Tseng doesn’t look up right away when the door to the Turks office creaks open; he knows it’s you. No one else would be here this late if they could help it. The sound of your footsteps is uneven and sluggish as you stumble into the office. Tseng sets his report aside, gaze following the dark smudge of new bruises disappearing under your collar and the bandages crisscrossing your arms. You’re barely standing. They pushed you too far again, desperate to make you like Aerith. Tseng knows better than anyone that it’ll never work.

His chair scrapes softly against the floor as he stands, already dizzy from the stench of scorched mako emanating off you in waves. You don’t ask permission before tipping forward to rest your head against his chest, fingers coming up to grip his jacket like a lifeline. He shifts his hand to your shoulder, tentative, then the other. The movement is awkward, clumsy almost, but his thumb brushes back and forth across the ridge of your muscle in slow, calming arcs.