"Spies."
"Fine. Amateur spies. The worst kind." I grab the other hoodie and pull it over my head, immediately regretting the choice. It smells like the back of my closet and moth balls. "We need to look inconspicuous."
Grath looks at me. Then at the hoodie in his hand. Then back at me.
"You want me to be inconspicuous."
"Yes."
Grath gestures at himself, at all of himself, from his considerable height down to his broad shoulders, the expanse of his chest, the sheer undeniable presence he takes up in my smallcafé. One arm sweeps through the air as if to encompass the totality of the problem.
"Me."
I meet his eyes, trying to project confidence I absolutely do not feel. "That's the general idea."
He holds the hoodie up to his chest. It barely covers his torso, stopping somewhere around his ribs. The sleeves wouldn't make it past his elbows.
"This will not work."
I cross my arms, defensive even though I know he's right. "It's all I have that's even remotely your size."
"It's a child's shirt." He says it without heat, just stating fact, the way he might observe that the sky is blue or that the kitten has knocked over another mug.
"It's an adult large," I counter, knowing even as I say it how absurd it sounds.
"For humans." He pauses, still holding the hoodie at arm's length, examining it with the sort of resigned patience usually reserved for explaining basic concepts to very small children. Then he looks at me, one eyebrow raised in that particular way that somehow makes me feel both foolish and fond at the same time. "Small humans."
I press my fingers to my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind my eyes. This is already going poorly and we haven't even left the building.
"Okay. New plan. You wear your regular clothes but try to look. Less noticeable."
"How."
"Slouch. Hunch your shoulders. Blend into the background."
Grath straightens to his full height, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Everything about his posture screams notice me.
"Like this?"
"The exact opposite of that."
He frowns, then curls forward, rounding his spine until he looks like a question mark made of muscle and tension. His knees bend, his arms dangle, and his head tilts at an unnatural angle.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "You look injured."
"I look small."
"You look like you need medical attention."
He straightens again with a huff. "I don't know how to be small."
"It's fine. We'll work around it." I grab the baseball cap and jam it onto his head. The brim sits at an odd angle, too high on his skull, the band straining against the circumference. "There. Better."
"I can't see."
"Tilt it back."
He does. The cap immediately pops off and falls to the floor.
