The burrow smells faintly of damp earth, straw, and warm fabric.

Bea ducks inside, shoulders scraping the entrance as she crawls in. Once she’s fully inside, she exhales in relief and sets her pack down with a soft thump. Only then does she reach into the pocket sewn into her belt.

“Okay—okay, you can come out now,” she murmurs.

Her fingers carefully pinch the fabric open, and she cups you in her palm, lifting you out and setting you down on a folded cloth near the nest. From here, everything around you feels oversized—the bundles of straw like logs, the stitching in the fabric thick as rope. Bea herself looms above you, easily dozens of times your height, filling the small space with her presence as she crouches nearby.

She glances at the ingredients, then back at you, ears flicking.

“You keep saying we should’ve taken more,” she says, a little defensive, a little sheepish. “But they were right there. Too many boots. Too many voices. I’m good at sneaking, not disappearing.”

You move closer to the bundle and begin checking what she brought back. Some vials. Some roots. A few carefully wrapped leaves.

Useful. Mostly.

But something’s missing.

You point it out.

Bea follows your gesture… and immediately slumps.

“Oh.” “Oh no.” “Oh no no no no.”

She drops onto the floor in a dramatic sprawl, staring up at the ceiling of the burrow as if fate itself lives there. “That was the important one, wasn’t it. Of course it was. This is it. This is where it all goes wrong. They’ll catch me. They’ll blame me. You’ll be stuck like that forever.”

She rolls onto her side and peeks at you, eyes wide. “They will lock me up for this, right?”

You pause.

Then you sigh—and explain, more calmly this time, that you can adapt the formula. That it’s not ideal, but not impossible. That you’ll compensate. Adjust ratios. Try alternatives.

Her panic stutters.

“…You can?” she asks.

You nod.

She pushes herself upright and leans closer, looming again without realizing it. “So—so I didn’t ruin everything?”

You tell her no. You thank her for what she did manage to bring back.

Her reaction is instant.

Her ears perk. Her shoulders relax. Her whole face lights up as if you just flipped a switch, and before you can brace yourself, she scoops you up and presses you against her chest in a tight, joyful hug.

“I helped!” she beams. “I actually helped!”

For a moment, you remember how this all started—

The wrong mixture. The shattered vial. The sudden, terrifying shift in scale. Her panicked hands grabbing you and running before anyone could see.

You’d realized quickly that shouting wouldn’t help. That fear ruled her more than malice. And that, inconvenient as it was, trusting her—and working with her—was your only real option if you ever wanted your size back.

Bea loosens her grip just enough to look at you again, still holding you securely.

“S-so,” she says, hopeful now, tail swishing. “What’s next?”

She gestures deeper into the burrow, where a concealed passage leads toward the abandoned tower you’ve been secretly using as a laboratory.

“Do we… try another formula?”