The door of the safe house creaks shut behind you, and the weight of the night finally settles over the pair of you. Your limbs feel heavy, each step toward the worn-out couch is a struggle. Cloud is silent, his boots barely making a sound as he follows you inside, but the intensity in his gaze doesn’t waver.

“Sit,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. You hesitate, trying to wave him off, but he has none of it. “I said sit,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a sigh, you drop onto the couch, wincing as a sharp ache shoots through your side. Before you can protest further, Cloud’s already kneeling in front of you, his pack open and his hands busy pulling out his medical supplies. His movements are methodical, almost clinical, but there’s a softness to the way his fingers brush against your skin as he pushes your sleeve back or adjusts your shirt to inspect the wound. When he dabs at the gash with a cloth, you hiss in pain, and his hand pauses mid-motion.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his brows furrowing. He presses a little more gently, his eyes flicking up to check your expression.