Short of Breath: Chapter One - The Great Escape

Have you ever looked at someone so perfect you immediately started plotting your own disappearance? Meet Ivy St. Claire. She’s five-foot-four, trying to recover from a failed business, and currently standing in the apartment of Thatcher Reed—a man who is basically a human mountain.

The date was perfect. The wine is expensive. The conversation was real. And that’s exactly why Ivy is currently climbing onto a bathroom counter. In this opening chapter, we explore the sheer, heart-pounding panic of feeling "not enough" and the desperate lengths we go to when we’re terrified of being seen as a novelty. Grab your heels (or shove them in your purse) and join Ivy for the ultimate Irish exit.

Chapter One

The Great Escape

Ivy

The first thing I realize when I see Thatcher’s shoes by the front door is that I could probably live in one of them. Rent-free. With enough room left over for a breakfast nook and a small guest bathroom.

That should have been my first warning. Most people see a man who stands six-foot-nine with shoulders that require him to walk through doorways sideways and think jackpot. They think of the protection, the aesthetic, or the… well, the other logistical advantages. Me? I see a mountain. And I have never been much of a climber. I prefer flat ground. I prefer things I can see the top of without straining my neck and triggering a tension migraine that usually lasts for forty-eight hours.

I’m five-foot-four on a good day—five-foot-six if I’m wearing the "destined for bad decisions" heels I’d strapped on tonight. Those heels are currently screaming at me, the thin straps digging into my skin as if they are trying to tether me to the floor before I float away in a gale of pure, unadulterated panic. Standing next to Thatcher makes me feel like a literal doll. Not the cute, dainty kind—the kind that gets accidentally stepped on by a toddler and crushed into jagged plastic shards.

"You're quiet, Ivy," his voice rumbles.

It isn't just a voice; it’s a sub-woofer buried deep in a cavernous chest. I can feel the vibration in my own ribs just by standing three feet away from him. He is pouring two glasses of wine in his kitchen, his massive hand making the full-sized bottle of Cabernet look like one of those miniature samples you get in a gift basket from an aunt who doesn't really know you but feels obligated to send something for the holidays.

"Just taking it all in," I manage to squeak. My voice sounds thin and reedy, like a flute trying to compete with a pipe organ in a cathedral.

I look around his apartment and feel a sudden, sharp spike of imposter syndrome. Everything here is significant. The leather couch is deep enough to swallow a family of four and still have room for a golden retriever. The dining table is a slab of reclaimed oak that probably required a crane, a flatbed truck, and a prayer to install. It is a kingdom built for a titan, and I feel like a stray cat that has wandered in from a much smaller, much more fragile story.

The date had been great—that was the actual tragedy of it. If he had been a jerk, I could have just checked my watch and made an excuse about a sick cat or a sudden flare-up of some mystery illness. But Thatcher was... he was infuriatingly perfect.

At dinner, he leaned in—well, leaned down—and listened to me talk about the spectacular collapse of my boutique catering business for forty minutes. Most guys hear "failed business" and start giving unsolicited advice about "market pivot" and "venture capital." Not Thatcher. He just watched me, his dark eyes focused on my lips as if every word I spoke was a secret he’d been waiting years to hear. He didn't interrupt. He didn't look at his phone. He didn't even do that thing guys do where they wait for a gap in the conversation just to talk about themselves.

But as the night progressed, I watched the way other women in the restaurant looked at him. It wasn't just attraction; it was hunger. They looked at his height and his hands and they saw a challenge. They saw a trophy. They saw a story they could tell their friends about later. And because my brain is a seasoned professional at self-sabotage, I decided—somewhere between the appetizers and the main course—that I was just the latest "tiny girl" in his rotation. A novelty. A fun-sized snack.

He’s a giant, my inner critic whispers, sharpening its claws. He probably has a different girl for every night of the week. Once he realizes you have a messy apartment, a fear of heights, and a tendency to overthink your grocery lists, he’ll be bored. Or worse, he’ll realize you aren't the effortless, cool girl you're pretending to be.

"Ivy?"

He is standing right in front of me now. I didn't even hear him move. For a man who probably weighs as much as a small motorcycle, he moves with a terrifying, predatory grace. He holds out the wine glass, his fingers brushing mine. His skin is warm, and the contact sends a jolt through me that isn't just heat—it’s a frantic, neon-red warning. It’s the feeling of standing too close to a fire; you want to get closer for warmth, but you know you’re moments away from being burned.

"You look like you're plotting a getaway," he says. A small, lopsided smile tugs at his lips. He has this little dimple on his left cheek that feels like a personal insult to my resolve. He thinks he is being flirty. He thinks we are in the "will they, won't they" stage of a romantic comedy.

I, however, am in a psychological thriller.

"I... I just need to use the restroom," I lie, my heart hammering against my sternum. "The wine, you know. Small bladder. It’s a whole thing. Hereditary, really."

"Second door on the left," he points, his arm looking like a sturdy branch of a redwood tree. "Take your time, Ivy. I’m not going anywhere."

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, I think as I scurry away.

The bathroom is, predictably, a monument to his scale. The mirror is tilted so he can actually see his face, which means I have to stand on my tiptoes just to see past my own chin. I look like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. My eyes are too wide, my face is too pale, and I look like I’m one heartbeat away from a total meltdown. My lipstick is slightly smudged, and my hair—which I spent two hours curling into "effortless" waves—is starting to frizz from the sheer humidity of my own anxiety.

I reach the bathroom and click the lock, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. I don't move for the first sixty seconds. I just lean my forehead against the cool wood of the door and listen to the sound of my own pulse thumping in my ears. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It sounds like a tiny hammer trying to break out of my chest.

Even the towels in here are thick and plush, the size of small blankets. Everything about Thatcher’s life suggests stability and scale. And then there is me. I feel like a footnote in the margins of his biography.

My mind drifts back to the last guy I dated, a gym rat named Tyler who was barely two inches taller than me. Tyler loved to pick me up—not because he was romantic, but because he liked to show off. He’d toss me onto the bed like a sack of flour and joke about how "convenient" my size was. He used to call me "Shorty" or "Little Bit" in front of his friends, laughing while he used the top of my head as an armrest. To Tyler, I wasn't a woman; I was an accessory that was easy to transport. I was a "pocket-sized" girlfriend.

Standing in Thatcher’s bathroom, I realize the stakes here are much higher. If Tyler was a jerk, Thatcher is a catastrophe waiting to happen. If a man like Thatcher decides I am just a novelty, the fall will be much, much further. The impact will be enough to shatter me completely.

He’s going to look down at you one day, the voice in my head continues, relentless and cruel. And he’s going to realize he has to bend double just to hear your thoughts. He’s going to get tired of the 'cute' factor. He’ll want someone who matches his stride, someone who doesn't look like a toddler holding his hand when they walk down the street.

I move to the sink and splash cold water on my face, careful not to ruin the foundation I meticulously applied. I look in the mirror, but standing on my tiptoes in these heels is out of the question. The irony isn't lost on me. Even his furniture is telling me I don't belong here. I am an intruder in the land of the giants.

I think about the walk back to the kitchen. I picture him sitting on that massive leather couch, patting the spot next to him. I picture the way his arm would feel draped over my shoulders—heavy, warm, and possessive. My stomach does a somersault that has nothing to do with the expensive steak we just ate and everything to do with the sheer terror of being wanted by someone so massive.

I can't do it.

The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. I am not ready to be someone’s "little bit" again. But I am also not brave enough to stand in that kitchen and tell a six-foot-nine man that his height makes me feel like an insignificant speck of dust. I am not brave enough to ask him if he actually likes me, or if he just likes the way I made him look even taller.

I look at the window.

It is a classic sash window, the kind that looks charming in old brownstones but is a nightmare for anyone with a criminal record—or a social anxiety disorder. I push against the frame. It groans, a low wooden protest that sounds like it is calling out to Thatcher in the other room. I freeze, my heart stopping mid-beat.

Silence. Then, the faint clink of a glass against stone. He is still in the kitchen. Probably checking the time, wondering if I am okay, or if the small bladder is actually a cover for a full-blown digestive crisis.

I push again, harder this time, using the weight of my shoulder. The window slides up with a sudden shuck sound. The cool night air rushes in, smelling of rain and exhaust fumes and the city’s indifferent energy. It feels like freedom. It feels like an exit strategy.

I look down. The fire escape is right there, a zig-zag of rusted iron clinging to the side of the building. It looks precarious and dangerous. But it looks better than facing the vulnerability waiting for me in the kitchen.

I reach down and unbuckle my heels, my fingers shaking so badly I almost break a nail on the strap. I shove the shoes into my clutch, which is now bulging at the seams like it is about to burst. I look at my reflection one last time—a woman about to commit the most pathetic act of her adult life.

"Sorry, Thatcher," I whisper to the empty room, my breath fogging the mirror. "You're just too much man for a girl who feels like she's barely here."

I step onto the toilet seat, my bare feet feeling the cold on the unforgiving porcelain. Then, a clumsy hoist onto the edging. I feel like an explorer scaling a cliff face without a harness. I swing one leg out over the sill, the metal of the fire escape biting into the skin of my thigh. I am halfway out, balanced between the safety of the bathroom and the void of the alleyway, when I hear it.

Knock. Knock.

"Ivy? You okay in there? You've been gone a while. Should I call a medic, or are you just hiding from the wine?"

His voice is right outside the door. The vibration of it seems to shake the very window frame I am clinging to. I don't answer. I can't. If I speak, I’ll cry, or worse, I’ll stay and let him talk me out of my own panic. I pull my other leg through, grip the cold railing, and begin my descent.

Every step is a gamble. The iron stairs are narrow and slippery with evening dew. I move as fast as I can without plummeting three stories to the pavement. I don't look back at the window. I don't want to see his face appearing in the frame, confused, hurt, or maybe just resigned—watching his date flee like a common thief into the night. When I finally hit the ground, I don't stop. 

I run. 

I run until the muscles in my calves burn like they are being seared by a branding iron. I run until I reach the subway station, where I stand among the late-night commuters, shivering in my silk dress, smelling like expensive perfume and pure, unadulterated desperation.

I pull out my phone and do the unthinkable. I don't just delete his number. I block him. I erase the evidence of the best date I had in three years because I am too terrified to see if I am worth the effort it took for him to look down.

The fluorescent hum of the 24-hour pharmacy three blocks later feels like a physical weight on my shoulders. I stand in the Seasonal aisle, staring blankly at a row of discounted stuffed bears with "I Love You" hearts stitched onto their chests. I look ridiculous. My feet are throbbing and covered in city soot, my silk dress is wrinkled from the frantic climb, and I realize I am still clutching my heels in my hand like a pair of weapons I don't know how to use.

A clerk walks by and gives me a concerned look. "You okay, miss?"

"Fine," I snap, my voice sounding more like a sob. "Just... lost a shoe."

I stay in that pharmacy for twenty minutes, hiding between the aisles of dish soap and greeting cards, waiting for my heart rate to drop below cardiac arrest levels. I look down at the block confirmation on my phone. Thatcher Reed is blocked. It should have felt like a relief. Instead, it feels like I just threw a winning lottery ticket into a paper shredder.

I walk the final six blocks to my apartment, my bare feet hitting the cold, grit-covered sidewalk. Every shadow looks like a six-foot-nine silhouette. Every passing car sounds like the low rumble of his engine. By the time I reach my front door—a door that doesn't require me to duck, a door that fits me perfectly—I feel less like a survivor and more like a ghost.

My apartment is tiny, a charming studio that is real-estate code for "you can cook an omelet while sitting on your bed." I had always loved it because it made me feel like I took up space. In here, I am the main character. In here, nothing is too big. I can reach the top shelf of my cabinets without a stool. I am the master of my own miniature universe.

I toss my clutch onto the counter and slump onto my thrift-store loveseat. For the first time all night, I let the silence settle.

Usually, after a bad date, I’d call my best friend and we’d dissect every awkward comment or weird habit. But this wasn't a bad date. Thatcher hadn't been awkward. He hadn't made a single "height" joke. He hadn't even commented on how small my hands looked against his. He just looked at me—really looked at me—as if he was trying to memorize the way I laughed so he could play it back in his head later.

That is the scariest part. He wasn't looking at a novelty. He was looking at me.

"You're an idiot, Ivy," I whisper to the empty room.

I think about him back at his place. I picture him finally giving up on the bathroom door, maybe even getting worried that I’d fainted. I picture him finding the open window. The image of that massive man standing at his own window, looking out into the dark alley and realizing his date has literally chosen a fire escape over his company... it makes my stomach twist into a knot of pure shame.

He’ll probably think he did something wrong. Or, worse, he’ll realize exactly what I am: a girl so convinced of her own lack of value that she’d rather jump out a window than risk being seen.

I go to my desk and pull out my journal. I open to a fresh page, the white paper staring back at me with accusing purity. I pick up my pen, but my hand hovers. I want to write about the wine, or his dimple, or the way he held the restaurant door open with such easy chivalry.

Instead, I write one sentence:

Tonight, I ran away from a man who treated me like a person because I am terrified he will eventually treat me like a trophy.

I stare at the words until they are blurred. I’m safe now. I’m in my small apartment, in my small life, with my small problems. No one is going to crush me here. No one is going to make me feel like a doll.

But as I curl up under my covers, the bed feels too big, the room feels too quiet, and the safety feels a whole lot like a cage.

I fall asleep wondering if he has already deleted my number, or if he is still standing by that window, wondering where the girl who liked Cabernet and bad puns has disappeared to. I hope he hates me. It would be easier if he hates me. Because if he doesn't... if he actually careds... then I haven't just escaped a giant. I’ve escaped the only real thing that had happened to me in years.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: February 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix