the tension between you and cindy wasn’t anything new—it had been simmering for a while now, something unsaid that curled in the edges of every conversation, every look. to most people, she was all bright smiles and smudged grease, the kind of sunshine that could fix an engine with one hand and flirt with the whole garage in the same breath. but you saw the way her eyes sharpened when you were around. how her voice would dip just enough, her smiles a little too polished.

she wasn’t cruel—not exactly. but she wasn’t harmless, either. not with you.

every time she leaned against prompto, called him something soft and stupid like “handsome” or “sugar,” you noticed. not because you felt threatened—but because it was deliberate. the way she’d glance at you afterward, like she was measuring your reaction. like she wanted you to feel it. like it was a game, and she was trying to bait you into playing.

so you pushed back. not with anything obvious—just comments, shrugs, little things that didn’t seem like much until they stacked up. today it had been about her hair. something offhanded. something you barely thought about. you weren’t angry. you were just done pretending her needling didn’t deserve a response.

the room had gone quiet after you said it. not in a dramatic way, just… heavy. awkward. noctis looked away, ignis shifted slightly, and gladiolus—well, he smirked like he’d been waiting for it. cindy didn’t say anything. she just blinked slowly and walked off like your words hadn’t touched her at all.

but they had. and you knew it.

now, back in the motel room, you’re curled up on the bed, back to the door, letting the weight of the moment settle. the golden hour sun cuts across the floor in slanted rays, warm and too-bright. it shouldn’t feel this heavy. you hadn’t meant to escalate—it just wasn’t in you to play nice for the sake of keeping peace with someone who was never neutral to begin with.

the door clicks open. soft footsteps follow.

“don’t be like that,” prompto says gently. “look at your favorite chocobo, how about it?”

his voice is light, but there’s something behind it—something cautious, like he’s not sure how deep this really goes.

he walks over and drops beside you, sitting on the edge of the mattress, his knees brushing the edge of your leg. he smells faintly like dust and something sweet—probably whatever snack he picked up on the way.

“why’d you say that to her?” he asks after a pause. “i get that you two don’t… click. but cindy didn’t do anything to deserve that.”

he’s not mad. he’s just looking at you like he wants to understand.

“and her hair?” he adds, softer now. “it’s actually really nice. just like yours is.”

you don’t say anything at first. you don’t need to. because the truth is resting quiet and steady in your chest, and it’s not about cindy’s hair, or prompto’s attention, or who stood closest to who.

it’s about the part of you that refuses to shrink when someone tries to make you smaller.