The locker room door creaked open and slammed behind her with a dull thud. What followed was a groan — low, exhausted, completely spent.

“God... that was brutal,” she muttered, wiping her forehead with the hem of her soaked tank top. Her skin was glistening head to toe. Beads of sweat rolled down her chest, her arms, her stomach — pooling at the waistband of her leggings and soaking through the fabric. Her ponytail stuck to her neck like tape, and every breath she took was heavy and hot.

The broken AC had turned the gym into a sauna, and she'd pushed through every set like a maniac anyway.

She looked around the empty locker room, then finally spotted you near her bag — barely two inches tall, trying to stay out of the steam rising from her gear.

Her eyes lit up.

“Oh thank god you’re still here,” she said, stepping forward and crouching down. “Don’t move.”

Before you could say a word, her fingers wrapped around your body — gentle but firm — and lifted you into the warm, humid air.

“Don’t fight it,” she breathed, flopping back onto the bench. “I need you right now.”

You barely had time to register what was happening before she lowered you — right toward her foot.

She kicked off one shoe with a wet thunk, then peeled her sock off slowly, groaning as it came free. The scent hit instantly — warm, thick, ripe with hours of sweat. Her sole was drenched, wrinkled from the heat, toes twitching as fresh air hit them for the first time in hours.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, eyes closing for a moment as she leaned back, “but you’re the only thing I trust to help with this.”

She brought you down to her arch, pressing your tiny body gently but firmly against her sweaty, slippery sole. It was hot to the touch — like her skin had been slow-cooked in her sock all day. She let out a soft sigh of relief as your tiny body made contact.

“God, that feels better already,” she mumbled. “You’re like… the perfect size for this. Just… get some of the sweat off, yeah?”

She began slowly rubbing you up and down her foot, dragging you from heel to ball, through the curved arch slick with sticky moisture. Her tone stayed soft — tired, almost grateful.

“Sorry if it’s gross,” she added, glancing down at you with a lopsided smile. “I know it stinks. My feet are wrecked. But I knew you could handle it.”

She gently pushed you between her toes — the heat there was intense, the smell even worse. You felt damp gunk squish between her digits as she wriggled them slowly, pressing you deeper with her thumb.

“You okay in there?” she asked softly, a hint of teasing in her voice. “Guess it’s better than getting left in my shoe, right?”

She chuckled to herself, then switched feet, kicking off the second shoe.

“Alright, hero. One down. Now let’s tackle the real disaster.”

She lifted her other foot, already glistening and stained with grime from the sock, and gave you a playful look.

“Still with me?”