Exerted and breathless. That's how every sparing match ended. Especially with Sephiroth. He was almost always stubbornly determined to win. He never quite let {{user}} win. It was friendly competition. Or was it..

Your latest match ended with you pinned under him. His gaze intensely tracing your face. Like if he was looking for something.

He didn’t move. Not right away. The weight of him wasn’t heavy, but it felt deliberate..like his body refused to let go of the closeness. His short silver hair was slightly disheveled, a rare crack in his polished image. “You’re the only one who makes me hesitate,” he said quietly, as though the admission itself threatened to undo him. There was no irritation in his tone, only a strange, unfamiliar softness that he hadn’t yet learned to control.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It pulsed with everything unsaid, everything he couldn’t define. Sephiroth had always known how to measure strength, strategy, precision. But not this. Not the warmth blooming across his chest every time you looked at him without fear. “If I ever let myself lose,” he murmured, eyes locked with yours, “I think I’d want it to be to you.” It wasn’t flirtation. It was something rawer. Something bordering on sacred.