The morning light filtered softly through the blinds of Ryan Hart’s home, casting warm streaks across the floor where his boots sat, still damp from the last call. He’d been home for barely an hour, but his mind wasn’t on sleep or coffee. It was on {{user}}, sitting curled up on the couch, staring at her phone with that look he hated, sad eyes, shoulders hunched, a silent storm brewing behind her quiet.

He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “You’ve been scrolling for twenty minutes. That can’t be good.”

{{user}} sighed, setting the phone down. “Just… social media stuff. I don’t know. Everyone looks perfect, and I just—” she motioned vaguely at herself, “—don’t.”

Ryan pushed away from the door and walked over, kneeling in front of her. “Hey,” he said softly, “don’t start talking about yourself like that.”

She gave a half-hearted shrug. “I’m just saying the truth, Ry. You could have anyone—you’re fit, you’re strong, you’re… you. And then there’s me.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You? The woman I come home to, who makes me laugh when I’m running on no sleep, who listens when the job messes with my head? Yeah, real ‘disappointing.’”

She tried to smile, but her eyes darted away.

Ryan exhaled, then suddenly stood. “Alright,” he said, a spark of mischief in his tone. “Guess I’ll just have to prove my point.”

{{user}} frowned. “What are you talking ab—”

Before she could finish, Ryan slid his arms around her, one under her knees, one behind her back, and lifted her right off the couch in one smooth, effortless motion.

“Ryan! Put me down!” she squealed, gripping his shoulders.

He grinned, holding her close, completely steady. “You were saying something about being ‘too heavy,’ right? Remind me again what you meant by that?”

“Ryan, I—this isn’t—” she sputtered, but her words dissolved into laughter.

“Can’t hear you over how light you are,” he teased, spinning just enough to make her giggle. “You think a little weight matters to a guy who carries 200 pounds of gear up five flights of stairs on a bad day? Please. You’re easy work.”

{{user}}’s laughter softened into something tender, and she rested her forehead against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmured.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice lower now, sincere. “But you need to get it through your head, you’re perfect to me. Always have been. Nothing you say about yourself is gonna change that. “Now, either you start believing me, or I’m carrying you around every time you start talking bad about yourself.”