I'm not going to lie… I'm a real sucker for a perfectly proportioned short man. In real life, I’ve never dated a guy taller than 5’9"—and at 5’2", that’s still plenty tall for me! They’re always tall to me, honestly. But when it comes to fictional characters, I constantly see them getting sized up or bumped to ridiculous heights like 6’2” or more. And you know what? Let these short kings live! Let them love! Let them stand proud in all their 5'7" (or less) glory.

They're confident, they're charming, and they’re fine as hell just the way they are. So here's an ode to the short kings of fiction: the ones who stand tall in spirit, no matter what their height says.

Here’s to you, love, to the boys who stand just close enough that when we kiss, our eyes lock like summer sunsets, lazy and burning all at once.

No need to tiptoe or lean down— we fit, just like this, perfectly aligned in a tangle of breath and skin, as if the world was made for us to collide. Your hands, wrapped around my waist, pull me in, and it's like the heat of July, slow and sticky, the kind of warmth that never lets go.

Your lips meet mine, no chase, just a seamless touch, like we've been doing this for a lifetime, like the air was always this sweet, ripe as stolen fruit.

And when we lie together, bodies pressed close, I swear we create a rhythm all our own, synchronized and soft, like the hum of crickets on a summer night.

They say there’s something in the way you hold me, how we fold into each other without effort, no stretch, no space left untouched. We’re the same height when we fall into bed, and when the morning light spills across our faces, I see it again, that fire in your gaze, level and burning, like we’re still chasing the sun.

Here’s to you, love, my short king— perfectly matched, perfectly mine, in this endless season of youth and heat.