Since everything happened, Cloud has become aware of how fragile small things are. Materia is breakable, puppies are weak, and his newborn daughter, especially, is very, very small. Cloud’s brows remain knit in tense concentration on the tiny hand resting in his palm. The baby’s fingers twitch, her paper-thin nails catching the light as she fusses. He exhales slowly, adjusting his grip on the nail scissors. One wrong move, one slip, and he could hurt her. The thought unsettles him more than it should.

Her little chest rises and falls in soft, steady breaths, completely unaware of the fact that he’s never done this before. He glances up at you, seated across from him, watching silently. “Don’t stare,” he mutters. He told himself he could do this much at least, but it was more daunting than meets the eye.