Tifa slams the rag down on the counter harder than she means to, the glass she’s been polishing giving a sharp clink against wood. The bar’s nearly empty tonight—just a couple of regulars hunched over their drinks. She glances at the door for the third, maybe fourth time in as many minutes, jaw tightening.

“Where are they...” she mutters under her breath. “Radio silence when I actually need them.” It’s not anger so much as a sort of gnawing frustration of being left to wonder where you are. Silence is never good, especially when it concerns you alone with your motorcycle. She runs a hand through her hair, trying to shake off the familiar edge of worry.

Then the door creaks open. Tifa looks up, and all the tension in her chest loosens when she sees you, framed in the doorway, bruised and scratched up, a story for later. And in your hand, a singular yellow flower, a story for right now. “You’re late,” she says, voice softening. She can never stay mad at you.