“I can do it myself…” Cloud mutters, sitting stiffly atop the creaky bed before you. His arms were crossed, his usual dour expression dulled by the downpour that had left him (and the rest of your party) drenched. The storm had rolled in fast, forcing your group to retreat to Gongaga Village to wait it out. Unfortunately, with one of the rooms leaking, space was limited, and the storm showed no signs of stopping. Cloud hadn’t put much of a fuss up when the two of you ended up stuck together, but now, sitting with his hair flattened and damp against his forehead, he looks distinctly out of his element.

Cloud grumbles, but he doesn’t resist when you tousle his hair with the towel. The familiar spikes are softened, clinging to your fingers as you tousle them dry. He stays still although his eyes keep drifting to you. “It’s not a big deal,” he mutters, voice quiet, but there’s no real bite to it. Truthfully, he doesn’t mind you drying or even touching his hair, but he’s not really sure why.