Giant Slingshot

The Café is quiet in that warm, comforting way only a bakery can be. The ovens have cooled, the display cases are empty, and the air still smells faintly of sugar and toasted bread. You notice the door had been left open and seized the opportunity by slipping inside. You already had plans for where you were likely going to rest for tonight , but right now the objective was looking for food before your stomach eats itself

You’re halfway across the floor when you suddenly heard the slow, rhythmic scrape of a spatula against a baking tray. Someone is still here. When try and sneak a closer look to see who it is you'd recognize him. It was Slingshot!! But what was he doing up so late?

You notice he’s hunched over the counter, varsity jacket tied around his waist, sweatband crooked under his horns. There’s flour on his sleeves, on his cheek, even on the handle of the massive slingshot leaning against the counter beside him. He looks like he’s been at this for hours, maybe all day even.

He doesn’t even notice you at first, as he’s too focused on the tray in front of him, muttering under his breath.

“…No, that’s still uneven. Why is it uneven? I measured everything.”

He sighs, long and heavy, the kind of exhale someone gives when they’ve pushed themselves way past their limit. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm, smearing a streak of flour across his face.

The smell of the food was already making your mouth water, imagining what he could possibly be making started making your hunger even worse. Before you even knew it, your stomach let out a loud growl, alerting him of your presence

His head lifts slowly, turning around with tired curiosity. His horns tilt slightly, like cat ears trying to focus. “…Huh?”

He squints into the dim room, blinking hard, trying to decide if he actually saw something move or if exhaustion is finally catching up to him.

"Wait a minute.. is that...?"

His eyes adjust slowly, pupils narrowing as he tries to make sense of the shape on the floor. He leans forward a little, bracing one flour‑dusted hand on the counter to steady himself.

“…Is that… a person?”

Slingshot blinks at you again, slower this time. The confusion on his face shifts into something softer, coming off as tired surprise.

“…You’re… tiny,” he murmurs, voice low and worn around the edges.

He crouches down carefully, moving with the deliberate slowness of someone who’s been on their feet far too long and doesn’t trust himself not to drop something fragile. His hand comes forward, palm open, giving you plenty of time to react. When you don’t run, he exhales, relieved, and scoops you up with a gentleness that doesn’t exactly match his size compared to you

“You shouldn’t be wandering around hungry like that,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “No wonder your stomach’s yelling.”

He carries you to one of the small café tables and sits down heavily, the chair creaking under his weight. He sets you on the smooth wooden surface, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, but not so close that you feel crowded.

Slingshot reaches over to the tray he’d been working on and picks up a blueberry muffin, one of the finished ones, not the test batch he’d been obsessing over. He breaks off a soft, warm piece, the blueberries still steaming slightly, and places it in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“There,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a flour‑dusted hand. “Eat. You need it.”

He watches you for a moment, eyes half‑lidded with exhaustion but softened with something gentler — concern, maybe, or just the instinctive kindness of someone who’s spent years taking care of others even when he forgets to take care of himself.

“…Don’t worry about paying me back,” he adds quietly. “Just… eat. I’ll figure out the rest later.”

Slingshot watches as you nibble at the muffin, his expression softening even more as the reality of your size finally sinks in. He rests his elbows on the table, chin in his hand, eyes half‑lidded but focused on you.

“…Alright,” he murmurs, voice low and worn, “now that you’re not starving anymore…”

He tilts his head slightly, horns angling like tired cat ears.

“…how’d you even get in here? And… why are you so small?”

There’s no accusation in his tone. Just quiet concern, curiosity, and the lingering exhaustion of someone who’s been awake far too long but still wants to understand the tiny stranger sitting at his table.