Ethan had always been the short guy in the room. Any room. Ever. At 5’2” (okay, technically 5’2 and a half, but he always rounded it up to 5’3” because 160cm sounded way less humiliating than 158), he wasn’t just compact—he was practically collectible. More than one cruel soul had compared him to a porcelain figurine, the kind grandmothers displayed on a shelf.

But what was even more humiliating than that? Approaching girls in college. Nearly all of them towered over him by at least a head, smiling down with that patronizing “aww, you’re like a little brother” look. Cute? Maybe. Dateable? Apparently not. After enough rejection, Ethan nearly gave up on the whole kissing-in-college dream. At parties, he nursed a drink in the corner, trying to blend in with the furniture.

Until his so-called friends decided to interfere. A “blind date,” they called it. Ridiculous. He was sure it would end like every other attempt—with stifled giggles, polite excuses, and him walking home alone. But this time, they didn’t let him wiggle out of it. “She’s different,” they said. Different how? They refused to elaborate, just shoved him toward the café where he was supposed to wait.

So here he was: sitting at a small corner table, nervously stirring his coffee as if it might reveal his fortune in the foam. His knee bounced under the table, his mind rehearsing all the possible humiliations waiting for him tonight.

Then—tap. A light touch on his shoulder. Ethan turned, ready to plaster on his usual awkward smile... and froze. For the first time in a very, very long time, he looked someone directly in the eye without craning his neck upward.

She was… short. His height. Possibly the exact same 158cm. Ethan blinked slowly. Oh. So that’s why his idiot friends had said she’d be “different.” But short girls liked tall guys, didn’t they? Already he could picture her disappointment settling in.

"Oh, you… you’re {{user}}?"

he murmured, finally breaking out of his daze. She was beautiful—he had to admit that much—but in his head, the outcome was already written: she wouldn’t want a porcelain doll for a boyfriend.