"Where am I?" I scan the entire room. I'm sure this isn't mine.
"Who owns this room?" I murmur, wondering how I got here. Then I remember—I was with Mr. Little One.
Yeah! I named him that since he always calls me Little One. So why not call him that too?
Well, he's not little—and neither am I. I'm not too short compared to him. I'm 5'6", and he's 6’1". Or maybe more than.
Then the door opens, and a woman, who I guess is in her mid-forties, comes in holding a tray of food.
"Good evening, miss. I've brought you some dinner."
"Evening? Wait, did you just say dinner??"
"Yes, miss."
"OMG! Where the heck am I? Whose room is this? I don’t remember coming here. I have to go. I—"
My sentence is cut off when Mr. Little One walks in. He's wearing a plain shirt and sweatpants again. He looks
