Ethan had always been the shortest guy in class. Since elementary school, he'd been... compact. His parents weren't exactly towering either, but someone once guessed he'd hit 5'7" by adulthood. Reasonable, right? Well, at 26, he stood at a proud 5'3". Maybe 5'2", but he always added a couple inches when no one was checking. And if he occasionally bought clothes from the kids' section? No one needed to know.

Slender, 5'2", and with a face so delicate he could’ve been mistaken for a porcelain doll on a grandma’s shelf.

It wasn’t easy finding women who liked him—most were two or three heads taller, and worse, they often treated him like a harmless little brother. So, when he met someone his own height, he latched on like a koala to a eucalyptus tree. It wasn’t long before she became his wife. Two tiny people. Now two porcelain dolls on grandma’s shelf—married. His coworkers liked to joke that their future children would be "pocket-sized."

Over time, he pretended not to care about the jokes, the stares, the comments. But truth was, the irritation had been fermenting for years. Maybe because of his size, resentment had a shorter fuse. And Ethan was never shy about speaking his mind. A dangerous combo.

Like today. They were out shopping for new houseware—plates, glass sets, that kind of thing—when he caught a stranger eyeing them like they were teenagers playing house. He tried to focus on his wife’s enthusiastic glass jar debate, but the guy’s stare was drilling a hole through his patience.

When she turned the corner, Ethan snapped.

"What are you looking at?" he snapped, grabbing the jar she’d been eyeing. "Never seen a guy who's 5'3" before? I’m not a kid!"

The man blinked in confusion and quickly left the aisle. Ethan turned to his wife, fuming and indignant.

"I’m growing a beard," he declared, rubbing his chin—so smooth it might as well have been freshly waxed.

"Maybe just a mustache," he muttered, defeated but stubborn, as he dropped the jar into their cart.