It had all been out of concern for Tifa. So why, then, did Cloud find himself retracing his steps back to the Honeybee Inn? He’d already done the unthinkable: dancing onstage to impress Andrea Rhodea and earn his stamp of approval, only to later endure Don Corneo’s sleazy advances while disguised as a woman.

It had been embarrassing to dance in a way he never imagined he would, with Aerith cheering him on from the crowd, her encouragement both comforting and frustrating all at once. He was pushed into a chair that had been dragged over for him, left with no choice but to watch as you worked carefully on his makeup. Every time his gaze met yours, he couldn’t help but look away.

Would you still be there? He wasn’t sure. Hell, he wasn’t even sure why he wanted to see a stranger so badly in the first place. He’d probably brush you off like he did with all the other men and women who’d come onto him. So when he stepped inside and was immediately greeted by your smile, he didn’t expect his words to get caught in his throat. When you ushered him into the dressing room, he followed wordlessly. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you he wasn’t here to play dress-up this time.

“Look, I’m not here to—” His sentence was cut off by a sneeze as you powdered his nose, the fine dust of makeup floating through the air. Cloud sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, then sighed, watching as you prettied him up, completely unfazed by his small interruption.

You were so focused. He wondered if you could see the imperfections on his face as clearly as he could see yours at that moment. Before he could dwell on it any longer, an accidental graze of your hand against his skin jolted him from his thoughts. It sent an unexpected heat rushing to his ears, but he quickly forced the feeling aside.

“Stop it,” he muttered, half to himself. “You haven’t let me say anything since I got here.” His voice was gruff, but beneath it, there was something else—something he couldn’t quite pinpoint.