The evening was alive with light and sound. A festival had overtaken the upper plate, the promise of fireworks drawing crowds into the streets. You had chosen the occasion to sell flowers, certain it would be the perfect time. Cloud had come with you—not because he wanted to, but because he would never let you go alone.

The image of him carrying the basket was almost jarring. An ex-SOLDIER, hardened by years of battle, holding something as fragile as a cluster of blossoms. It should have seemed out of place, yet the sight carried a quiet charm, as though the contrast revealed a side of him few ever saw.

After a while, the two of you found stillness atop a rooftop. Leaning against the railing, you talked about anything that came to mind—small things, passing thoughts, even hopes for the future. You spoke freely; he answered with his usual sarcasm, though not without interest. At times, he even asked questions, just to keep you talking.

Others had noticed what you hadn’t: the subtle ways Cloud changed around you. How his eyes softened when you smiled. How his shoulders eased when you were sad. They were small details, but telling ones. He would never say it himself—not when words like that felt too vulnerable—but it was there, all the same.

As the conversation turned to your favorite flower, the stargazer lily, Cloud’s gaze fell to the basket in his hands. He had never thought much about such things before—not flowers, not meanings, not feelings. But tonight, he found himself lingering on them. On you.

Clearing his throat, he picked up one of the lilies, holding it up toward the moonlight. Its pale petals caught the glow, fragile and luminous. He leaned a little closer, his voice quiet.

“This flower,” he said, his eyes flickering toward you for only a moment before turning back to the bloom. “You told me it meant reunion. Lovers used to give them… when they found each other again.”

His words faltered, his tone caught somewhere between hesitation and resolve. For a moment, it seemed he might stop there, let the thought go unsaid. But the weight of silence pressed against him, and he didn’t want to carry regret later.

Lowering the flower, he held it out to you. The calloused hands of a soldier were careful now, almost unsteady, as though he was afraid of crushing something so delicate.

“…I think I’ve already reunited with mine,” he muttered. His gaze dropped, his voice barely above the night’s hush. Simple words, unpolished, but real.

Cloud Strife was in love with you.

Above, the first fireworks burst into the sky, scattering light across the rooftops. The moon lingered still, casting its glow over the two of you—marking the beginning of something fragile, uncertain, yet undeniably yours.