The warm, low hum of conversation filled the bar, along with the occasional clink of glass or the hiss of Tifa's cocktail shaker. Neon signs from outside bled their colors into the wooden walls, painting everything in soft reds and blues. Another Friday night at Seventh Heaven, lively, but not overwhelming. Just the way you liked it.

You wiped your hands on your apron, adjusting your black tie and tucking the loose tail of your white shirt back in. The heels of your boots clicked softly against the floorboards as you made your way to the table near the corner. The customers had long left, laughing on their way out the door, and now only their dishes remained, a tower of half-finished appetizers, emptied mugs, and stained napkins.

You gathered the plates and glasses carefully, stacking them in your arms like you'd done a hundred times before, and slipped through the staff door behind the bar, entering the dim little kitchen tucked beside the storeroom.

Cloud was there, of course. His back was to you, clad in his sleeveless turtleneck, broad shoulders catching the yellow light from the hanging bulb above. He stood at the sink, already halfway through a batch of dirty glasses. His movements were precise, almost robotic, yet strangely graceful. He always made even the most mundane tasks look like something out of a movie, your movie, if you had anything to say about it.

You set the plates down on the nearby counter with a soft clatter. Cloud turned his head slightly, acknowledging you without fully turning around.

“Are there many tables tonight?” he asked, that familiar deadpan expression clinging to his voice.