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The moon hung low, its silver light filtering through the dense canopy of spruce and oak that surrounded the Cabin Crew’s home. The group had claimed this corner of the world early—Scott and Bdubs building up their cabin, while Scar and Etho collected materials. Tonight the four of them had gathered inside the main cabin, lanterns flickering, maps and half-finished plans scattered across the long table.
Bdubs sat on the edge of a chest, legs swinging slightly because his feet didn’t quite reach the floor. His moss cloak pooled around him like spilled ink, the living edges curling gently against the wood. He was trying to focus on Etho’s explanation of the Rejects watch routine and their plan to attack when Scar leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, grinning.
“Alright, so Big B handles their high watchtowers—makes sense, guy’s basically a walking lighthouse. Other than our Small B—”
Bdubs’ head snapped up. “What?”
Scar blinked, innocent. “Small B. You. Glowy cave boy. You can take the lower tunnels, right? Your glare light’s perfect for spotting creepers before they spot us.”
Etho snorted softly behind his mask. “He’s got a point. You’re build for it.”
Bdubs felt heat crawl up his neck. “I have a name, you know.”
“Yeah, Bdubs,” Scar said, still smiling like it was the funniest thing in the world. “But when we’re yelling across the ravine at three in the morning, ‘Small B’ is faster than trying to figure out which B we mean. Big B’s the giant, you’re the… compact edition.”
Etho shrugged one shoulder. “It’s practical.”
Bdubs opened his mouth, closed it, then shoved himself off the chest. His moss cloak rustled angrily. “Practical,” he muttered. “Right. I’m gonna go… check something. Outside.”
Scott called after him, “Don’t get lost in the dark, Small B!”
Bdubs didn’t dignify that with a reply. He slipped through the door and into the night.
The walk to BigB’s base wasn’t long. Darkness had settled thick and complete, the kind that pressed against the eyes. Bdubs’ skin answered automatically: a soft, pale green glow bloomed under his cloak, lighting the needles underfoot and the mist curling off the ground. He hated how instinctive it was, how it announced him every time he felt small or scared or angry.
But ahead, faint through the trees, another light waited. Amber. Steady. Warm. BigB’s glow.
The creaking hybrid’s titanium egg stuck out like a sore thumb in the surrounding forrest. BigB was outside, kneeling beside a cluster of glow lichen he’d been coaxing to spread across a stone wall. He didn’t look up when Bdubs approached, but his shoulders eased a fraction, and the amber light pulsing from his chest brightened just enough to be noticeable. Hello, it said without a sound.
Bdubs stopped a few paces away, arms crossed tight over his cloak. “They’re doing it again.”
BigB rose slowly—210 cm unfolding like a tree reaching for sun—and turned. His face stayed calm, unreadable to anyone who didn’t know how to look. But Bdubs did. He saw the tiny tilt of BigB’s head: Go on.
“‘Small B,’” Bdubs spat, voice low. “Scar said it like it’s my actual name now. Etho didn’t even blink. ‘Small B takes the tunnels.’ Like I’m some… accessory. Like the only thing I’m good for is being short and glowy.”
BigB stepped closer. One long hand lifted, hesitated, then settled lightly on Bdubs’ shoulder. The touch was careful, deliberate. I’m listening.
Bdubs’ throat tightened. “I know it’s stupid. I know they don’t mean it like that. But it’s every time. Every meeting, every call-out. Big B this, Small B that. And I’m just—” His voice cracked. “I’m not small. Not where it matters.”
A tear slipped free before he could stop it. His glow flared brighter in response, green light washing over BigB’s amber one, mixing into something softer, warmer. BigB didn’t speak—never did when words would only get in the way—but he moved. Long arms opened, and Bdubs stepped into them without hesitation.
BigB guided them inside. The door creaked shut behind them, sealing out the wind and the distant phantom cries. Inside it was quiet except for the faint groan of settling wood and the soft crackle of the fire BigB kept burning low in the hearth. He led Bdubs straight to the corner-made-bedroom at the back, where the bed was oversized even for him.
BigB sat first. The frame gave a quiet protest under his weight. He patted the space beside him once, twice. Bdubs climbed up, knees tucked, moss cloak dragging behind like a living train. For a long minute they just sat, shoulders brushing, glows mingling on the blankets.
Then the words came spilling out again, quieter this time.
“I hate it,” Bdubs whispered. “I hate feeling like the little one. Like my cloak’s just decoration instead of… instead of me. It’s everything. If I didn’t have it—if someone took it—I’d be nothing. And they just laugh and call me Small B like it doesn’t matter.”
Another tear fell. Then another. His glow pulsed erratically, fear and frustration written in light across his skin.
BigB shifted. His arms came around Bdubs from behind, enveloping him completely. No words. Just the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against Bdubs’ back, the warmth of his glow seeping through layers of fabric. Bdubs leaned into it, letting himself be held.
After a moment he reached up and unhooked the clasp at his throat. The moss cloak loosened, then slid free. Bdubs gathered the edges in both hands, hesitated only a second, then draped it over both of them. The living moss stretched and settled, wrapping them together like a cocoon. Green and amber light bled through the fibers, creating a private little world for them.
Under the cloak, BigB’s hold tightened fractionally—just enough to say I’ve got you. Bdubs turned in his arms until he could press his forehead to BigB’s chest. He felt the faint creak of BigB’s ribs when he breathed, felt the way BigB’s fingers traced slow, careful lines along his spine.
Bdubs cried quietly for a while, tears soaking into BigB’s shirt. The other never flinched, never pulled away. His glow stayed steady, a lighthouse in the dark, guiding Bdubs back to himself.
Eventually the tears slowed. Bdubs sniffed, wiped his face on his sleeve, and let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry. I’m a mess.”
BigB’s only answer was to rest his chin lightly on top of Bdubs’ head—a gesture so rare it made Bdubs’ heart stutter. I don’t mind, it said. Stay messy. Stay here.
They stayed wrapped like that until the fire burned low and the night grew deepest. Bdubs’ glow dimmed to a gentle schimmer, matching the calm rhythm of BigB’s breathing. The moss cloak stayed around them both, warm and alive and theirs.
When dawn crept against the windows, Bdubs stirred. He didn’t want to leave, but the server didn’t stop for feelings. He eased out from under the cloak, careful not to disturb the moss too much, and refastened it around his shoulders. BigB watched him.
Bdubs leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of BigB’s mouth. “Thanks,” he whispered.
BigB lifted one hand and brushed a thumb across Bdubs’ cheek—once, twice. You’re welcome. You’re enough. You’re mine.
Bdubs smiled and slipped out into the pale morning.
Later that day, when Scar yelled “Small B, over here!” across the clearing, Bdubs didn’t flinch. He just turned, moss cloak swirling, and shot back, “It’s Bdubs. Get it right or I’m stealing your flint and steel.”
Scar laughed. Etho raised an eyebrow. But Bdubs felt different—straighter, somehow. Not taller, maybe, but steadier.
And somewhere in the trees, a faint amber glow watched him go, quiet and proud.