Sephiroth had faced hundreds of enemies and come out the victor. War, battle, all of it came naturally to him. It was what he was trained for all his life, and if he hadn’t met you, perhaps it was all he’d ever be. But with you, the ground he walks on is unsteady. Fresh.

Even now, he hears the blood rushing past his own ears. The ring feels impossibly heavy in his pocket—far heavier than any blade he’s ever carried. You’re beside him, bathed in the golden haze of sunset, and he realizes for the hundredth time that no battlefield has ever left him this unsteady. “I had hoped,” he begins, voice lower and more deliberate than usual, “to find the right words for this. But romance isn’t something I’ve had the luxury to train for.”