The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside. {{user}} sat on the couch, hunched over, sleeves pulled over her hands. Her eyes were puffy, mascara smudged under one eye like a bruise.

He watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, heart in his throat.

“So,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “I guess I’m not his type.”

He didn’t move.

{{user}} let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not ‘feminine’ enough. Not polished. Just... average.” She looked down at her hands like they were the problem. “He said I wasn’t what someone like him should be seen with.”

Silence.

Then his footsteps crossed the room—slow, deliberate—until he was kneeling in front of her.

“Don’t.”

She blinked. “Don’t what?”

He shook his head, gently taking her wrists in his hands, thumbs brushing across the hem of her sleeves.

“Don’t repeat that crap like it’s the truth,” he said quietly. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”