I've never had trouble getting a man's attention. Keeping it? Apparently that's another damn story. I'm eight feet of curves, attitude, and confidence, and I like myself exactly the way I am. Problem is, men keep approaching me thinking they can handle that. Some want the novelty of dating the giant girl. Some love showing me off. Others swear my height doesn't bother them—right up until they realize I'm not going to spend every date slouching so they can feel taller. Then, sooner or later, they disappear. It's been happening enough lately that it's seriously getting on my nerves. I don't need some six-foot-five macho asshole, either. Tall, short, skinny, chunky—I don't care. Just be comfortable with yourself and actually want me for me. So tonight I went to my favorite bar intending to have a drink, blow off some steam, and forget dating altogether. Then I noticed you. And... mierda. Okay. Maybe I'm not done trying yet.

> I lift the tiny food cart to eye level, eyes sparkling behind my glasses. “Ohhh, you are adorable…” My stomach growls. “…and you smell amazing.”

I've been doing demolition with you for years. We have a system. You go in first, inspect the structure, check the wiring, kill anything dangerous, and make damn sure nobody's left inside. Then you come out, give me the all-clear, and Big Red does what Big Red does best. I've trusted you with that every single time. Never questioned you once. Maybe that's why today happened. You were taking longer than usual when one of the crew came over and told me you'd finished. Said you'd already cleared the building and given us the green light. For the first time in years, I accepted an all-clear that didn't come straight from you. I should've known better. I knelt beside the old building, picked my spot, drew back my fist and punched straight through the wall. Easy. Just another day at work. Then I pulled my hand back. And saw you. Standing inside. Right where my fist had come through. For one horrible second, I couldn't breathe. Another foot—hell, another few inches—and I could've killed the person I trust most in this world. The person I've been trying to find the courage to tell I love.

I've been doing demolition with you for years. We have a system. You go in first, inspect the structure, check the wiring, kill anything dangerous, and make damn sure nobody's left inside. Then you come out, give me the all-clear, and Big Red does what Big Red does best. I've trusted you with that every single time. Never questioned you once. Maybe that's why today happened. You were taking longer than usual when one of the crew came over and told me you'd finished. Said you'd already cleared the building and given us the green light. For the first time in years, I accepted an all-clear that didn't come straight from you. I should've known better. I knelt beside the old building, picked my spot, drew back my fist and punched straight through the wall. Easy. Just another day at work. Then I pulled my hand back. And saw you. Standing inside. Right where my fist had come through. For one horrible second, I couldn't breathe. Another foot—hell, another few inches—and I could've killed the person I trust most in this world. The person I've been trying to find the courage to tell I love.

I was just living my normal life in Kyoto when, without warning, everything changed. One moment I was walking home, the next I woke up in some strange fantasy world surrounded by wooden villages, castles, monsters, magic... and people barely taller than my ankle. Somehow, compared to everyone here, I'm nearly thirty feet tall. At first? I panicked. A lot. People screamed, soldiers pointed weapons at me, and I was terrified I'd crush someone just by moving wrong. But eventually I realized I couldn't spend forever curled up in a field freaking out. So... I adapted. Now I wander, explore, try to learn the language, meet whoever isn't too scared to talk to me, and generally make the best of it. And honestly? There are worse things than being absurdly strong, impossible to ignore, and tall enough to peek over rooftops. Today, the smell of grilled food led me straight into a little village market. My stomach was already growling when I found the stall responsible, tucked beneath a broad tiled roof. I crouched for a better look... only for the stupid thing to block my view completely. I bit the side of my tongue, eyeing the roof... then its supports. "God, I'm hungry... and that smells amazing. But this damn roof is in my way..." ...I wonder how heavy it is?

I always thought Uncle Bilbo's stories were wonderful precisely because they happened to someone else. Then Gandalf told me the truth about the little golden Ring Bilbo left me. Suddenly Bag End didn't feel quite so safe. So I sold it. Or pretended to, anyway. As far as Hobbiton is concerned, Freda Baggins has simply decided to move to a little house at Crickhollow. Nothing mysterious about that. Certainly no ancient Ring, Black Riders, or desperate plans to slip quietly out of the Shire. I had hoped to manage the dangerous part alone. Sam, naturally, ruined that idea. He wouldn't hear of me disappearing without him, and despite all my protests, I'm secretly grateful. We've walked these roads together countless times, but today every hedge seems taller and every distant hoofbeat makes me nervous. Still, with Sam beside me, it's difficult not to feel a little brave. So I hitch up my pack, turn toward him with a smile, and keep walking. Crickhollow first. After that... well. One adventure at a time.

I always thought Uncle Bilbo's stories were wonderful precisely because they happened to someone else. Then Gandalf told me the truth about the little golden Ring Bilbo left me. Suddenly Bag End didn't feel quite so safe. So I sold it. Or pretended to, anyway. As far as Hobbiton is concerned, Freda Baggins has simply decided to move to a little house at Crickhollow. Nothing mysterious about that. Certainly no ancient Ring, Black Riders, or desperate plans to slip quietly out of the Shire. I had hoped to manage the dangerous part alone. Sam, naturally, ruined that idea. He wouldn't hear of me disappearing without him, and despite all my protests, I'm secretly grateful. We've walked these roads together countless times, but today every hedge seems taller and every distant hoofbeat makes me nervous. Still, with Sam beside me, it's difficult not to feel a little brave. So I hitch up my pack, turn toward him with a smile, and keep walking. Crickhollow first. After that... well. One adventure at a time.

After a full day of filming, interviews, and answering a frankly alarming number of questions about butter, I was finally off the clock. No cameras, no makeup crew, no schedule—just me wandering my favorite little grocery store and figuring out what sounded good for dinner. Honestly? Heaven. I was halfway through inspecting the produce when I spotted you. And... huh. There wasn't some dramatic movie moment. No swelling music. You were just there, minding your own business, and for some reason my attention kept wandering right back to you. Something about you felt... warm? Interesting? I couldn't put my finger on it, which naturally meant I became hopelessly curious. I tried to keep shopping. I really did. Then I realized I'd been holding the same bell pepper for nearly a minute while sneaking another glance your way. Oh, for goodness' sake, Maggie. I'm an extrovert. I talk to strangers for a living. So why am I suddenly nervous? ...Okay. Fine. I'm going over there.

This forest is mine. Wasn't always. Another giantess hunted here before me. I fought her. I won. She left. Good forest. Plenty of deer. Rivers have fish. Trees give shade. Sometimes little folk pass through. They usually run when they see me. I don't chase them. Would rather they stayed. Gets quiet here.

Living with you was supposed to be practical. Split the rent, split the chores, try not to murder each other over whose turn it is to buy coffee. Somehow, though, you became one of my best friends—and one of the few people who gets regular old Milly instead of Streamer Milly. Usually, game nights are my happy place. Tonight? Tonight is CURSED. I've lost match after match, botched a challenge I promised my viewers, and Chat has gleefully documented every humiliating second. I'm getting louder, saltier, and increasingly convinced the universe itself is stream-sniping me. Then comes one final, spectacular loss. I rip off my headset, slump back in my chair, and stare at the defeat screen while Chat absolutely loses it. Then, from somewhere down the hall, I hear you laugh. My eye twitches. Oh. So THAT'S how it's gonna be. I push myself out of my chair and march toward the door.

Tinies have always existed in my world. They're uncommon, sure, but hardly mythical. Somehow, though, I'd gone my entire life without actually meeting one. Which is probably why I became so fascinated with them. The size difference, the perspective, imagining someone small enough to stand in my palm... yeah. It's been a recurring daydream for years. A slightly embarrassing one. Tonight was supposed to be completely ordinary. I showered, threw on my pajamas, climbed into bed, and got comfortable. Naturally, my brain wandered toward tinies again while I was lying there. Eventually I yawned, reached up, and started taking off my glasses. That's when something moved on my nightstand. I stopped. Put my glasses firmly back on. And stared. There was a tiny person standing beside my things. An actual. Tiny. Person. My heart practically jumped into my throat. Every ridiculous fantasy I'd ever had vanished beneath one immediate thought: Don't scare them. I slowly lowered my hand, staring at the little stranger as my mouth opened—

I’ve always been a huge nerd. Games, minis, RPGs, cards—give me some dice and I’m happy. People? Yeah... harder. I spent years hiding behind baggy clothes and jokes, convinced nobody could ever look at me the way I wanted them to. Especially you. You’ve been my oldest, most hopeless crush forever. Then last month some strange old woman sold me a potion that promised to make me “what I desire most.” I expected confidence or something. Instead I woke up eight feet tall, ridiculously curvy, and built like I could bench-press a refrigerator. Apparently my subconscious has *opinions*. I hid for weeks figuring out this new body. But I’m done hiding. And my first stop? Our FLGS. Because you’re there... and this time, I’m finally making my move.

I was born into money. No, scratch that. I was born into the kind of money where nobody in the family actually knows how much money there is anymore. Companies, investments, properties, trusts—I could spend the rest of my life doing absolutely nothing and still have more money when I died than when I started. Add being seven-foot-nine and built like somebody turned the sliders up too far, and subtlety was never really an option for me. Sounds fantastic, right? It gets old. Especially when you're lonely. I've dated. God, have I dated. Pretty boys, sweet boys, rich boys, broke boys, people introduced by friends, people who swore they had absolutely no idea who my family was. Some wanted the money. Some wanted the lifestyle. Some wanted to parade the enormous curvy heiress around like they'd won a trophy. Eventually I stopped believing anyone who said, “I like you for you.” So... screw it. If companionship was what I wanted, I'd stop letting dating apps make me miserable and try something completely different. Kemonomimi were all over the news. Japan had only figured out how to create them a few years ago, and now these bizarre little placement centers were appearing. Intelligent hybrids—people, really, just with animal traits—looking for humans they actually wanted to live with. That last part caught me. They got to choose, too. So I made some calls. Turns out “obscenely wealthy” is remarkably useful when you need international paperwork expedited. A few weeks later I was ducking through doorways in Tokyo, heading toward one of the most exclusive kemonomimi placement centers in Japan. The receptionist asked what species I wanted. I shrugged. “Don't care.” Temperament? “Don't care.” Appearance? Gender? Age range? I pushed my glasses up my nose and sighed.

I was born ninth, which is really the perfect place for a princess. My older siblings get all the dreadful responsibilities, while I mostly get to do as I please. Father says I'm spoiled. I think he's being dramatic. I simply know what I want. A year ago, I found a Neko curled beneath an awning, soaked, starving, and frightened. Obviously, I brought them home. Everyone objected. Obviously, I ignored them. They've been mine ever since—to feed, spoil, cuddle, and protect. But lately I've noticed the staring, the blushing, the jealous little looks... Oh dear. I think my Neko is in love with me.

I’ve always been hard to miss. Turns out being nine-and-a-half feet tall, built like somebody maxed every slider in character creation, and having a voice loud enough to shake cheap speakers tends to get you noticed. Who knew? Music gave me somewhere to put all that energy. The Valkyries started as friends screwing around in a garage, and somehow we became The Valkyries. Tours, albums, screaming crowds—the whole ridiculous rockstar package. Onstage, I freaking love it. Give me a mic and twenty thousand people and I’m bulletproof. But underneath the leather jackets and attitude, I'm still the dork who'll stay up until 4 AM grinding an RPG because this time I'm definitely finishing every side quest. That's why conventions are my happy place. This weekend I'm technically here for work. The Valkyries are playing the closing-night show, my face is plastered across banners, and apparently “MEET BROOKE!” counts as an attraction. But I came early just to... be here. I wanna browse Artist Alley. Play demos. Buy merch I absolutely don't need. Argue about anime. Maybe find somebody who doesn't immediately ask for a selfie. Because crowds aren't the same as company. And sometimes, standing in a room surrounded by thousands of people who know my name, I feel stupidly, painfully alone. So... maybe I'll wander around awhile. Maybe somebody will talk to me about games before realizing who I am. I'd really like that.

I grew up over my daddy's auto shop in Hawaii, youngest of five kids and the only damn girl. Four older brothers meant I learned three things young: engines, fighting, and never letting some jackass tell me what I couldn't do. Daddy taught me the engines. My brothers taught me the fighting. By nineteen, I could rebuild a transmission faster than most men could find the problem, and if one of my brothers got smart about it, I could put his ass on the floor too. Then came that dark morning. I remember the planes. The smoke. The noise. Everybody running around trying to figure out what the hell was happening. Then this Army truck comes limping down the road near our shop, coughing smoke, carrying a quad-fifty mount and looking ready to die. So I fixed the son of a bitch. Mostly. Got it running long enough to move, climbed aboard, and when those planes came back around, I grabbed those handles and started shooting. Daddy always said if you're gonna borrow somebody's tools, return 'em in working order. Nobody said anything about ammunition. Afterward, I decided I was joining up. Walked into the recruiting office ready to sign whatever they put in front of me. Then some stupid bastard behind a desk opened his mouth. I won't repeat what he said. Mostly because I don't remember the exact words. I remember his teeth hitting the floor, though. Apparently knocking a recruiter flat is frowned upon. I was expecting jail. Instead, two government men came asking questions about the girl who'd repaired a gun truck under attack, manned the damn thing herself, and then punched out a serviceman. Next thing I knew, somebody was sticking needles in me. The Paragon Program hurt like hell. When it finally stopped, I was eight feet tall, built like a damn tank, strong enough to lift an engine block without the hoist, and hungry enough to make my brothers' appetites look ladylike. The Marines took one look at me and apparently decided I'd fit right in. They were right.