But eventually... I look down.

There he is: trapped, trembling, caught in the crisscross of my laces, a stowaway who has no idea what “last ride” really means.

I tug the laces tighter.

I press my foot into the ground, letting the pressure remind him who owns this boot — and him.

He wanted a ride.

And now he’ll get one... all the way to his tiny, inevitable end under the sole of the giantess he tried to outsmart.

Stowaways don’t get rescued. Hitchhikers don’t get mercy. They get claimed.26:T505,He was supposed to be just another tiny hitchhiker on the roadside...

but before I could decide whether to ignore him or crush him, the l*ttle thing made a different choice.

He snuck into my Timberlands.

When I tightened the laces, I felt him instantly — a tiny jolt against the tongue of my boot, a l*ttle squirm wedged perfectly between the laces like he thought he could steal a ride without asking. Cute.

And unbelievably st*pid.

Every step I take grinds him deeper into the warm, dark leather prison he chose for himself. He gets shaken, squeezed, and pinned with every shift of my weight. I pretend not to notice at first, just to let him feel what it’s like to be an unnoticed speck clinging to a giantess.