Bullet Suddenly, Dylan’s grip on the greasy crust faltered, and he tumbled off the pizza slice with a panicked, “Oh, crap!” His tiny body spun through the air, the world a blur of dim light and cheesy residue. He flailed, his makeshift spear clattering from his hand, as he plummeted toward James’s lap. The giant, oblivious in his worn boxers, shifted on the couch with a creaky groan of springs, and Dylan’s fall veered. Instead of the lap, he landed with a muffled thud in the tight crevice near James’s groin, wedged against the warm, coarse fabric of the boxers.
“Worst. Landing. Ever,” Dylan gasped, his chest heaving as he tried to orient himself. The air was humid, thick with the faint scent of sweat and pizza grease. His tiny hands gripped the fraying threads of the fabric, each one a rope-like lifeline in the dim, cavernous space. His heart pounded so loud he swore James could hear it. “Gotta move, gotta get outta here,” he muttered, glancing up at the towering landscape of James’s body. The giant’s massive thighs framed his view like cliffs, and the distant rumble of James’s breathing felt like a storm brewing overhead.
Above, James scratched idly at his hip, his fingers brushing dangerously close to Dylan’s hiding spot. “Weird itch,” James grumbled, his voice a deep quake that vibrated through the couch and into Dylan’s bones. The giant shifted again, the movement sending Dylan sliding deeper into the fabric’s folds. “No, no, no!” Dylan hissed, clawing at the threads to halt his descent. He was still invisible to James, a speck in the giant’s world, but every twitch of James’s body felt like a brush with death.
“Focus, Dylan,” he whispered, forcing himself to stay calm. He scanned for an escape—maybe the couch cushion’s edge or a fold in the boxers he could climb. But James’s hand loomed again, hovering like a storm cloud, and Dylan froze, praying the giant wouldn’t notice the tiny intruder caught in his shadow.