You were standing in the bakery kitchen, reaching effortlessly for the cinnamon jar on the top shelf. Marinette had been trying to get it herself for a solid minute, climbing onto her tiptoes, pouting, then grabbing a spatula to poke it down. She refused to ask for help—until you walked in.

“Need a hand, shortstack?” you teased, plucking the jar down and holding it just out of her reach.

She blinked up at you, cheeks puffed. “Excuse you, I am average height, thank you very much!”

You glanced down with a grin. You quite literally towered over her—at least a good foot taller. “Average for who? Mice?”

Marinette gasped in mock betrayal. ”Hey! That’s not fair! When we were kids I was taller than you.”

She folded her arms, puffing out her cheeks. “I am not bite-sized.”