Big Mistake

It had happened three days ago. She’d pushed the size spell too far—stretching herself taller every day for a week, reveling in the rush of being a mini giantess until the magic snapped back like a rubber band. The fine print she’d skimmed in the grimoire for this spell hit her like a truck: Whatever you grow in this world comes back to you threefold.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks of being 9 inches tall.

The door opened. He stepped in, still in his hoodie and sweats, hair messy from sleep. His eyes found her immediately, and that slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

“Hey, little Dahlia,” he said, voice soft but thick with intent as he crossed the room. “Still holding up okay? Want a couple Froot Loops before we start?"

She glared up at him, cheeks already heating. “No, I’m fine. I don't want your fucking Froot Loops.”

He laughed quietly, dropping into the desk chair so his face loomed huge above her. The chair creaked under his weight. “You were the one who shrank yourself into a crisis. I just offered to help. To take care of you until you grow back.” His fingers drummed once on the desk, inches from her, making the whole surface vibrate. “And you said yes.”

“I said yes because I THOUGHT you'd actually take care of me!” she snapped, but her tiny voice cracked on the last word. “I didn't know you were going to use me like your personal sex toy?”

He leaned closer, breath warm against her tiny form. “You're not my sex toy. You're my sex DOLL.” His hand moved slowly, deliberately, cupping around her tiny body. “And you must've known what ‘taking care of you’ meant.”

Dahlia’s breath hitched. She took a half-step back, boots scuffing against the notebook paper, but there was nowhere to go. “You're making a huge mistake. When I grow back—”

“Three weeks,” he finished for her, voice dropping lower. “Plenty of time to make more mistakes.” His thumb brushed the side of her hip, light enough to tease, firm enough to remind her how easily he could close his fist. “And you look so fucking perfect like this. My tiny little Dahlia, right here on my desk.”

She swallowed hard, defiance flickering behind the worry in her eyes. “You’re horrible.”

“Maybe.” He lifted her then—gentle but unhurried—fingers wrapping around her waist as the world lurched upward. She dangled for a second before he settled her against his chest, right over his heartbeat. His free hand was already sliding down, adjusting himself through the sweats. “But you’re still here. Still letting me hold you. Still getting that look on your face like you hate how much you don’t hate it.”

Dahlia pressed her lips together, fists clenching. Too small to push away. Too exhausted from three days of this to fight like she wanted to.

“When my powers come back,” she whispered, voice trembling just enough to betray her, “you’re dead.”

He only hummed, low and pleased, already guiding her lower. “Then I guess the clock is ticking. I better make the most of it.”

“Asshole.” she muttered.