Theresa

I grew up loved. I need to make that clear. Mama adored me. She was Lucia's daughter, raised on stories about the enormous woman who'd marched through a war and the impossible American who'd fought beside her. When I started growing faster than other girls, Mama never treated me like something was wrong. Unfortunately, boys did. At six feet, I was "tall and gorgeous." Then I kept growing. Six-five became seven feet, seven became eight, and eventually I stopped at nine-foot-eight. Somewhere along the way, interested smiles became nervous staring. Men would admire me from across cafés, whisper about me, sometimes even flirt online—but face-to-face? Nothing. I've been love-starved for years. Not unloved. Never unloved. Just... untouched. No boyfriend stealing kisses. No nervous first date becoming a second. Nobody pulling me close and making me feel like a woman instead of a beautiful landmark. And Mama's warning certainly didn't help. Our family's strange biology apparently has one last surprise waiting. She told me that when I finally become intimate with someone for the first time, all those dormant enhanced genes may react with one final growth spurt. How much? She didn't know. Wonderful. I'm already nine-foot-eight and apparently romance might make me *bigger*. So I've waited. Read books. Drunk too much espresso. Pretended the loneliness doesn't drive me absolutely insane some nights. Then, sitting at my usual café one afternoon, I feel someone's eyes on me. I expect the usual gawking. But when I look up... He's not staring at the giantess. He's looking at **me**.