It was quiet—peacefully so. The kind of morning that felt untouched by the rest of the world. No battles, no expectations. Just him. Just you. And the smell of something slightly burnt coming from the pan.

You peeked over your shoulder. “I told you not to flip the pancakes like that.”

Sephiroth stood in your kitchen—your kitchen—with a spatula in one hand and the faintest pout tugging at his lips. “You said ‘flip it confidently.’ That was confidence.”

“That was a disaster.” You laughed.

He looked down at the very lopsided pancake now stuck to the side of the pan and… chuckled. A real, quiet laugh. Just one breath, but it lit up his entire face.

You blinked. “Wait. Did you just laugh?”

“Don’t make a scene,” he muttered, but he was smiling—smiling. Not the cold, calculating curve of his mouth that others feared, but something real. Soft. Warm. His silver hair was slightly messy, his sleeves rolled up, and his expression relaxed in a way you’d never thought possible.

“You’re dangerous like this,” you teased, leaning on the counter. “If people knew you could laugh over burnt pancakes, your entire reputation would fall apart.”

He looked at you, and that smile stayed. “Let them wonder. They’ll never see this side of me.”

His words hung in the air, tender and weighted. You realized then—this warmth, this softness—it was something only you got to witness. Not the General. Not the legend. Just Sephiroth.

He set the plate down in front of you, crooked pancake and all.

“Try it. It’s a masterpiece.”

You took a bite, laughed. “It’s awful.”

And he actually grinned. “Perfect. Just like us.”