclaimed, laughing heartily.

“Well, you know, it comes with the territory of being a giant bitch,” I retorted playfully. “So, what was Amalia like?”

“She was Swedish, very friendly, and outgoing. She had worked as an Au Pair before moving over towards becoming a Nexie aide.”

“So…was she pretty?”

Ian looked away embarrassed. “Yeah, she was.” He replied. “She was very tall, over six feet—not just tall, but fit. She was a track and field athlete in college,” Ian described.

“Of course, she was,” I replied mockingly, raising an eyebrow. “I bet she was blonde too.”

“Well, yeah,” Ian admitted, an embarrassed grin.

“No surprise there,” I said smirking. “So, tell me more about this Swedish Amazon Nexie nanny.”

“You sound jealous,” Ian sniffed, playfully.

“I’m not jealous,” I responded, feigning offense. “I just didn’t realize you had such a discerning eye for the ladies.”

“I’m just an all-American boy who appreciates beauty,” Ian replied grinning. “Is that so wrong?”

"No, you tiny little horn-dog, I guess not," I teased. "It’s just you must be such a simple creature! Soooo easily distracted."

“You really do sound jealous,” Ian shot back with a raised eybrow.

"Ugh, Ian, your story's starting to drag!" I exclaimed, rolling my eyes with mock irritation. "So, did she just float into your cottage like a giant Mary Poppins?"

“No, we met at the social worker’s office in Edinburgh. She was very pleasant and was genuinely happy to meet me. That same day, I also met with a realtor. We looked for a flat near the university. Staying at the cottage didn’t make any sense, and I needed a place with two bedrooms because Amalia was going to live with me part-time.”

“Wait.” I interrupted. “Was she there when we met?”

“No, Amalia had left a couple of weeks before we started our Zoom meetups,” Ian replied. “She was still my aide, we both decided that I no longer needed a live in assistant.”

“Okay…So Ian, did you ever actually need a live in assistant? It just seems a bit much.”

“Well, it’s another UK law, new Nexies under 76 centimeters require live-in assistance for the first three months. After that, they reassess to see if you still need it.

But, to answer your question… I suppose the answer is yes. Not so much physically, though. If things are within reach and not too heavy, I can manage just fine. But emotionally… yeah, I guess I did need the support," Ian admitted.

“Emotionally?”

"Yeah, emotionally," he said quietly. "Lollingdon had taught me so much; I felt so confident. But stepping back into my life turned out to be more challenging than I’d thought."

"So, what happened?"

"Oh, I guess you could say I developed a raging case of RAD and Depression," Ian replied sadly.

"RAD?"

"Reduction Adjustment Disorder," he clarified. "It's a mental health—"

"Oh, I know what that is," I interjected.

Ian's face brightened with surprise. "Oh, I forgot about your diversity classes. You really do seem to know quite a bit about Nexie issues," he remarked with a small smile.

I laughed, waving my hand dismissively. "I wouldn’t go that far, but yes, I did actually pay attention in class."

"Gwen, I know you didn’t do it for me, but I’m thankful you made the effort."

I brushed off the compliment grinning. “Ian, I’m an academia brat, being a lifelong student is in my blood” I explained, my smile broadening. "But you’re welcome. You’re actually the first Nexie I’ve ever really had this kind of conversation with. I'm learning more from you now than I ever could from a webinar." I paused, gathering my thoughts. "And since we're exchanging thanks, thank you for being so patient and generous. I’d be terrified of saying the wrong thing or coming off as ignorant if I was talking to anyone else."

Ian leaned forward, "You're nothing of the sort," he assured me. "I actually enjoy your curiosity. And your kindness, warmth, and humor—it's everything I've known you to be after knowing you all these months."

I looked down blushing and murmured a self-conscious "Thank you.” I looked at him, cheeks still red. “I guess this is a stupid question, but what sparked everything? I mean was it the overall return to the world of the 'Bigs' or something more specific that happened?”

Ian's eyes drifted away from mine, a melancholy look clouding them. "It was going back to my cottage," he confessed. "Amalia took me there to sort through my stuff and pack it up to ship back to the States. It’s odd, you know? For most Nexies, you get sick, then wake up in the hospital. You don’t actually experience the shrinking; you just wake up in this enormous world. I get that I shrunk, but it still felt like I was normal, just transported to a land of giants," he explained, his voice tinged with both wonder and confusion.

"Like 'Gulliver's Travels'?"

"Exactly!"

Ian’s mood darkened again and we both fell silent, the flickering candle between us casting playful shadows on the table. Ian, toyed with his food before speaking softly, almost as if to himself.

"The first two weeks out of the hospital were bizarre and overwhelming," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it wasn't until Amalia opened the door and helped me out of my car seat that it all became real. It wasn't some alien planet I had landed on. The world was the same; it was me who had changed—I was the alien now."

He paused, his eyes distant, lost in thought. "I just stood there, looking up at what now felt like a 30-foot door to this massive building that, only a few months ago, was just my small, cozy cottage. It was so disorienting; I got dizzy and collapsed."

"I’m sorry," I replied sadly. “That must have been very difficult."

Ian nodded. "Amalia got me back on my feet, and we sat on the stone stoop until my head stopped spinning. Then we went inside to start sorting and packing. Everything was just as I had left it, but now it all was scaled for someone four times my size. My clothes, my books, my laptop, even my Scotch collection, were out of reach or too heavy—or both. It felt like I was exploring an archaeological site of a long-lost civilization built for a giant version of myself."

Ian then laughed, but it was tinged with frustration. "I tried to help sort things out, really I did, but I was hopelessly outmatched by the enormity of the task and by Amalia’s sheer size. I was struggling to lift one shoe, and there she was, effortlessly grabbing larger, heavier things by the handfuls.

He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "You know, after spending months in the hospital, working on building muscle mass and strength, I felt invincible when I left. But once I was home, faced with the reality of my situation, my supposed strength seemed laughably puny and insufficient. It felt like all my efforts in rehab were just a cruel joke." Ian said bitterly. " I just watched Amalia glide effortlessly through the cluttered rooms, and it hit me that I was more underfoot than helpful. I found myself dodging her long legs and being totally astonished at how she just dominated what was to me this huge space. Before I knew it, and without asking, she lifted me high into the air and sat me down on the kitchen counter. I felt more like a useless ornament than a participant. She’d hold up various objects in her huge hands, each item a question: pack this, keep that? Sitting there, my feet dangling high off the floor, it dawned on me—my previous notions of normalcy were dissolving. I just felt alone and isolated. I wasn’t a Normie, I wasn’t a Big. I was a Nexie, a tiny, a nothing. "It was a strange realization," Ian admitted with a wistful tone, "feeling so tiny, almost like I was shrinking again."

"Ian, hold on… wait a second," I interrupted, the urgency in my voice betraying my feelings. "You don’t really believe that do you? That you’re a 'nothing'? Because that's the furthest thing from the truth!"

"No, Gwen, that's not how I feel now. I'm in a much better place. It was a dark chapter in my life, and bringing it up can stir up old, painful feelings, which is why I rarely discuss it. Besides," he added mischievously, "I prefer to see myself as an adventurous, bold Bon Vivant, not a sad soul wallowing in despair over being 18 inches tall."

I found myself laughing, charmed by his self-deprecating humor. "So, I guess that makes me your Majestueuse Belle Aventurière!"

He grinned, not missing a beat. "Well, if we're going there, I'd say you're more like a Colossale Intrépide Beauté."

"Jerk!" I shot back, feigning indignation. "I'm not 'massive'! Are you calling me fat again?"

Ian raised his hands defensively. "No way! I'd never call you fat!"

“Kidding,” I said, laughing. “I’m not sure about 'courageous' either, but thanks for the compliment.”

A hush fell over us as the laughter died. I was the first to break the silence, guiding us back to our previous conversation. " Really, Ian, we can stop..."

“I know Gwen, but I really want to.  I’ve never really talked to anyone about that time. Well, except my therapist…” Ian laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “Damn, I’m such a cliché, the emotionally fragile rich boy—my therapist this, my therapist that.”

“You don’t sound like that at all,” I protested. “Honestly, before tonight, I had no idea you even saw a therapist. You’ve never been the drama king. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been this calm, sensitive, and kind presence in my life. Ian, you’re my rock. I think you’ve earned the right to bring a little drama into my world.”

“Thank you, Gwen,” Ian said quietly. “No matter where things go from here, I want you to know how much it means to me that you’ve been so kind, letting me share... well, all of this.” He gestured to his tiny frame.

My eyes began to glisten with unshed tears. This man was opening to me in a way that felt so raw and vulnerable. It struck me deeply. Sure, maybe he had been a coward for hiding the fact that he’s an Opa, but now he was sharing everything— his insecurities, his fears, his weaknesses, and his pain. It wasn’t the usual front most guys put up, the mask of bravado to hide any hint of weakness. No, Ian was different. This took real courage. This is what I’ve always wanted from a man—emotional honesty—and Ian was giving it to me freely, without reservation. This is why I fell in love with him. Our journey from friends to something more had been seamless, his acceptance unwavering as I gradually let him into the deeper parts of my life. Every layer I peeled back, every part of me I revealed, he accepted without flinching. And he didn’t just accept me; he challenged me, nudged me when I needed it, always in the gentlest way.

Of course, there was the physical aspect. Ian is undeniably attractive, and I wanted him like crazy…or at least I did…or maybe... But our relationship was never about just looks. If Ian was just a pretty face and a fit body, we’d have never gotten this far. I fell in love with his mind, his heart. His body? Just a lovely bonus. Not that I don’t have my preferences, but it’s the other stuff that really matters to me.

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady myself. “Ian, of course. There’s no need to thank me. I love you.”

Ian looked up at me, with his own tears. I leaned in closer, my voice gentle but firm. "But there's something you need to know," I said, "if those old voices—those lingering ghosts—begin to murmur while you're opening up, saying things we both know aren't true, I won't stay silent. I will defend you... Because, Ian, in my eyes, you're absolutely amazing."

“I know Gwen. I can’t make any promises that those demons won’t make an appearance.”

“I get it,” I replied. “And I’m not asking you to hide anything or pretend they don’t exist. I just want you to know that I won’t let anything beat you down.” I paused and smiled. “Even if it’s you.”

Ian looked away, clearly embarrassed. “Wow, this is some date!” he exclaimed, trying to break the tension.

I giggled, nodding. "Well, you’ve definitely given us a lot to talk about. I’m realizing how clueless I am about transition issues. I never really grasped how emotionally devastating it is to be a newly reduced person...until now. I feel like such an ignorant 'Big.'" I replied with a wistful smile.

“You’re not ignorant,” Ian replied. “It’s hard to understand someone else’s struggles unless you’ve lived it. Like, I have no idea what it’s like to lose a parent, and I hope I won’t for a long time. I’m sure I’ve said stuff that sounds flippant or clueless from your perspective."

"Actually, I can’t say you have, or at least nothing I can remember,” I replied thoughtfully. "In fact, I’d say you’ve been incredibly sensitive... figuratively tiptoeing around that subject to be precise."

“Do you want me to say something insensitive?” Ian asked, grinning.

“No!” I exclaimed, laughing. “You’re terrible!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Ian said, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

As our laughter faded, I looked at Ian thoughtfully. "Ian, I’ve got to admit, I’m a little surprised. You made Lollingdon sound like such a positive place with so many resources. From what you’ve shared, I’d assume you were totally ready for anything."

Ian leaned back slightly. "You'd think so," he began thoughtfully. "But theory and reality are worlds apart. What I realized about Lollingdon is that it wasn’t reality. Maybe that’s a bit harsh. The care I got there was real, and it did help me. But it was an environment specifically designed for Nexies. The Bigs there were well-trained, they understood us, cared about us. They acknowledged that Nexies are people too. But out here, in the real world? Bigs are just people. They’re not therapists or doctors or any kind of Nexie care specialists. Some are kind, a few are cruel, but most don’t even notice us. And indifference from a giant can be deadly. Running into a distracted Big, or one having a bad day can be fatal. Being in a world with so many giants was both terrifying and isolating. I just had this overwhelming feeling I didn’t belong. This world from insect to mountain is scaled for giants.  I felt like a scared little mouse the first time I faced a busy street."

I stared at my plate, absentmindedly pushing my food around. "So," I said quietly, "maybe my childhood fears of shrinking weren’t so irrational after all."

"No, Gwen, of course not," Ian said earnestly. "Did you think I was implying that?"

"No, Ian, you didn’t," I sighed. "I just beat myself up for feeling that way and even worse for sharing that with you. I don’t know why. Stupid insecurities, I guess. I’m a coward too."

“You’re not a coward, Gwen. Nothing about being a Nexie is easy. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone,” He paused for a moment before sadly adding, “Not even if it meant we could be the same size.”

"Well, you're certainly braver than me," I replied, managing a small smile.

Ian laughed so hard he almost snorted the wine he’d just sipped from his straw. "Oh my God, Gwen! I’m the one who hid this from you for a year! If cowardice were a measure of height, I'd be 50 feet tall!"

I rolled my eyes. "Please! Facing a world of 24-foot giants is not the same as facing rejection."

"I beg to differ," Ian said with a smirk.

"Let's just agree we're both brave and promise not to call each other or ourselves cowards for the rest of this date," I said, laughing.

“So, are we adding this to the no apologies rule?”

“Sure, why not?” I said grinning.

"Hey, can we add 'wee idiot' to the list?" Ian asked mischievously.

"Nope," I said with a smirk.

"Why not?"

"Giant Girlfriend Veto," I teased, trying to keep a straight face.

"What?!" Ian exclaimed, looking up at me in mock disbelief.

"Giant Girlfriend Veto," I repeated, enjoying the moment. "The giant girlfriend can veto any rule, even after it's been agreed upon. The tiny boyfriend can appeal, but the final decision is hers."

"That's not fair!" Ian protested, a pout forming on his face. "Who made that up?"

"The Council of Giant Girlfriends," I said matter-of-factly. "I don't make the rules; I just follow them. Of course, you can challenge the veto with a thumb wrestling match if you dare." I sniffed, giving him my best imperious look.

When I finished, I felt guilty as I had once again gone too far. Was I being mean? I glanced at Ian, worried. But he was laughing.

"Wait, that was wrong," I said, feeling ashamed.

"What?" Ian asked, still chuckling.

"I apolo..." I stopped and shook my head. "I mean, I keep falling back on insensitive humor and I'm worried it's coming off wrong... I'm being a bully.'” I looked away, feeling awkward. "I'm still figuring out how to flirt with you," I confessed.

"That sounded a lot like an apology," Ian teased.

"Me?" I exclaimed. "I was just making an observation," I said innocently.

"Gwen, you're flirting with me the way you always have—playfully, teasingly, sarcastically. You just found something new to tease me about. I love our verbal sparring."

I blushed, meeting his gaze again. "I do too," I admitted shyly. "You're a very witty opponent."

"It's fine, Gwen, really."

"Okay, but Ian, if I ever go too far, please tell me. You know how I can run my mouth."

"I will," Ian replied solemnly.

I looked at Ian, my heart doing this weird little flip-flop thing for this tiny guy who, despite all logic, I was starting to think of as my boyfriend. The whole evening had been so surreal, but now in the most endearing way.  It felt like I was living in one of those offbeat, whimsical books I love to read. The kind where you can't help but smile at the quirks and twists of life. I was, on this date, feeling a strange mix of amusement and attraction for this pint-sized hottie. The thought of our physical differences and the unsolved puzzle of such a relationship were distant for now. I just wanted to soak up the joy of his company.

“We keep going back and forth,” I mused.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Our roller coaster,” I replied, leaning in. “It’s like we’re always riding this emotional wave, swinging from these deep, soul-baring revelations to playful teasing. One minute we're in tears, the next we’re laughing so hard it hurts. It’s thrilling, like a rush of adrenaline. But it’s so scary. I'm terrified I'll hurt you with my... umm... my ‘observations’, but you keep sticking with me.”

I paused, feeling the depth of my emotions.  “Ian, I really love being here with you.”

"Me too."

"Are you scared too?" I asked gently.

"Very," Ian admitted with a small smile.

“Don’t be,” I said, trying to soothe him. “We’ve had a thousand conversations… Okay, maybe not that many,” I added with a grin.  “But you know me…” My trailed off. I wanted to promise, "I'll never hurt you," but I knew better. Love always involves some pain, whether giving or receiving. It's in the fine print. The best one can do is press on and see where it goes. The journey could be short, or if you’re lucky and find the right person, hopefully forever. But one never knows until they try.

"Ditto," Ian replied. "You know me too."

I laughed, swirling my wine gently in its glass. "Well, not everything. Not yet. But we're getting there. So, back to your story. You left me on a cliffhanger about what happened next. I get now how difficult it was, returning to your old life. But you had Amalia. She must have been a great help in getting you through it, right?”

Ian looked at me with a furrowed brow and paused. "Well," he said finally, "my relationship with Amalia was... complicated."

I stared at him, my heart skipping a beat. "Complicated? What does that mean? Did she hurt you?" the words spilled out before I could think them through.

Images of Nexie abuse flashed through my mind. I'd read about it; it was just as real as child or elder abuse. The thought of someone hurting Ian, who I'd always seen as strong and athletic but now seemed so small and vulnerable, was jarring.

I tried to focus on the flickering candle between us instead of the whirlwind of emotions churning inside me. How could anyone hurt Ian? Just thinking about it made my blood boil. Then sadness hit me, followed by a wave of disappointment. Our roles had completely flipped, and it was dawning on me that I’d be his protector if we continued seeing each other. I'm not one to get hung up on traditional gender roles. Yet here I was, wrestling with the idea of becoming the protector for my tiny boyfriend. It felt strange, almost unsettling, to step into this unexpected role of champion for him. I wanted to feel taken care of too. This wasn’t how I pictured things. It was a strange, uncomfortable shift, and I found myself wondering if I was ready for this new dynamic.

"No, no!" Ian quickly responded. "Amalia was never like that. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. I never saw her get angry. She was always so kind and patient. You could tell she'd spent a lot of time caring for kids."

"So, what was it then?" I asked, leaning closer.

Ian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "This is so hard to explain," he said, looking down. I stayed quiet, not wanting to push him. After a long pause, he finally continued.

"I don’t think Amalia ever really saw me as an adult," Ian confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What?" I asked, confused. "I mean, yeah, you’re a Nexie, but you’re clearly an adult."

He sighed deeply. "She didn’t actively treat me like a child. It wasn't like she spoke down to me or anything like that," he explained. "But she had this way about her. It’s difficult to put into words. She’d just do things without checking with me first. If I was in the way, she’d move me aside. And if we had a disagreement, especially about my safety, she'd just ignore me and do what she thought was best."

I gave Ian a sympathetic look. "You'd think with all her training and certification, she'd be more sensitive."

"Yeah, you’d think so," Ian nodded, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "But there was more to it than that..." He paused, looking a bit embarrassed. "Gwen, I believed that Amalia didn’t see me as a man either. There was just something off..."

I tilted my head, genuinely puzzled. “What? Why would you think that?"

"Well, she’d just walk around in her underwear," Ian explained. "In the mornings, I’d be having breakfast in the kitchen, and she’d stroll in wearing this skimpy cutoff t-shirt and a thong, grab a coffee, and chat with me like it was the most normal thing in the world."

I raised an eyebrow, trying to understand. “I don’t see how that proves she didn’t think of you as a man. I mean, she’s Swedish. A lot of Europeans have a more relaxed view of nudity than we do.”

"Yeah, I know Gwen. But sometimes, she’d come into the bathroom while I was showering, just to check on me or see if I needed anything."

"So, she was your aide, right? Ian, I don't mean to sound dismissive, but are you sure you're not overthinking this?"

"I do now, but it took me a while to understand why I felt that way."

"I totally get it. I'd be mortified if a stranger barged in on me while I was showering. But, I guess I'm a bit confused about what her role was. I keep picturing her as a nurse, though I can't imagine why you'd need one. It's all just so confusing to me. Anyway, sorry for interrupting. I can see how you hated the lack of privacy. Plus, with you being a Deadender and all, adapting to having a giant in your personal space must have been really hard."

"Yeah, it really was. The apartment wasn’t renovated with any Nexie accommodations, but I didn’t need help bathing. I don’t think she meant any harm; I think her thoughtlessness was just her experience being around little kids. That’s what really annoyed me. I think sometimes Amalia would unconsciously slip back into her old au-pair role, treating me like one of the kids she used to look after. Like the whole issue we had about going outside."

"Going outside?"

"Yeah, that became a conflict between us. So, before I left the hospital, the City Council passed an ordinance regulating the size of scooters on the sidewalks. Nexies were using scooters scaled for them but easily overlooked by Bigs. They were zipping around underfoot, causing accidents, and even a few deaths. As such, the council banned anything under three feet. That left most of us with our aides and Nexie strollers. Gwen, they look exactly like baby strollers, and I wasn't about to be treated like a baby."

I covered my mouth, trying to suppress a giggle. Ian noticed and smiled too. I was about to apologize but remembered our rule and just shrugged.

Ian laughed. "Well, it is kind of funny. Oh, the little daily indignities we face," he said with a sad smile. "Anyway, we went round and round. I wanted to walk, and she just flat out said no."

"Ian, babe," I began gently. "You do understand she had a point, right? I mean, if Bigs were tripping over and squishing scooters, they could certainly do that to you, and..." I paused, before admitting, "and…well…Ian, you’re so slow. It would have taken you two forever to get anywhere at your pace." I looked at him earnestly, hoping he wouldn't take it the wrong way. "I'm not trying to be mean, just honest."

"I get it," Ian confessed, his eyes flickering with a mix of frustration and resignation. "I just didn't like it. It wasn't that she was mean, just...unyielding. Once she made up her mind, that was it. No room for discussion or argument. If I had an appointment, she'd scoop me up, strap me in, and off we'd go. The worst part..." Ian hesitated, the memory clearly irking him. "The worst part was being stuck on a sidewalk. Depending on her whims, she’d stop to window shop or chat with a friend. She was super popular, always running into people she knew." Ian rolled his eyes. "She'd just leave me parked on the side, often facing a wall or a passerby’s knee, just an itty-bitty man in a stroller. Sometimes she'd even gently push it back and forth like she was trying to rock me to sleep or something."

"Oh, Ian, that sounds awful," I said, feeling genuinely sorry for him.

"I'm making her sound worse than she is," Ian admitted, a hint of guilt in his voice. "She's just... a “Big”. I’m lucky, honestly. I've heard stories about how Minis are treated. Anyway, I confronted her about the stroller thing, and she did apologize and promised to be more considerate. But then..." Ian let out a bitter laugh. "We’re heading to a doctor’s appointment, and she stops to look at a dress. She takes me out of the stroller and holds me against her hip..."

"Like a baby," I said softly, understanding the indignity.

"Like a baby," Ian nodded, his expression a mix of exasperation and acceptance.

Ian stared at his plate, sighing heavily as he randomly poked at his pasta, nibbling on a piece with a faraway look in his eyes. I shifted my attention to my own meal, trying to give him some space. It was clear he was grappling with something, something he was hesitant to share. Honestly, I was dying to know what he was leaving out, but I cared about him too much to push him into discussing something painful.

“Ian, sweetie. Seriously, if you don’t want to talk…”

“I know, Gwen, but in for a penny in for a pound. If I’m going to start, I might as well finish.”

“Okay,” I replied softly, “Take your time. I promise, no judgment.” Though, I wasn’t entirely sure about that promise. But I had a feeling this was more about something that had happened to him than something he had done.

Ian looked up at me nervously, taking a deep breath. "Gwen, I'm about to share things no man is really comfortable discussing with a woman, much less a Nexie with a Big."

I looked at Ian with concern. “Okay. From your tone, I’m guessing you’re about to take me down a path where you felt weak and small. Maybe more dark doubts about being a man? Ian, I couldn't care less about these silly concepts of alpha and beta males and ridiculous rules that a man never show weakness. Everyone has moments when they’re weak, times when they need someone to lean on. You have a disability, Ian. That doesn’t mean you’re not a man and I certainly don’t want a man who feels he must pretend to be strong all the time to be worthy of me. So, you wee idiot,” I added with a touch of affection, “Why would I ever think less of you just because you struggled through your transition.”

"I know," Ian replied, sounding unconvinced.

"But do you really know it here?" I asked, gently tapping my chest.

"Sure," he mumbled.

No, Ian," I interrupted softly. "Feel it here. There's no judgment. It's just me. I know I keep repeating this, but truly, you can tell me anything."

"Fine!" Ian exclaimed, throwing his tiny hands up in exasperation. "You jerk, you're making this way easier than I expected! But next time, it's your turn to spill some dark, gut-wrenching secrets!"

"Wow!" I laughed, leaning back in my chair. "Who’s being rude now, you little twerp?" My laughter faded into a more serious tone before I admitted my own truth. "Ian, I might not have had as many adventures as you, but you've seen me at my absolute worst. You were there for me when my dad died. You were there when I had that heart scare. And Ian, I never told anyone this, but you were there when I felt like I didn't have a single friend in the world. In so many ways, you're more than any girl could ever ask for in a boyfriend.” I took a deep breath, trying to convey how much he meant to me. "So, whether you want to keep talking about this or if you'd rather stop because it's too much. It's all okay."

Ian gave me a tender smile. “I was happy to be there for you, Gwen. I hope you know you can come to me for anything as well. “

“I do. You know I do.”

“Well, I guess I should get on with it," Ian started, taking a deep breath. "When Amalia picked me up, it wasn't just that she was treating me like a baby. There was something more to it."

“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning in closer.

Ian sighed, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Bigs are sexually overwhelming to us,” he confessed, blushing furiously as if revealing a great secret.

I stared at him, utterly perplexed. “What?” The confusion must have been written all over my face.

“Umm…Bigs are…well, your kind has a sexual energy that…umm… Nexies find very distracting,” he stammered, looking even more mortified.

“What?” I echoed, even more bewildered.

Ian’s embarrassment was palpable, and I made a mental note to slow down and give him space to explain.

"Alright, let's start with the basics. Humans are only slightly dimorphic," Ian began, sounding like a professor giving a lecture. "Biologically, men and women differ in body build, height, voice pitch—the works."

"I'm with you so far," I said, nodding.

"But those differences regardless of how we look are actually very minor. Humans are generally well-suited for each other. There are variations, of course, with gender and other factors, but basically, we have evolved to be sexually attracted to those of roughly the same size. We have everything needed for that task, no more, no less."

"Okay..."

"Unfortunately for  Nexies, particularly the ones of us who are below two feet, our size makes us way out of synch with everyone else.  For us, everything about a Big is, in a sense, scaled beyond what we can handle..." Ian paused and shook his head. "Wait, that's not what I meant. Of course, mixed-sized people can have sex. It's just..." He stopped, looking flustered. "I'm making a mess of this."

I placed my hands in my lap and leaned forward, giving him a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, Ian. No pressure, ‘member?” Inside, I was a whirl of confusion and questions, but I knew bombarding him with them now would only make things worse. The obvious and unsettling realization hit me—am I too much for him…like sexually? What does that even mean? Would it be too much for him if I just casually touched him?

Ian glanced up at me, still looking a bit flustered but more at ease. "Thanks, Gwen. I can tell you're puzzled and worried, thanks for giving me some room. This is…uh…very hard to discuss.

"Of course."

"Gwen, what I'm trying to say is, that because of the sheer scale of a Big’s, well… 'charms,' Nexies can get aroused by normal everyday interactions with Bigs. Especially being handled... or more like mishandled. It can be extremely uncomfortable and dehumanizing."

"Okay, that weirdly makes sense," I said, pausing to gather my thoughts. "But you've brought up something that I need to understand. So, Ian, are you saying that right now, tonight, being with me in person, I'm just too…much for you…like sexually?"

Ian looked away, his eyes fixing on the wall behind our table. "Well, yes..." he murmured shyly. I stared at him, trying to process this. Okay, I thought, I'm not going to apologize for something my body is evidently just... doing.

"Okaaay.” I said truly alarmed. “Ian, so help me out with this. Are you okay? Am I making you uncomfortable? Does it hurt?"

Ian looked at me dreamily. "No, Gwen, not at all. It's different when a Nexie is with a Big they desire. It's a huge rush, like being on a thrill ride at a park."

“Ahh... I see,” I said, giggling. I pictured myself towering over Ian, wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini, with him basking blissfully under me as if I was a majestic sexy tree.

"So, let's say hypothetically," I emphasized the word "hypothetically" because, at this moment, the idea of sex between us was only just imaginable to me. "If I'm just going about my day, doing laundry or something, and I accidentally brush against you, or..." I smirked, "if I'm sitting at the table with my laptop, legs crossed, and at your size... a foot right at eye level. Is it safe to assume you’d be in a state of Nexie ecstasy, just this horny little Opa looking up at me?  And let’s say I'm totally preoccupied and not in the mood. Are you able to behave, and leave me alone? Can you stay focused, or would I be too distracting?"

Ian's eyes met mine with a serious intensity. "Well, Gwen, what do you think? I've been feeling this way almost the entire evening. How do you feel about my behavior?"

“You’ve been nothing but a perfect little gentleman,” I conceded. “I just needed to know, because I can’t tell you how annoying it is to deal with the pressure of being pestered for sex. There have been times I just wanted to pull out my hair and scream!  But...” I added with a sniff, casually waving my hand dismissively, “I guess with you, I could just pop you in a timeout box.”

“Huh, a timeout box? Ian said thoughtfully. “I think I could accept that for the crime of sex pestering. Does it have a TV and other things to keep me entertained?” He asked with a wry smile.”

 I looked at him disapprovingly and tsked. “Of course, not Ian. It’s a timeout box.” I exclaimed mock scoldingly. “It’s supposed to be a punishment. How can it be a punishment if you want to be there?” Ian looked at me trying to stifle a laugh. I was only able to hold my stern expression for a few moments before breaking into laughter myself.

“Jerk!” I said, still laughing. “Wanting a TV in your timeout box!”

I raised my hands, feigning innocence, a mischievous grin spreading across my face. "Just kidding. I’d never put you in a box, silly."

“I know that, Gwen,” Ian replied, as if stating the obvious.

"So, you're in control and not like a tiny zombie starving for brains?" I teased.

"Exactly," Ian nodded.

"It still sounds exhausting."

“Eh, it’s more like background noise. It’s easy to ignore most of the time, but when…”

"When Amalia picked you up... that was different," I finished for him, my curiosity tinged with concern. "I'm sorry."

Ian nodded. "Yeah, it was."

"Wait a second," I said, my eyes widening as I pieced it together. "You said Áine picked you up and hugged you... Oh my God, and I picked you up too, to put you in your chair! Do you get aroused whenever a woman picks you up?"

Ian chuckled. "No, Gwen. It depends on the situation. Generally, I’m not a fan of being picked up and handled—it feels way too intrusive.  But it’s not something in most settings that causes me to get …well let’s just say “overstimulated”. With Áine and everyone else at the center—from guests to staff—are taught to seek consent, to respect everyone's physical and emotional space, and to set appropriate boundaries. Áine always asked my permission. Her hugs were wonderful, but always very chaste. I never thought of them as anything more than just this beautiful emotional and physical force…like being wrapped in joy. I guess you could call it…'healing'. As for you..." Ian trailed off, blushing slightly, and looking away.

I smiled, understanding the unspoken confession. "Ian, it's okay. This is a date, and I'm your girlfriend. I'd be disappointed if there weren't any sparks."

"Earlier, I was just your 'friend,'" Ian replied, half joking, half serious.

I laughed, shaking my head. "Well, that giant ginger was a horrible bitch. Who was she anyway?"

"I have no idea!" Ian laughed. "I'm glad she's gone."

"Me too," I agreed, my smile fading as I returned to the earlier topic. "So, about Amalia, what she did was different, right?"

“Yeah, it was” Ian said. “It was late summer, and Edinburgh was in the middle of a scorching heatwave. The air was thick and humid, very much like Virginia. Amalia, like every other young woman in the city, was almost exclusively wearing shorts and tank tops.

So that moment when she scooped me up with her massive hands encircling my waist… using only one hand as a makeshift seat, cupping my ass…”  Ian paused and looked away, then at his lap, clearly unable to meet my gaze.  “And…umm one finger placed between my thighs” he continued with a shaky voice. “…Her arm squishing my face against her glistening chest…  Gwen, being that way held by a stunningly beautiful Big like that—I felt, well… completely powerless." Ian's voice trembled with a mix of sadness and humiliation.

"It sounds like assault," I replied, my voice sharp with anger.

Ian sighed, looking thoughtful. "You know, I might agree with you if she was getting some sort of thrill, like if she was... fondling me or something," he said. But it wasn’t like that at all. She obviously remembered my complaint about being left in the stroller and assumed picking me up was the only other option. That was the worst part, really. She was on Au Pair autopilot, totally absorbed in window shopping. She had no idea what she was doing or how it made me feel. She didn’t even look down at me when I complained. She just swayed her hips like I was a fussy baby. That was the crux of it. Amalia didn’t see me as a man. It was so…” Ian trailed off, struggling to voice that one word.

“Emasculating?” I finished for him sadly.

"Yes," he confessed. "I was just sitting there, feeling tiny in the palm of her hand.  I don’t think she was even aware, but she was absentmindedly playing with me, one finger shifting dangerously close to my crotch. I didn’t mean to, but I immediately had a huge erection.  I just felt this overwhelming need being pressed to her massive breasts."

Ian's face was beet red, clearly horrified as he made this humiliating confession to me. A woman, he truly loved. It was like a trust fall. This tiny man was putting the weight of his guilt and admission of his arousal in my hands. I could see the tension in his hunched posture, almost wincing, as if expecting me to cruelly crush him with judgment or laughter for having what was clearly an involuntary reaction.

“Gwen,” he whispered, his voice so low it was almost inaudible, “I wanted her so badly, and I felt this utter humiliation knowing that in her eyes I was this tiny asexual creature, and what I thought my obvious desire for her to be totally beneath her notice.” He looked drained, on the verge of a panic attack, his shame exposed before me.

"Ian... Ian... hey sweetie, come back to me." My voice was gentle, coaxing him back from where his memories had taken him. "You're safe. I'm right here. No judgment." I paused, searching for the right words. "I know it's such a cliché, and I always feel like smacking people when they tell me to do this but do this for me—just breathe."

I waited, watching as he slowly calmed down, his breaths evening out. "Ian, what you just did was incredibly brave." I whispered, my eyes filling with tears. I silently scolded myself for getting emotional, but then I realized those tears were for him—for his act of trusting me. It was such a precious gift, his vulnerability.

"I know that was really hard," I said softly. "It takes so much courage to admit something so personal, especially a man trying to impress a girl. "Trust me, I understand men... or at least I like to think so," I said with a subtle smile. "And let me be clear—you are definitely a man. I know a lot of men wouldn't dare to do what you just did. And sadly, there are many women —shallow, stupid women— out there who can't handle that kind of honesty and vulnerability.

I paused, giving him a reassuring smile. "But I'm not one of them. Ian, that was real, and I respect you so much for it. Thank you for trusting me."

"Gwen…" Ian began, his voice tiny but earnest.

"Ian, just let me finish, okay?" I interrupted gently. "I’m overflowing with these intense emotions, and I need to get them out." I took a deep breath, feeling as vulnerable as he looked. "Look, Ian, I know tonight started off really rough between us, and I asked…well demanded an explanation for why you hid being an Opa. I wasn’t sure why you wanted to tell me your pandemic story, but I’m beginning to see how all of this is interconnected.  I can see that you’ve needed to share this all along and I am profoundly grateful that you're giving me your raw, unfiltered experiences.  I don’t know if you’ve moved past this, but I can tell from our past months together that what happened to you hasn’t kept you from being this totally charming, lovely, intelligent boyfriend I have always dreamed about. You are… I know I keep saying it, but you are truly an amazing man. That’s why I fell in love with you.”

A single tear slipped down my cheek, and I silently pleaded, Please, God, help me hold it together. "I know this is easier said than done, but you shouldn’t beat yourself up or feel guilty for what happened to you."

“Ian, if this had happened to me, if a giant picked me up and started rubbing me between my thighs, I can't imagine how scared I would be. Even if I didn't want it, my panties would undoubtedly be soaked and wet. "It's just a natural reaction," I said, trying to steady my voice. "What you went through has always been my worst NexVID nightmare. Just the thought of being helplessly fondled by a giant... it terrifies me." I shivered, as my fingers curled tightly around the stem of my wine glass.

My fear morphed into a simmering anger as I thought about what Ian had gone through. "Maybe Amalea didn't intend to, maybe she wasn't even aware of what she was doing. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was sexual assault, and none of it was your fault."

A wave of protectiveness surged within me, surprising in its intensity. "Honestly," I continued, feeling my voice edge into a sharper, almost lilting tone, "I want to hop on a plane, find wherever the Hell she's hidin’, and beat the shit out of her."

I paused, realizing the shift in my speech. That mountain twang had crept in, a familiar echo of my hillbilly roots and the fierce, vengeful spirit of my Scotch-Irish ancestors. It sometimes emerged when emotions ran high—when anger and the need for justice roiled within me.

"Listen, Ian, one more thing. If you start apologizin’ because I’m cryin’ or reckon it's your fault that I'm upset, I swan, I’ll scoop you up and do something only a giant could manage… And no, don’t even ask what that is!"

Ian looked up at me wiping the tears from his eyes and started laughing, “You sound like you just sauntered into town from  a cabin on the Blue Ridge. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of you.”

I narrowed my brows and pursed my lips. “Hush you! You poke fun at my people, I’ll beat your ass too!”

Ian reacted to my threat by doubling over and laughing even harder before finally raising his hands in surrender. "Why, Gwendolyn McCauley, I’d never mock your kin!" he said, trying to catch his breath and adopting an exaggerated Southern drawl. "And I reckon I don’t want an ass whuppin’ either."

Ian’s laughter was infectious, and I started as well. I could feel the anger leaving my body.  "Not bad, Ian. Almost convincing.”

I was embarrassed at my inadvertent code-switching slip but amused as well. I took a long sip of my wine to regain my composure.

"See, much better," I responded in my academic young professional voice. “Sorry about that, I tend to channel my grandma when I’m pissed"

“I don’t know about that,” Ian replied still grinning, “I liked Mountain Gwen.”

I rolled my eyes playfully. "Oh, right, I forgot. You’ve got a thing for girls with accents. I bet you’d love to see me in Daisy Dukes, a bikini top, and flip-flops," I teased, leaning into the sexy country girl stereotype.

"Well, I wouldn't complain," Ian said with a laugh.

"Well, maybe you'll get lucky," I replied seductively. I was about to launch into a new line of suggestive teasing, when I caught myself and looked away, embarrassed. Glancing back at Ian, it was clear he’d picked up on my flirtation. I sighed, feeling the turmoil within me. How do I really feel about this man?

"I keep bouncing from one thing to another," I admitted, blushing.

"It's okay, Gwen. I kinda needed the emotional break," he said, looking relieved.

“Me too,” I agreed.

I'd picked the worst possible moment to flirt with him. Ian had just confessed, with tears in his eyes, that he'd been accidentally sexually assaulted by a woman my size. I struggled with the word "accidentally" in this context. An accidental sexual assault. I believed Ian; I didn’t think Amalia had any intention of fondling him. Ian didn’t want to be in a stroller, and it was too dangerous for him on a busy sidewalk, so she picked him up and held him like a baby. Even though Ian isn’t a Mini, he’s small enough that a woman could accidentally touch him inappropriately. I’ve held enough squirming babies to know I was more worried about dropping one than where my hands were. But surely, she was trained in safely handling Nexies to avoid such things. I couldn't understand how she could be certified and still not know something so basic as treating a Nexie like an adult.

"Ian, why didn’t you report and fire Amalia?" I asked, clearly puzzled. “I mean, it doesn’t sound like she had any training.”

Ian sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "Gwen, I know you have strong feelings about her, but there's more to the story. Like I said, my relationship with Amalia is complicated.”

"Ian, this seems pretty straightforward," I argued.

"I see what you're saying, Ian," I admitted. "You must have felt really intimidated."

Ian nodded, his small frame looking fragile in the soft light. "Yes, I was, and I'm not ashamed to admit it," he said firmly. "Not that I had anything to fear from Amalia, but still, it took time. Even now, with all the experience and practice of living with Bigs, I'm still mindful about who I choose to confront or have an argument with.

“Ian, I understand but it sucks that you didn’t have anyone in your corner to help you with her behavior. What about your therapist?

The Rehab center had found me a therapist but shortly after I moved to Edinburg he fell through due to a “personal emergency”. So due to the demand, we couldn’t find one. Even the ones not specializing in Nexie issues were booked. I found one with a waiting list which was the only solution. So, Amalia was my only support.” Ian said.

I looked at Ian mouth agape. I was shocked to learn that he was basically trapped alone with his aide. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t malicious, but she was certainly clueless and Ian from what he told me was in a fragile state emotionally. How many other Nexies were in similar situations? What if she was truly abusive? How could he even call anyone for help? “Did you tell your parents? What about your Social Worker?”

Ian looked at me incredulously, “Tell them what Gwen? That my Nexie Nanny picked me up and I had an orgasm?”

“I get your point. But you certainly could have talked to your Social Worker.” I said with frustration.

“She came by for a site visit every three months, and Amalia sent her weekly reports and I never said anything Look Gwen, in almost every way she was a great aide! It was just issues with communication.”

“But Ian…”

"Gwen," Ian interjected. "I have to take some of the blame here. I hadn’t thought through all the challenges of returning to my life. Most people who left the hospital had family and friends waiting for them. I was trying to do it all on my own—finding an apartment, managing my affairs in a world of giants and going back to school in a foreign country with only a few online classmates I hadn’t seen in months."

Okay, okay, I get it. I just don't get why you're defending her. It feels like... well, like something out of an abusive relationship. Can you blame me for worrying about you?"

"I know, Gwen. I really do appreciate your concern. If our roles were reversed, I'd be just as worried and angry. But everything will make more sense once you hear the whole story."

I leaned in closer, my eyes focused on his. "Okay, so tell me how did this end? It just seemed like you were spiraling, that your transition was falling apart."

"I was," Ian admitted. "I hit rock bottom, and then... Amalia saved me."

 Ian stood, taking a slow sip from the straw in his oversized wine glass. I watched him, my chest heavy with emotions I couldn’t quite name. I tried to imagine how the world looked through his eyes—trying to drink wine from a four-foot straw, the glass itself over three feet tall. Even half-filled, it held enough wine to serve thirty, maybe forty people his size. I was just guessing, but the sheer absurdity of it struck me. The practical differences between us were staggering.

He looked so small, struggling with that straw. Despite being fit, he couldn’t simply lift the glass to his lips the way I could. To him, it must have seemed like a stock tank on my grandma’s farm—massive, unwieldy—while to me, it was nothing more than a delicate prop, something I could hold effortlessly, wave absentmindedly in my fingers. Watching him wrestle with it, I felt a sharp pang of something I hated to acknowledge—pity. Even now, even when all I wanted was to see him as my equal.

I’d just finished my first glass when I caught him looking at me. And I wondered—how did he see me? Could he even take me all in? From a distance, maybe. If he stood on a table or a chair. But up close? I must have been overwhelming—legs thick as tree trunks, feet half his height, the rest of me stretching so far above him that I must have seemed more like a tower than a woman.

I knew, deep down, that he was trying to prove something—to me, to himself. His worth, maybe. His ability to belong with me. That he could live in my world, keep up. But he never really could—not physically. The only way he could was if I shrank myself down, softened my steps, made myself small. And yet, how could I do that? How could I hold back when every instinct in me screamed to throw myself at him, wrap him in my arms, pull him close? How could I love him the way I wanted to without breaking him?

That didn’t mean I didn’t want him in my life—just that our realities were so fundamentally different. I was his Glumdalclitch, and he was my Gulliver. Maybe not quite as extreme, but the divide felt just as impossible to bridge.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how naturally I had slipped into Ian’s perspective—not that he had shrunk, but that the world had expanded. Or maybe it had always been this way, two separate worlds existing side by side—one where giants like me existed. By that logic, I wasn’t on a date with a man who barely reached my knee. No, Ian was on a date with a twenty-three-foot woman. Twenty-four and a half, if we were counting these heels. And yet, somehow, he was in my world. But if I stepped into his, I could see it so clearly—striding powerfully down the street, taller than an apple tree, catching my reflection in second-story windows, stepping over traffic or nudging a car aside like it was a toy. Maybe I could even lift one if I really tried.

I shouldn’t have liked that as much as I did. The idea of being a giant. A real giant. The word itself felt ridiculous, like something out of a fairy tale. But there it was—giant meant power. And not the kind of power women usually talk about. We talk about intelligence, success, status—the kinds of power we’ve had to fight for. The power that comes from money, from knowledge, from ambition. But not this kind. Not physical power. Not the raw, undeniable strength that men have always wielded over us. The kind that lets them pin you down with nothing but muscle, that makes you feel small even when you’re not.

We’re not supposed to want that. Not even a little. We’re supposed to be delicate, feminine, craving protection. But sitting there, looking down at Ian in his highchair, I felt something else entirely—the weight of something unspoken, something I wasn’t supposed to acknowledge.

But what happens when the balance shifts? When power—real, physical power—rests in my hands instead of his? That’s not a question women are meant to ask, not a dynamic we’re taught to explore. And yet, here I was, staring at Ian, feeling that reality settle into me in ways I never expected.

And this power—my power—wasn’t about dominance or control. It wasn’t about making him feel small. It was simply there, undeniable, woven into the fabric of our every interaction. And maybe that was the strangest part. I wasn’t imagining it, not conjuring up some fantasy of strength—I was living it.

And that’s when it hit me.

Even when we have power, a man is supposed to have more for it to feel right. Even if we’re strong, the right man is meant to be stronger. That’s just how it works. And sure, I’ve felt the awkwardness of being the tallest woman in the room, of standing next to a six-foot guy in heels and realizing I was looking down at him.

But with Ian, there was no pretending. No illusions. In his eyes, I wasn’t just tall—I was a giant. Not just bigger, but faster, stronger, more.

It should turn me off completely. And mostly, it does.

But not entirely.

Because there are moments—just small flickers—when I liked it.

So fine. I’ll play along. I’ll be the twenty-three-foot woman on a date with a six-foot man, letting him pretend, for both our sakes, that this world is built for me. That he’s only small because everything else is big. It’s ridiculous, obviously. But maybe there’s something in it—something fun, something I don’t quite understand yet, something I’m not ready to admit I might like.

I blinked, suddenly aware of how far I’d drifted, lost in thoughts that had nothing to do with the man standing right in front of me. Ian let out a deep sigh, not meeting my eyes, his own mind just as far away. I watched him, really looked, trying to understand what he was feeling. But it was like looking through fog.

It seemed better to endure the silence, to give Ian a little space—just a few more moments to sort through whatever was going on in his head. I took a small bite of my beef and truffles, letting the rich flavors ground me, offering a brief distraction. My fingers curled around the stem of my wine glass, swirling the deep burgundy liquid as if it might hold the answers I couldn’t find.

"Rock bottom."

The phrase lingered between us, heavy in the air, a stark echo of the story he had just shared. We were at that part now—the darkest part of his past. Though honestly, it felt like there could have been so many moments that fit that description. It was hard to reconcile the man sitting across from me—so composed, so put-together—with the depth of pain he had lived through.

There was so much he had kept hidden from me.

The man I thought I knew had endured a life that was anything but easy—ten years of isolation, fighting a battle he was always destined to lose. And after everything—all the sacrifices he and his parents had made, all the desperate efforts to keep him safe—he still ended up only seven inches taller than a Ken doll. I couldn’t begin to imagine the bitterness, the sense of defeat, the frustration of a decade spent fighting for an outcome that never came.

And yet, after all of it, this was the moment—the time of his transition—when he described himself as having hit “rock bottom.”

I studied him across the table, searching for some clue in his expression—something that might tell me how he truly felt about it all. Not just about the past, but about this—about us, here, now. Had I underestimated the weight of it, the sheer emotional gravity of stepping out of the world he had known and into this one, where expectations and reality had no choice but to collide?

And then, of course, there was my own expectation.

This date, I thought, shaking my head with a mix of amusement and frustration. I had built it up as the grand finale of our long virtual romance, the moment where our online fairy tale would seamlessly merge into reality. But here we were—no filters, no fantasy—just the unvarnished truth of who we really were.

I had been pretty upfront about myself. Ian… not so much. His version of honesty had come with a bit more artistic license. But I wasn’t angry anymore. The frustration had faded, replaced by the quiet realization that I needed to figure out how to reconcile my feelings for him—and soon.

Before tonight, I thought I had Ian all figured out. But it turns out, I didn’t really know him at all. And not just because I had pictured some tall, strong guy and instead found myself sitting across from someone barely taller than a bottle of wine.

But that wasn’t what really threw me.

It was realizing that beneath all the charm and confidence, Ian carried wounds of his own. Scars, invisible yet heavy, weighing on him just as much as mine did on me.

I had always seen Ian as my rock. And he still was, in so many ways. But now, I saw something I hadn’t before—his fragility. The cracks beneath the surface. And if we were going to keep moving forward, I would have to be his rock too.

But even after everything he had shared, after peeling back the layers of his pain, I looked at him—this tiny man with that funny, high-pitched voice, spilling his story of being lost in a giant world—and realized something important.

At his core, Ian hadn’t changed.

His wit, his kindness, his humor, his wisdom, his love—it was all still there. He might not be the tall, strong man I once imagined, but the essence of him, the parts that truly mattered? That was still Ian.

And that was still the man I had fallen for.

I set my glass down, absentmindedly tracing the rim, wearing a wry smile. I could already imagine how my friends would react if they knew.

They’d call me naïve, tell me I was being ridiculous for believing Ian’s story. They’d say I deserved better, that he wasn’t even in the same league as me. And, honestly? They wouldn’t be wrong to question it. Ian had broken every unspoken rule of dating—he had lied, kept this colossal physical secret from me. Or, well, tiny secret. Being eighteen inches tall isn’t exactly something you can just gloss over, especially given what it means for any semblance of a “normal” relationship—let alone the logistics of physical intimacy.

And then there was the emotional baggage—the confessions, the tears, the trauma dumping. All the red flags they’d say point to a weak man who doesn’t deserve me.

But here’s the thing: I asked for this conversation. I wanted to know why. And that meant hearing everything, even the messy parts. I could’ve walked away when I found out the truth. But I didn’t.

My friends would have cheered if I had. Probably with some quip about how he’s a tiny man, too little for a tall girl like me.

But in this new reality, that’s a ridiculous argument—especially considering how the pandemic hit men so much harder than women. Some of us Amazons are going to have to take one for the team and, well… adjust our expectations.

But that’s not what they’d focus on. The real issue, the one they’d latch onto, is that they’d see Ian as a lying, emotional wreck—completely unworthy of my time and affection.

And maybe they were right.

Or maybe they were missing the point entirely.

Because for all his flaws, for all the ways this relationship defied logic—I still loved Ian.

"Rock Bottom, huh?" I said, finally breaking the silence that had settled over us like a heavy blanket.

Ian looked up at me, his small figure perched on the edge of his makeshift chair of stacked books and nodded. “Rock Bottom,” he repeated, his voice heavy with memory.

“And the giant blonde bitch—who, by the way, I still want to strangle—saved you?”

"That's not really fair, but... yeah," he admitted.

I leaned in closer, resting my chin on my hands, trying to temper the lingering anger simmering under my words. "How did she manage that?"

Ian’s brow furrowed, and he looked at me, a mix of confusion and concern in his eyes.

I shook my head, feeling a flush of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Ian. I’m still working through my feelings about her. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

He offered a small, understanding smile. “No apologies, remember?”

“Yes, Ian, I remember.” I sighed, swallowing the urge to apologize again. “It’s just… ‘sorry’ feels like a reflex at this point. Old habits, you know?”

“I get it,” he said softly, his voice full of understanding.

“Anyway, what happened? It sounded like you were in a really dark place.”

“I was,” Ian admitted.

 “I wish I could’ve been there for you,” I said, feeling the weight of his pain. “I know what that kind of darkness feels like. It’s awful. For me, it felt like floating in a black void, completely numb—like I was hollow, not even real anymore. Everything lost its color, and the pain… it was so deep, I could feel it in my bones.”

“That’s exactly it,” Ian replied, his tiny voice echoing my own pain. “I was a mess. I just…shut down. Stopped going out, stopped taking care of myself. I just…stopped.”

“What about Amalia?” I asked, curiosity creeping into my voice.

“She was worried. Really worried,” Ian began, his voice quieter. “She kept being her usual bubbly self, always trying to get me to talk, but I just shut her out like I did with everything else.”

“That’s… pretty impressive,” I replied, raising an eyebrow. “Ignoring someone four times your size must have been no small feat.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ian said, with a rueful smile. "I kind of turned into this quiet ghost. My room became this dark cave where I just… existed. Things got worse— and to be fair, that was on me. I discovered Tesco delivered booze in Nexie sizes, and while it helped numb things, it also made everything spiral out of control.”

The weight of his words hit me hard. "Ian… it got that bad?"

"Yeah, it did."

“How long did this go on?” I asked, trying to keep the alarm out of my voice. The thought of him drinking himself into a stupor was unsettling, to say the least.

“That’s the funny thing,” Ian said, with a slight shrug. “It felt like ages, but it was only three weeks before Amalia stepped in.”

I raised an eyebrow. "I was wondering where she was during all of this."

“She was there, watching me unravel,” Ian admitted. “But when I started drowning my misery in beer and whisky, that was it for her. The final straw was when I slept through an in-person meeting with my supervisor.”

“Supervisor?” I asked, puzzled. “Did you have a job at the university?”

“Oh… no, sorry. In the UK, grad school advisors are called supervisors.”

“Ah, got it. Those quirky Brits,” I joked, shaking my head. “Honestly, it’s a miracle we understand each other at all.”

Ian grinned at that. "Well, you know the saying: ‘Two nations divided by a common language’ and all that. Maybe I should tone down the Britishisms. I must sound pretentious."

“Not at all,” I said, resting my chin on my hand with a reassuring smile. “I actually love hearing different takes on English. I’m especially fond of saying ‘sheh-dule’ instead of schedule. Just promise me you won’t start dropping ‘u’s into words at random—that drives me nuts.”

"Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it!" Ian exclaimed, pretending to be horrified.

“Anyway,” I continued, guiding him back to his story, “so you really did hit rock bottom, huh? Missing appointments, self-medicating, neglecting yourself—classic signs of the big D. The first time the black dog bit me, I could barely get out of bed, and even the slightest bit of light felt like needles.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad for you,” Ian said softly.

“The first time was before we met. My parents and grandma helped me through it. A little Lexapro and a lot of mountain air did the trick. The second time wasn’t as bad because…well, because I had you… well at least, virtually.”

“I’m glad I could be there for you,” Ian said, blushing.

“And I wish I’d been there for you,” I replied, my voice filled with regret. “So, Amalia stepped up. Was that when she staged the big intervention?”

“Yeah,” Ian said, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and exasperation as he recalled the chaos. “Amalia was livid. She didn’t even know I had an appointment until my supervisor’s assistant called her. Punctuality is practically a religion to the Swedes—almost as sacred as it is to the Germans.

So, she scrambled to set up another meeting two hours later reschedule and then burst into my room like a woman on a mission. I was dead asleep, completely hungover, and when she tried to wake me up, I told her to go to hell and that I wasn’t going anywhere.”

I bit my lip, trying to hold back a laugh as I pictured this tiny man attempting to stand his ground. "And how did that go over?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ian chuckled, shaking his head. "Not well. She stormed over to my bed and yanked me up like I was I was a bottle of water. I wasn’t about to go down without a fight, so I clung to the sheets for dear life."

The image of Ian—all 18 inches of him—going toe-to-toe with a towering Viking goddess like some tiny action hero was too much. A giggle escaped before I could stop it. How tall was she, anyway? Six-one? Six-two? "Let me guess," I said, smirking, "you didn’t exactly win that one, did you?"

He burst out laughing. "Nope, not even close. It was like wrestling a grizzly bear—if that grizzly bear was three times the size of a normal one and had a bad temper. She ripped the sheets out of my hands, flung them across the room, and stomped out to the living room with me in her fist like she was King Kong. And the whole time, she's muttering in Swedish, probably cursing my existence. Honestly, I almost got motion sickness. I thought I was going to lose my lunch."

"Wait, did she hurt you?" I asked, suddenly serious.

He shook his head quickly. “No, Gwen, she didn’t.”

I squinted at him, not quite convinced. "Honestly?"

"Not a hair on my head," he assured me. “It was a wild ride, sure, but she set me down like she was handling fine china."

“Still, you must have been terrified,” I murmured, leaning in closer.

“Actually,” he said, his voice growing quieter, “I was furious. And so was she. She sat down on the coffee table and just demanded, ‘Talk!’ So, I climbed up my rolling ladder, looked her dead in the eyes, and we had it out.”

"Good," I said, feeling a surge of pride for him. "What did you say?"

"Everything," Ian said quietly. "I didn’t hold back." His voice trailed off and he stared off in the distance.

"Ian? Are you okay?" I asked softly. "You looked like you weren’t just remembering—you were back there." I hesitated, guilt creeping in. "I’m sorry… I feel like I’m just making you dredge up bad memories."

"Yeah, I’m fine," he said, exhaling. "Honestly? In a way, it’s a good memory. Don’t get me wrong, that conversation was brutal, but it showed me just how much Amalia really cared."

"Good," I replied, though guilt twisted in my stomach.

As I sat there, listening, watching him—his tiny hands fidgeting with his bed sheet-sized napkin. A small but sharp part of me still whispered its doubts. The same part that had flared up the moment I first opened the door and saw him standing there, looking up at me, waiting.

It would have been easier to let the anger take over. To call him a liar. To convince myself that hiding the truth made him a coward. I had the chance to walk away. I could have closed the door, and this date—this entire conversation—never would have happened.

But could I have done it? Really?

No. I knew I couldn’t.

I’d given too much of myself to this relationship to pretend I could just sever the connection and move on. And the truth was, I’d miss him—more than I wanted to admit. The thought of leaving without hearing him out, without at least trying to make sense of it all, felt unbearable in its own way.

I wanted to tell him to stop—not because it was awkward, not because it made me uncomfortable, but because it hurt to see him like this.

But I couldn’t look away.

So I sat there, silent and tense, hanging on every word, completely absorbed—as if I were inside the fragile world he was unraveling before me.

It was selfish of me—really selfish. Watching him, shoulders bowed under the invisible weight of his memories, the trauma of his transition—and yet, all I could think about was wanting more. Needing more.

I had to understand. I had to bridge the gap between the heartbroken, pint-sized man in his story and the Ian sitting across from me now—the one who made me laugh until I cried, who knew exactly how I took my tea, who could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary.

They were the same person. And yet, they weren’t.

Both versions of Ian belonged to me, and that made the whole thing impossibly beautiful and unbearably sad all at once.

“Ian, I keep telling you I’m here for you, and honestly, you’re probably sick of hearing it by now. Like, ‘Yes, I get it, supportive girlfriend alert,’” I said, forcing a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “The thing is, it’s strange—I mean, maybe I’m being overly dramatic—but as you’re talking, I feel like I’m there with you. In Edinburgh. Walking down this dark, twisty little path, not sure where it’s leading. But the thing is… you’re the one leading me. You’re my guide.”

I paused, glancing down at him—his tiny legs swinging as he perched comically on a stack of books, just high enough to reach his tray.

“And yeah, it’s scary,” I continued, my voice softer now. “But the funny thing is… I already know how the story ends.” I met his eyes, searching for the truth I already felt in my bones.

“It ends with you and me. Right here, right now.”

“Somehow, it all ends well.”

Ian looked up at me with those sad, beautiful eyes. “Gwen, I feel awful about all of this. Our first real date wasn’t supposed to be like this—tears, anger, disappointment. It’s all on me.”

“Oh, come on, Ian,” I said, keeping my voice light as I toyed with a piece of truffle. “Sure, we kicked things off on a pretty low note—and yeah, that’s definitely on you. But let’s not overlook the highlights, shall we? There’s been plenty of laughter, teasing, and, let’s be honest, a borderline scandalous amount of flirting.”

I leaned in just enough to make him nervous, my smile slow and wicked. “And let’s not forget the foot stuff,” I whispered, my voice dripping with mischief.

His reaction was immediate—his tiny hands fidgeting, his face flushing so red it was almost theatrical. He refused to meet my gaze, utterly mortified, which only made my grin widen.

“Ian, you can’t say our first in-person date hasn’t been interesting.”

“It has been interesting,” he admitted, shifting awkwardly, his smile more apology than charm. “So… is this the part where you start regretting letting me ramble on about my miniature train wreck of a life?” His voice was light, but his eyes scanned mine, searching for judgment he was sure was there. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

“No! I’m not that kind of girl,” I protested, throwing in a scandalized gasp for dramatic effect. “You know that. I’m Miss Depression—just look at my life. Eeyore is basically my spirit animal,” I added, laughing. “Honestly, I just wish you’d told me all this sooner. It’s so…”

I paused for effect, then, in my best attempt at a tragic British thespian, solemnly declared,

“…Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings…”

Ian blinked. “Wha… What?” he asked, before bursting into laughter.

"Shakespeare!" I grinned. "I know Richard was basically just whining, woe is me, but I’ve always loved that line—‘Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories.’ Ian, I wish you’d told me sooner. Your story, your experience—it’s worth telling.”

"But…" Ian started to protest.

"But nothing." I cut him off. "I’ve poured my heart out to you, spilled all my sad stories. It’s a privilege to hear yours. Honestly, if I’d known, I would’ve skipped this whole dinner plan.”

"But why? What’s wrong with this restaurant?" Ian frowned. "It’s cozy, almost magical, and the food’s great!"

"Ugh! Ian, you’re making it really hard not to call you an adorable wee idiot right now." I huffed, shaking my head. "I wouldn’t have skipped dinner because of the restaurant. I would’ve skipped it because it’s not worthy of your story. If I’d known, I would’ve taken you somewhere else—somewhere that fit."

I leaned forward, eyes bright with the vision forming in my mind.

"I’d have taken you to a secluded spot in the park, or better yet, to my favorite place on my grandma’s farm—the hill at the far end of the property. I’d bring my dad’s best scotch, some good cheese, maybe even those rowies you love, and some smoked trout. We’d build a fire, sit on the ground, and listen to your story. We’d chase away the demons, comfort the ghosts, stare into the flames, and let those sad words, those dark feelings, drift away into the night.”

Ian blinked, clearly taken aback. “Wow… that was almost poetic.”

I suddenly felt self-conscious, warmth creeping up my neck. "I’m sorry," I mumbled, looking down. "I didn’t mean to hijack the conversation with my mini rant. I just—" I took a deep breath. "I just feel so much, you know?"

Ian smiled, his gaze soft and understanding. "I’m not sure what to say. I know this sounds cliché, but… I feel safe with you, Gwen."

"Good. You should." I hesitated, biting my lip. "I know it sounds weird, maybe even a little dark, but… sometimes I like to revel in my melancholy. And while I’m not exactly enjoying yours, I’m glad you’re sharing it with me."

"You sound..."

"Don’t say Goth," I cut him off, rolling my eyes. "I’m not into black lipstick or nail polish. I’m too girly for that."

"So, you’re only happy when it rains?" Ian smirked up at me, teasing.

I tilted my head, genuinely surprised. "Wait… How do you know that song? It’s, like, ancient! But also, an all-time fave!"

Ian leaned back, his tiny legs dangling over the stack of books that made up his makeshift seat. "Garbage is buried deep in my playlist, but I pull them out sometimes. Oh, the ’90s… wouldn’t it have been something to actually be alive back then?"

"Yeah," I sighed, soft and wistful. "Back when everything was simple. Before things got so… weird."

Ian nodded, a faraway look in his eyes, like he understood that impossible longing for a time neither of us had lived through.

"Anyway," he said, shaking off the nostalgia, "ready for the next chapter of my tragic tale?"

I snapped back to the moment, grinning. "Of course! You’ve got me hanging on every word. But seriously, Ian, you need to tell me when to zip it, or I’ll never stop talking. I’m terrible at this."

"Gwen, please." He waved a hand. "You have full permission to interrupt whenever you want. It’s not like I’m some skáld spinning an epic saga. I’d feel way too weird if you just sat there silently. Honestly? I like your questions… and your rambling."

"Good, because I can’t help myself!" I laughed. "But you already know that—it’s just who I am. You should see my books. I’m not even in grad school anymore, but my new ones are still covered in scribbles—questions, thoughts, random ideas—like I’m still writing essays. Your story is just as captivating. But you’re right, we are having a very interesting conversation. I had no idea you were such a natural storyteller."

I paused, grinning. "So, where were we? Oh, right—you were in the clutches of the enraged, fifty-foot Amalia, having your epic showdown. You really told her everything? That she treated you like a toddler, picking you up without asking, and… well, the… umm… fondling thing?"

Ian’s smirk faded, his playful tone shifting to something more serious. "Yeah."

I tilted my head, meeting Ian’s gaze with quiet understanding. “So, from what you’ve told me about confronting Bigs… that must’ve been terrifying for you.”

He shook his head, looking down at the table. “Not really. I was angry, hungover, completely drained. It wasn’t about being brave—it was just… I had no energy left to keep pretending. I said what I felt because I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

“I still think you’re brave,” I said softly, my fingers brushing the edge of the table, reaching for him without quite closing the distance. “Standing up for yourself is hard, especially when you’re feeling scared. And Amalia… she needed to hear it. How did she react?”

Ian looked up, his eyes shadowed with something heavier. “She was… upset. Not angry, but devastated. Like she hadn’t realized how much she’d hurt me. She actually started crying. And it just—it felt surreal. I mean, I’m… me. This tiny thing. I’m not even knee-high to her. She could toss me like a ball if she wanted. I just couldn’t wrap my head around how something I said could hurt a Big like that. Why would someone her size even care what I thought? Or how I felt?”

I leaned in slightly, my voice gentle but firm. “Ian, I know it feels like we’re these giants towering over you, but being bigger doesn’t make us untouchable. You’re not just some mouse scurrying around beneath our feet. You’re powerful in ways that have nothing to do with size. I know it might not feel like you can physically hurt Amalia, but the thing is—you have this presence, this… energy about you. Your words matter. Sometimes, what we say can hit harder than we realize. So, I can see why Amalia was so shaken when you finally confronted her.”

"Gwen, I know that now. But at the time, I felt small…Well, I still feel small, but it wasn’t just, ‘Oh, I’m only a foot and a half tall.’ It was more than that. It was this weight on me, this constant, suffocating reminder that I was so tiny. That I wasn’t enough. Like I didn’t measure up to… well, anyone. I felt so… insignificant. And it colored the way I saw everything."

I looked at him, my fingers absentmindedly toying with the edge of my napkin. "I get it. But when you say things like that about yourself, I just… I want to stop you. Like I need to defend you, even if you don’t want me to."

Ian shifted, his eyes locking onto mine—serious, steady. "Gwen, I'm not that person anymore."

"I know," I said, my voice quieter now. "I just… I just hope you see yourself the way I do." My voice wavered as I looked down, suddenly unsure of what else to say.

Ian let out a small sigh. "Back then, I didn’t see myself clearly at all. I mean, it was the first time I’d ever made a Big cry, so you can imagine how confusing that was. Amalia was so broken up over it—guilt, shame, all of it tangled together. It was… hard to watch."

"So, she did she get defensive, or…you know, try to justify what she did?"

Ian shook his head, staring down at his lap. "No, not at all. She just sat there, stunned. I don’t think she even realized what she’d been doing until I spelled it out. And when it sank in… she was horrified. She’d assumed... well, she’d assumed a lot of things."

"Did she explain why she treated you like a child?"

His voice was quiet when he answered. "Not really. I think she was just too focused on what she’d done. She told me her main goal was to keep me safe… and she just overdid it. And honestly? I kind of get it. I was so caught up in my perspective as an Opa, but if I were taking care of a Mini, I might’ve acted the same way."

"Ian, I understand why Amalia felt that way," I said gently. "Honestly, I think I’d struggle with it too. If you had the power to keep someone so littl—well, a Nexie—from getting hurt, you wouldn’t worry so much about being polite if you thought they were in danger."

Ian tilted his head, giving me a small nod, his expression warm but serious. “That’s something every Nexie deals with, you know? Bigs just… they want to fix everything. To protect us, to keep us safe—but at what cost? That’s where the real conflict is—independence or dependence. We just want to live our lives, even if that means making mistakes. Even if those mistakes are huge. Fatal, even. But for Bigs? Safety matters more than freedom.”

He paused, the weight of his words settling between us. “That’s the heart of it. It’s not just about how society treats us—it’s personal, in every relationship, like mine with Amalia. When one side holds all the power, what starts as help can turn into something else. Coercion. Control.”

I sighed, a heavy sadness creeping into my chest. I couldn’t ignore the uncomfortable truth—this wasn’t just some abstract debate. Sooner or later, it would come knocking at our door. Could I really let him live his life without stepping in?

Ian’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Anyway, I sat there, watching her cry, and it just made everything worse. She kept apologizing, saying she’d resign as soon as we found someone else.”

I gave him a knowing smile. “But you didn’t really want her to quit, did you?”

He glanced up at me with a sheepish grin. “No, I didn’t. I told her that. I really like her. Amalia’s amazing in so many ways. I just needed her to listen—to see me as an adult, not just a Nexie she had to protect all the time. I didn’t want her to be so... Big.”

“I’m really glad you took that step, Ian. I am. But you know it wasn’t just Amalia’s behavior, or coming back to Edinburgh, that had you feeling depressed, right? There was more to it than that.”

Ian smirked. “You’re awfully perceptive for an overgrown ginger.”

I laughed, leaning in just to be extra annoying. “Why, thank you, shrimp. I do try.” I flipped my hair with a dramatic flourish, letting my fingers glide through it like I was putting on a show. “Shame you’re stuck down there—otherwise, I might’ve let you run your little hands through my fiery locks.”

His laugh was quick and mischievous. “Guess I’ll just have to find a ladder.”

Setting my wine glass down, I rested my chin on my hand and offered him a warm smile. “Well, that’s one way to go about it,” I teased. But as the moment passed, my smile slipped away, and the air between us grew heavy again. I met his gaze. “Ian… did you tell her the truth? Did you tell her why you were really falling apart? What was at the heart of it all?”

His expression shifted, and for a moment, he hesitated. “I wasn’t planning to,” he admitted. “But Amalia—she kind of just… shifted things. She wiped her eyes, and suddenly, the focus was back on me. I wanted my angry confrontation to be about her, but she wasn’t having it.

“She left the room, and when she came back, she was holding a handful of the tiny empty beer cans I’d left scattered around. She just… dropped them at my feet. She didn’t yell, she didn’t even say anything at first. Just looked at me, tears still in her eyes, and said, ‘Ian, I care about you more than you know. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you, but I can’t just sit here and watch you destroy yourself like this.’”

I tilted my head, a little stunned. “She actually said that?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “She did.”

I paused, thinking. “I guess I misjudged her. I just thought she was, I don’t know, kind of this big, blonde, airhead who wasn’t paying attention.”

Ian scratched the back of his neck. “I probably didn’t paint the best picture of her.”

I smiled with a twinge of exasperation and amusement. “No, maybe not. So, what did you say?”

He hesitated, glancing away for a second before meeting my eyes again. “I… I broke down, too. I had to face it, all of it. And, more importantly, I stopped lying to myself.” He paused, his voice quieter now. “But before I go on, you know this was almost two years ago, right? I’m not that guy anymore.”

I gave him a quiet nod, “I know, Ian. I know.”

“Well, like you said, you’re on this dark path with me… and I just don’t want to make things harder for you, more than I already have,” he said quietly.

“We’re sitting on the ground telling sad stories, ‘member?” I said, giving Ian a small smile. “I’m not upset. Just… keep going.”

He took a deep breath before continuing. “Alright… like I said, I broke down and told Amalia the truth. I was scared. I didn’t want to go outside. I was terrified of giants, terrified of living in a world that wasn’t made for me. I didn’t want to be a Nexie anymore—I just wanted to die.”

His voice faltered for a moment. “I’d never said those words out loud before, and part of me was shocked that I even felt that way. I’d spent so long playing this role—the cheerful reduction survivor, the one who never let anything get to them, always turning everything into some fun challenge or quirky joke. But it was all a lie. And I guess, at some point, I just shut down because I didn’t have the strength to keep pretending anymore.”

I wiped a tear from my cheek, looking at Ian with nothing but affection. “Ian, I’m not shocked, and I’m definitely not upset. What you felt—it’s a normal response to the trauma you’ve experienced.   But you know what I’ve learned about you tonight?” I smiled softly. “You’re incredibly brave. I mean, sometimes you take your time getting there,” I teased, grinning, “but you’re not afraid to admit when you’re struggling. You could’ve fought Amalia, pushed her away, held onto all that fear and anger… but you didn’t. You let it go. That’s the brave part.”

Ian turned his face away, his cheeks flushed, avoiding my eyes. A long silence stretched between us before he finally whispered, “Thanks.”

I leaned in a little closer. "So... What did Amalia do? Did she freak out?"

He shook his head slowly, his gaze still distant. "No, not at all. It was almost... the opposite." He hesitated, before continuing,  his voice softer now. "She sat down on the floor, crossed her legs, looked at me, and said, ‘Do you want a hug?’ And, well... I did.

I climbed down and just...  walked right into her arms. And they were so... big, like they could just swallow me whole. She held me, in this embrace, it was like being wrapped in a cloak of pure joy. Like she was made of sunlight. I couldn’t hold it together anymore…I just broke down. I cried like I’d lost everything. Like the world had ended, and I was the only one left standing.”

Ian’s voice wavered, and I felt the weight of his words—the grief that never truly left, even when he tried to bury it.

“I was mourning,” he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. “Mourning myself. Like I had died.” His eyes flickered with something raw, something fragile. “It felt like I’d lost something huge, like the ground had been ripped out from under me. And I don’t even know why exactly. Maybe I was grieving everything NExVID took from me—the future I’ll never have, the parts of my life that will never be the same. Knowing I’ll never be normal again.”

He took a shaky breath. “She just held me, whispering, ‘I got you… we’ll get through this.’ Over and over, like she was trying to convince both of us at the same time. And I believed her. For the first time since my passage… I really believed her.”

I was tempted to reach across the table, wanting to do something—anything—to comfort him. But I stayed quiet, letting the moment settle between us.

“You’re right,” I finally said, my voice catching as I set down my fork. “Amalia saved you.”

Ian nodded, his gaze focused somewhere far away. “Yeah,” he quietly said. “She certainly did.”

I smiled, leaning in slightly, trying to lighten the moment without breaking it. “So, what happened after she gave you this magical hug? Did she sprinkle some fairy dust while she was at it?”

He chuckled, a low, uneven sound—more memory than amusement. “We made a pact. She made me promise I wouldn’t give up on myself… or on her. And of course, she wanted me to pinky swear, but, well, her pinky was half the length of my forearm, so I had to settle for using my hand.”

He grinned, a lopsided, self-deprecating grin that flickered briefly before fading into something softer.  “After that, Amalia went into full battle mode. She grabbed a notebook, laid out this plan she called ‘Eat Well, Sleep Well, Move Well.’ Said it was mental health first aid—duct tape for my mind until I could get real help. And she was right. Just doing the basics—it didn’t fix everything, but it gave me something to hold on to when I felt like I had nothing else.”

He shook his head slightly, almost in disbelief. “She didn’t stop there. Somehow, she managed to get me an appointment with my GP the next day—not a psychiatrist, but enough to prescribe meds. Then she tracked down Áine—my therapist from Lollingdon—and convinced her to do bi-monthly Zoom sessions until I found someone local.”

His expression turned wry. “And then she got… militant about everything else. She threw away all my beer and whisky, made sure I stuck to a routine—meds, exercise, proper meals, vitamins, supplements, and a strict sleep schedule. She enforced it all like it was life or death.”

He hesitated for a second, his cheeks coloring slightly. “Especially… a strict bedtime.”

I stared at him, completely baffled. “Wait a second,” I said, incredulous. “Are you telling me Amalia sent you to bed? Like, ‘Off you go, Ian. Time for bed’? Did she... I don’t know, read you a bedtime story too?”

Ian looked up, the tips of his ears flushing red. “Well, yeah,” he admitted, his voice edged with embarrassment. “She said good sleep hygiene was essential for mental health. She made sure I got to bed on time and didn’t sleep in all day. She was very... insistent.”

I pressed my lips together, trying to stifle a giggle, but a snort escaped before I could stop it. “Sorry,” I blurted, clapping a hand over my mouth. But it was too late—I saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes, and my stomach dropped.

“Ian, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you, I swear. It’s just—the idea of her tucking you in—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted gently, though he didn’t quite meet my eyes. His fingers fiddled with the edge of his napkin, his gaze focused somewhere just past my shoulder. “Seriously, it’s okay,” he added, but the weight in his voice made it clear that it wasn’t.

He took a breath and tried again, his shoulders sinking slightly as his voice softened. “Look, I know it sounds ridiculous. But at the time, I didn’t have the will—or the energy—to take care of myself. Amalia… she lent me hers. She was my crutch when I couldn’t stand on my own.”

His words hit like a sudden punch, pulling me back into my own dark memories—those days when I’d felt helpless, drowning in hopeless despair. There was something so raw in the way he said it that I felt like an idiot for making light of it.

“Ian,” I said gently, “that doesn’t sound ridiculous. That sounds like someone who fought for you when you couldn’t fight for yourself. And you let her. That’s not silly—that’s strength.”

I took a slow breath. “I get it. When my depression was at its worst, it was my mom and my grandma who hauled me out of bed. Sometimes, they were running on nothing but sheer stubbornness. They’d sit me down at the table, shove a plate of food in front of me, and just… stand there, arms crossed, like prison guards. They wouldn’t budge until I ate every bite.”

I hated being treated like I was a little kid who couldn’t be trusted to look after herself. I’d get so snappy, so dramatic—" I let out a small, sheepish laugh. "Honestly, I was a total brat. At the time, it made me feel small. Ashamed. But looking back… I think I needed them to step in. To take care of me in a way I couldn’t quite manage myself. I didn’t like it, but they saw what I needed when I couldn’t. And I’m grateful for that now.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it, but… it was the size thing that made you laugh, wasn’t it?”

I froze, my fork suspended mid-air, the weight of his words settling in my chest like a rock.

“Yes,” I admitted finally, the word coming out smaller than I intended. “It was.”

His expression barely changed, but I felt it shift—like watching clouds gather before a storm.

“Do you hate me?” I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “Because you’d be entirely justified. You know me—I’m basically the reigning champion of saying the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time. And I wear every stupid thought right on my face, so of course I laughed. It was—ugh, I don’t even know how to explain it.” I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “I wasn’t trying to be mean. It just… slipped.”

Ian’s expression remained deliberately light, but there was something beneath it—something raw he wasn’t about to admit to. “No, I don’t hate you. I don’t think I ever could,” he said, his voice teasing, like we were just bantering. “It is funny, though. Being an Opa—when a Big decides you’re going to do something, there’s not much room for negotiation. And for a guy, well… let’s just say it doesn’t exactly do wonders for your ego.” He let out a short laugh. “Any normal-sized woman can suddenly turn into a giant mommy, swooping in to ‘help’—which, yeah, is awkward for me. And I get the ick factor for you.”

I nodded, exhaling slowly. “You’re right—it’s easy to picture Amalia in that role, stepping in, taking care of you, doing the whole ‘mom’ thing… even if that’s not what it really was.” I hesitated, my voice dropping lower. “And… well, as a woman, being so much bigger than you, it’s—” I stopped, hesitated again, then just let the words spill out.

“It’s hard. It just makes me feel… weird. Like, awkward weird.”

The words hung between us, and immediately, I regretted my honesty. My cheeks burned as if I’d just let something fragile slip through my fingers, shattering between us. I dropped my gaze to my glass, ashamed of my own bluntness, and took a sip of wine to fill the silence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ian fidgeting, his tiny hands gripping the cocktail toothpick. He poked halfheartedly at a slippery piece of pasta, then sighed and gave up.

There it was again. That wall between us.

No—not a wall. Something bigger. Something heavier. A chasm so vast it felt impossible to bridge. Sitting across from him, I felt as though we were two entirely different species, fumbling toward something that might never fully make sense.

But that wasn’t true, was it? This new bizarre world was full of couples like us. Intersized relationships are hardly uncommon anymore, and many of them didn’t seem to struggle like this. There were Instagram accounts, reality shows, entire Reddit threads celebrating them. I mean, interspecies romance was one of the oldest tropes in sci-fi and fantasy. If aliens could fall in love and hook up on Star Trek—not just once, but regularly—surely Ian and I could figure this out. Right?

But that was fiction.

This—this was real.

And maybe the real problem wasn’t the size difference at all. Maybe the chasm wasn’t between us. Maybe it was inside me.

Ian didn’t seem to hesitate. He was here, ready to try, ready to leap across that canyon without a second thought.

So why was I the one holding back? Why couldn’t I just… let myself fall?

I cleared my throat, steering the conversation away from my own tangled emotions. This wasn’t the time to unload my issues onto Ian—not when he was opening up about the struggles of his transition. Forcing a small smile, I hoped it didn’t look as fake as it felt.

“So,” I said, a little too brightly, desperate to shift the mood. “Sounds like Amalia really enjoyed bossing you around. Did she make you do push-ups when you screwed up? Or was it laps around the apartment?”

It was a weak joke, and I knew it. But Ian grinned up at me anyway, triumphant, a skewered piece of pasta balanced on his toothpick. For a second, I let myself enjoy that smile—and just for that moment, it was enough.

He let out a nervous chuckle, clearly relieved the conversation wasn’t taking yet another deep dive into the thorny puzzle of dating someone literally four times his size.

“No, Gwen,” he said, his voice gentle. “She wasn’t a drill sergeant or an ogre. Amalia was… kind. Really kind.” His voice trailed off, his head tilting slightly, as if the memory had physically nudged him. “She was never mean or bossy. If anything, she encouraged me with this relentless optimism and joy.”

He gave me a wry smirk. “Not that it didn’t get on my nerves. Her cheerfulness could be grating as hell sometimes. Honestly, it used to drive me up the wall. But… it worked. It was what I needed, even if I didn’t always appreciate it at the time. She was just so…”

His words softened, his gaze slipping past me, drawn into a memory only he could see. For a moment, he seemed miles away, lost in it.

“Ian?” I said gently, pulling him back.

“Sorry,” he murmured, shaking his head as if clearing the fog. “Got lost there for a second.”

“It’s okay,” I said with a small smile. “Having someone like that in your corner sounds wonderful. I’m glad she was there for you.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding thoughtfully, then straightened up a little. “Anyway, to answer your question, Amalia didn’t just throw me into some insane cardio routine or anything. I mean yeah, she’s a certified personal trainer, but she’s also a yoga instructor. And she trained herself in meditation and tai chi. Oh, and Reiki. Amalia told me my mind and body were totally out of sync and that I had to bring them back into harmony.”

“So, we started slow,” Ian continued. “A lot of guided meditation, yoga, Tai Chi. That kind of thing. It drove me nuts at first. She was always asking me to tune into what my body was feeling, and I had no clue. I was so numb, so stuck in my head. I didn’t even realize what my body was doing half the time.”

He stopped again, this time narrowing his eyes at me. “You’re looking at me weird. You think this is all nonsense, don’t you?”

“No!” I protested, my hands raised as if to ward off the accusation. “Why would you think that? Ian, I’m serious—exercise is everything when it comes to mental health. Do you think I spend all that time running and hiking just for fun? That’s my therapy. Honestly, I’m impressed by Amalia. She’s insanely perceptive.”

He grinned, that mischievous, Ian-specific smirk I knew so well. “That sounds suspiciously like jealousy.”

I leaned in, resting my chin on my hand as I arched a brow, looking down at him—quite literally down at him. “Ian, teasing a giant woman is an excellent way to earn yourself a time-out in a hamster cage. You’re small enough to fit… well…maybe not comfortably, but you’d fit. Do you really want to taunt a woman who’s big enough to make that happen? With actual hamsters as roommates?” I cooed, my voice sugary sweet, the kind usually reserved for talking to kittens. I raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in my eyes. “Think very carefully before you answer.”

He blinked up at me, pretending to consider his options. “Well, since you put it like that...”

“Smart boy,” I said, grinning. “And for the record, I meant what I said. What Amalia did for you was incredible. I think it went far above her duties as an aide.  It was exactly what you needed… someone who’s a natural healer.”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with something distant. “It really was.”

I looked down at Ian, my voice gentle, as if I were tiptoeing around something fragile. “So... about being picked up. After you and Amalia had that painful heart-to-heart, did you two figure out how to move past it? I know you hated being picked up, and it’s easy to see why... but it also sounds like, sometimes, it was just unavoidable.”

Ian looked at me calmly, like this was a chapter he’d already closed. “Yeah, we did. At first, being... well, handled by Amalia was tough—more than tough. It was terrifying. No, that’s not quite it. I felt so many things. But we talked about it, I got help, and we worked through it. I’ve moved on. It doesn’t affect me the same way anymore. It’s just... a thing that happens now. Honestly, Anna does it all the time, and I’m okay with it. Really, I’m okay now.

I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand. “That’s good. More than good, really. I’m relieved. You’ve come such a long way, you know? I mean, like you said it’s been—two years? Not even? You pushed through something that could have flattened you. But Ian, what you’ve accomplished... the strength it took to pull yourself out of that? That’s all you. Your perseverance.”

Ian looked away embarrassed, fidgeting with the corner of his napkin. “Thanks, but… it was Amalia, really,” he muttered.

I smiled, leaning in slightly, lowering my voice like I was letting him in on a secret. “I’m not denying her part in it. Honestly, you did need a swift kick in the pants. But Ian, let’s be real—you’re the one who stood back up after the fall. You’re the one who made the choice to listen, to change. You’re the one who kept going, even when it must have felt impossible. Amalia helped you see what was already there. I’m not saying she wasn’t important, but you let her help you. That takes courage, Ian. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “Well… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel I really did anything. I think back to that day I finally opened up to Amalia. I wish I’d done it sooner. I’d been so miserable for so long, and once I let it all out, everything started to fall into place. It was Amalia, and then Áine, and later my new therapist we found in Edinburgh. My professors, my parents. All these people just… there, waiting. I’d been drowning, and I didn’t even see the hands reaching out for me.”

I watched him for a moment, my chest tightening with an ache that was both proud and bittersweet. “Ian,” I said gently, “you can’t punish yourself for not seeing what you weren’t ready to see. We’re all like that, you know? We get in our own way, blind to what we need most, especially when we’re hurting. Sometimes we’re our own worst enemy, and we keep pushing help away without even realizing it.”  My voice wavered slightly, and I thought of my dad, my own dark days, and how I’d stumbled through grief and illness before I’d learned to reach out.

His eyes searched mine, so small yet so bright, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. My throat tightened, and the words spilled out quietly, just above a whisper. “But we figure it out. And when we do, it’s the people who stand by us that matter most.” I blinked back tears, feeling the weight of my own words. “Thank you,” I said, my voice trembling.

Ian tilted his head, puzzled. “For what?”

“For being on my team,” I whispered, the words filled with every ounce of love I felt for him.

Ian tilted his head up toward me, his blue eyes gleaming with quiet devotion. “You’re welcome,” he said softly. “I’ll always be on your team.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I laughed, dabbing at my face with a napkin. “Okay, let’s be real—thank God for waterproof mascara. Otherwise, I’d be sitting here looking like a giant, weepy raccoon.”

“You’d still be beautiful,” Ian said with a shrug, like it was the most obvious fact in the world.

I rolled my eyes, though I could feel the warmth creeping into my cheeks. “Uh-huh,” I teased. “I bet you say that to all the giant girls you date.”

“Only the one sitting at this table.” His shy smile was utterly disarming.

I tried to muster an unimpressed expression, but my traitorous cheeks were already betraying me. “Mr. Kenyon,” I said, leaning in just enough to feign smugness, “your Lilliputian charms are truly something, but they won’t work on me, sir!”

My voice wavered on the last word, though, because the way he was looking at me—with that maddening mix of confidence and desire—had my heart flipping so wildly that I knew, when I glanced down at him, my teasing hadn’t fooled either of us.

He laughed, throwing his tiny hands in the air. “Damn,” he said, feigning defeat. “I thought I had you this time.”

“Okay, okay, enough of that,” I said, waving my hand dismissively and quickly steering the conversation back to Ian before my cheeks went any pinker. “What happened next? You mentioned you found a new therapist?”

“Yeah,” Ian said, his tone shifting, a touch more serious now. “Eventually…It was September before my first appointment. I spent most of the summer meeting with Áine.  I was on a waiting list for a while, but honestly? The wait turned out to be kind of a blessing.”

I tilted my head, curious. “How’s that?”

“Well, during that time, I... started struggling to go outside. It was like this little bubble of fear that just kept growing.  Amalia noticed before I even had to say anything. That’s just Amalia—straight to the point and always with a plan.  She was adamant I needed fresh air and sunshine, so she took one look at our sad, neglected patio and, practically buzzing with excitement, declared we were going to transform it into our own little garden. We ordered everything online: chairs, plants, and, naturally, some fairy lights—her idea, obviously.

“Well, obviously,” I said, laughing. “Everyone knows you’re far too manly for fairy lights.”

“Ha-Ha-Ha, hilarious,” Ian replied, deadpan, his face the picture of long-suffering dignity. “Truly, I may never recover. Anyway… we made a solid team, though she handled all the greenery. Not just because I was too small to reach the hanging ones, but because, as it turns out, she’s apparently a plant whisperer with an uncanny knack for keeping them alive and thriving. Meanwhile, my contribution was mostly moral support—and taste-testing what she called a Berry Brain smoothie.

For the record, it was all berries, bananas, and some weird stuff—but no brains. She swore they were good for anxiety and depression. Honestly, I had my doubts about their effectiveness… but they weren’t half bad," Ian added with a grin.

I wrinkled my nose at Ian. “Smoothies? No thanks. It’s like someone dared a blender to make a fruit salad weird. Just a nice cuppa tea for me, please.”

 “Such a closed-minded traditionalist,” Ian said teasingly. “Amalia taught me to appreciate smoothies—expanded my palate. Maybe it’s time you expanded your horizons, Gwen.”

“Oh, please,” I shot back, half laughing, half glaring. “Listen, Thumbelina, I have tried smoothies. I just don’t like them. And you’re one to talk about horizons, Mr. ‘Grits are gross.’ You’re from Virginia, Ian! That’s borderline treasonous.”

He held up his tiny hands, laughing. “Okay, okay. I take it back. You’re open-minded and refined, and I’m a grit-hating monster. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” I said dryly, rolling my eyes with an exaggerated huff—though I couldn’t quite keep the smile from breaking through. “I’m not close-minded,” I muttered, more to the table than to him. But then I leaned forward, my smile turning sincere.

“So! Tell me more about your garden. You and Amalia must have put a lot of effort into it. How did it turn out? What did you end up planting?”

He looked up at me with unmistakable pride and satisfaction. “Okay, I have to confess, we had some help with the setup. Amalia made a list and reached out to a few nurseries. It was a little late in the season, but we still managed a solid selection. I even hired a small crew to deliver everything and help Amalia with the planting.”

His smile grew as he recounted it. “We went for a little bit of everything. The whole English garden feel—roses, lavender, delphiniums. Amalia wanted it to feel layered, like stepping into a storybook. The roses were Austins—big, dramatic blooms in yellow and deep red, the kind that smell like they belong in a perfume ad. To me, their blooms were practically the size of beach balls.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Amalia handled the heavy lifting, obviously. Pruning them was a bit beyond me—I can’t exactly manage gardening clippers one-handed, and most of the plants were way out of my reach. Amalia always took them—her hands are much stronger than mine—and she’d snip the stems at just the right angle.”

Ian’s expression softened, his eyes growing distant with a wistful, faraway look.

“You know… I remember her humming while she worked, slicing off stems with those long, graceful movements. Later, we’d sit in the living room, vases overflowing with fragrant, blush-colored blooms. Gwen, the bouquets she made were beautiful! She’d mix the roses with whatever we had on hand, and suddenly, the apartment felt like the kind of place where you’d expect to find Elizabeth Bennet reading letters from her suitors over tea.”

His expression changed to a warm smile, his enthusiasm growing as he continued. “And then there was the lavender. That was my domain.” He paused, then let out a little laugh. “Well, sort of. Amalia handed me this absurdly tiny watering can, barely the size of a teacup, and declared it my responsibility. It was sweet, really—her way of making me feel useful, even though we both knew my ‘helping’ was more of a polite gesture than anything.”

He trailed off for a moment, his toothpick hovering over a piece of pasta as a familiar fond smile slowly crept onto his face. I swirled my wine, watching the light dance in the deep red before setting my glass down with deliberate care.

“So, you were the tiny guardian of the lavender,” I said with a small smile. “I can picture it—your own little world, tucked between all those flowers.”

"I was!" Ian laughed, his face lighting up. "The lavender in the planters towered over me, a soft, swaying sea of purple. Amalia always called it a bee magnet, but to me, it was the perfect forest, filled with that deep, heady scent. I’d walk along the wide planters while she watered them with her giant copper can—which, from my perspective, looked more like an elegant floating cauldron."

She had planted the lavender alongside foxgloves, their delicate, bell-shaped blooms hanging above me like pastel chandeliers in a whimsical ballroom. And when she added dahlias, they framed the balcony in a cascade of color, transforming it into a flowery hedge—a natural cathedral. It felt both grand and intimate, as if fairies had crafted it just for us.

I glanced down at Ian, perched on the edge of his seat, his miniature legs swinging slightly, like some pocket-sized professor delivering a lecture. He was practically beaming, his tiny hands gesturing wildly as he described the garden with the passion of a horticultural poet. His whole face was lit up with such earnest enthusiasm that it was almost too adorable to bear.

Naturally, I decided it was my duty to ruin the moment—just a little.

Tilting my head, I bit back a smile. “Oh my, my… my little Ian,” I said, drawing out the words teasingly. “I had no idea you were such a gardening enthusiast! You’ve been holding out on me! These descriptions are so lush, so vivid—positively dripping with Romantic poetry.”

I placed a hand on my chest, upping the drama just enough to make him roll his eyes. “In fact, I can practically see myself now,” I sighed dreamily, gazing off into the distance. “Drifting barefoot through the garden in a long, gauzy white gown, looking wistful and windswept, like some Pre-Raphaelite muse. Just so ethereal. So tragic.”

I turned back to him, feigning shock. “Although, if I didn’t know better, I might start to think you were secretly a Lord Byron fan. But of course, I do know better, because I remember your very loud, very firm assertion that he was, what was it again? Oh right, a total ‘emo poser.’”

Ian let out an exaggerated sigh, crossing his arms. “Ha. Ha. Do you actually want to hear about the flower garden, or are you just here to make fun of me?”

I folded my hands on my knees, attempting to look solemn—but failing miserably because his tiny foot was tapping impatiently, and it was killing me.

“I’m sorry. I’m terrible,” I said sweetly, all innocence. “Please, go on.” I smiled, and though I tried to keep it in check, I knew it gave me away. “I love hearing you talk about your garden. Honestly, I’d have loved to see it. And,” I added with a small shrug, “it’s really nice seeing you like this—so passionate. I’m really enjoying this side of you.”

That did it. His grumpy little frown melted, and he smirked up at me like he knew I’d won, but he didn’t mind it all that much.

“Fine,” he relented. “And yes, for the record, Lord Byron is an emo poser.”

I groaned dramatically, throwing my hands in the air. “Oh, for the love of—fine!  Moving on! Now, tell me more about this magical garden of yours before I start quoting Byron just to annoy you.”

He laughed, shaking his head before diving back into his story. I leaned back, listening with a smile. This unexpected side of Ian—this tiny, opinionated man who took gardens so seriously—only made me more drawn to him.

Ian stood in his highchair, took a slow sip of wine through his straw, and tapped a finger against his chin, his gaze drifting somewhere between memory and the present.

“Right—the delphiniums! Towering blue and white spires, easily twenty feet tall from my perspective. We had these big planters tucked into the corner, and to me, it was like walking through a blooming forest. And the hollyhocks—how did I forget those? We brought in several massive, fully grown plants, and in my world, they were like towering fifteen-foot trees. Amalia would snip a few stems each week, mixing them with dahlias and cornflowers, tossing them into a vase like she’d just wandered through a meadow, gathering whatever felt right. She made it look effortless and unplanned—yet somehow, they were perfect in its imperfection.”

“Honestly, it was just so beautiful. That garden made the apartment feel alive, like it had a heartbeat of its own. I never realized how much thought she put into it, how she turned flowers into something more than decoration. She just called it ‘softening the edges,’ but really, she was changing the air in that apartment, making something temporary feel lasting. And I needed that. On the harder days, when everything felt flat and gray, she brought in color…something living. It helped in ways I don’t think she even realized.”

“This garden of hers sounds absolutely incredible,” I said, pushing a piece of beef around my plate, smearing it lightly in the béarnaise sauce. “And those bouquets? That’s seriously impressive. I’ve got to admit, I kind of pictured Amalia as this... I don’t know, dumb amazon jock. 

Which, okay, is embarrassing now. I feel bad for thinking that. Maybe you should’ve started with the flowers before... you know, the other part.”

He looked up at me, his face suddenly serious. “Gwen, I never told anyone the other part.”

“Right,” I said softly. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. But you have to see it from my perspective. I mean, Ian, you’re so—well…you know…you’re so little. I’m not just going to sit by and let someone hurt you. What else was I supposed to think?”

He nodded. “I know. And honestly, I’m still hurt about what happened. Keeping it to myself for so long... I guess I didn’t realize how much I needed to say it. I trust you. That’s why I told you. And it’s not your fault. You were just being protective.”

“Well, I’m glad you trusted me,” I said, smiling even as I felt the weight of his words. “I’m happy to hear your sad stories, even if they’re hard.”

Ian tilted his head, his little smirk returning. “I really need to see Richard the Second sometime.”

“You should. It’s a classic,” I said softly, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass. “I think the Blackfriars Playhouse did a virtual version a while back. Maybe they’ll do it live soon. We could go… if you want.” I looked down, feeling that familiar flush of embarrassment. “And... yeah, I know. I’m Interrupting again. I really do need to learn when to shut up.”

“Don’t,” he said, his smile deepening. “I mean it. That’s you, Gwen, and I’d never want you to change.”

I swallowed a laugh, feeling my cheeks flush. “Thanks,” I murmured, trying to look gracious while holding back a million other things I wanted to say. “So... anything else about the garden?”

“Just the herbs,” Ian said, grinning.

“Wow another part of this garden? Just how big was this patio?”

“It was big. It ran across one whole side of the apartment.”

“That is big! Well do go on,” I said smiling, “I love herb gardens.”

“So did Amalia,” Ian said with a fond smile. “She was absolutely obsessed—basil, rosemary, thyme—like a tiny kitchen garden was the secret to happiness. She’d snip rosemary for Potatisgratäng or toss fresh basil into pasta. The whole patio smelled like a cozy English cottage. She always said her mother taught her that a garden wasn’t just for looking at—it was for living with.”

He gazed at me thoughtfully, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “That garden was never just a garden to me. It was therapy—a little world we built together, one bloom, one sprig, one healing moment at a time.”

For a moment, I saw their garden the way he did—bursting with life and purpose, simple yet profound. More than just a collection of flowers and herbs, it was an unexpectedly meaningful reflection of the bond he’d once shared with Amalia.

“I would have liked to see it,” I said wistfully.

“I wish you could have,” Ian replied, his voice soft with nostalgia. “It was our little oasis—my escape. I’d sit out there, feel the sun on my face, chat with Amalia, and for a while, I could forget that I was living in a world of giants... well, except for the one I was sharing the flat with.

By the time my therapist was free to see me, I’d already started making progress. Baby steps, you know? Just enough courage to get out for appointments.”

“Nexie steps,” I corrected with a grin, leaning back in my chair.

Ian groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh, here we go again.”

“What? That was funny,” I said, laughing. Then, leaning forward, I added, “Your patio garden really does sound beautiful, but I can’t imagine it being quite as magical as my secluded hilltop on my Grandma’s farm.”

I looked at Ian dreamily, my mind drifting to the mountain forest refuge I’ve cherished since I was little. “It’s my hidden world, shaded by ancient oaks, poplar, and mountain laurel. It always felt like my secret hiding place. In spring, the air is thick with the scent of wildflowers and honeysuckle, so sweet it’s almost intoxicating.

The rhododendrons bloom like something out of a fairy tale, and wild blueberry bushes dot the forest—though the bears,” I added with a grin. “Always manage to grab the best ones first. And there’s this little creek, ice-cold and clear, rushing over the rocks, catching the sunlight like a trail of tiny, glittering jewels.”

Ian grinned. “Okay, yeah, for a magical fairy tale forest, that definitely beats my little garden,” Ian said with a grin.

“It is special,” I said, smiling, “But from your perspective, I can see how your garden might feel just as enchanting. I mean, you’re basically strolling through a land of 15-foot flowers and roses the size of beach balls. It doesn’t get much more magical than that.”

“I should add that to my list of Nexie perks,” Ian quipped, laughing.

“Oh my God, yes!” I laughed. “You absolutely should!”

Ian’s expression turned curious. “So, what’s the most special spot in your secret hilltop forest?”

“Hmmm...” I considered for a moment. “I’d say my favorite spot is this glade tucked into a hollow near the top, where these enormous boulders sit like ancient sentinels. They always seemed like they were waiting there... waiting for me to turn them into something special.

“When I was a teenager, I decided they were sacred and built a circle of stones there—part of what I called my ‘ancient Celtic princess, druid phase.’ My dad even helped me with it. We managed to get a Bobcat up there to place the stones just right, and we planted holly bushes along the little road we made to keep it hidden.”

He’d grumble about all the effort, but I think he secretly loved watching me get dramatic and create my own little worlds.”

“Wait, hang on,” Ian interrupted, cocking his head. “Could an Irish princess even be a druid? I thought druids were, like, a separate priestly class.”

I crossed my arms and looked down at him my best imperious look. “Listen, twerp, if I want to be an Irish princess druid, then that’s exactly what I’ll be. Try and stop me.”

“Fair enough!” Ian held his hands up, laughing.  “You’re a magical giant Irish princess druid or whatever.”

“Exactly,” I said with a mock-serious nod. “And I expect a little more reverence next time. Maybe some groveling while you’re at it.”

“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” he said with mock sincerity, grinning. “I’ll work on my groveling.”

I laughed. “Uh-huh. Sure, you will.”

Ian smiled up at me. “I’d like to see this druid circle of yours someday.”

“Maybe you will,” I said, my voice softening. “It’s my haven, you know? My special place. I do a lot of my writing there. I don’t share it with just anyone.”

I looked away, my eyes settling on the flickering candle as a sudden shyness crept in. I wasn’t sure what more to say—wasn’t even sure there was more to say. It was easier to focus on the candlelight than to meet the unguarded hope in Ian’s eyes.

My feelings for him were a tangled mess. Part of me craved the simplicity of his affection, the warmth of being wanted. But another part hesitated, unsure if I wanted him as more than a friend. And so, caught between certainty and doubt, I left him waiting.

“Anyway,” I said, a little too brightly, grasping for a shift in mood. “Your little garden really sounds like a lifesaver. Fresh air and sunlight are powerful healers. Amalia clearly knew how to help you.”

“She did,” Ian said with a small nod. “She told me she’d looked after her brother during the pandemic. He struggled with depression and panic attacks, too.” I think helping him gave her a lot of insight.”

“She sounds incredible. If I ever meet her, I owe her a hug—for being there for you.”

Ian smiled at me, and I could feel the warmth in his gaze. “She’d like that.”