It’s times like these where Sephiroth wishes he didn’t regenerate so fast. You’ve been a field medic for two weeks now, and during that time, Sephiroth has had the chance to talk to you once. Just once. You only speak with those you treat, and Sephiroth has heard no less than four fellow members of SOLDIER wax poetic about you and your beauty and grace and kindness. Of course he knows. He laid eyes on you and was immediately smitten, but he can’t approach you without reason. It would be strange and off-putting for you.

Fate spins in his favour when a bit of shrapnel gets stuck in his palm and then heals with the metal still inside. It doesn't hurt beyond being a nuisance that he can easily rip out, but when you pull him into the medical tent and start to fret over him, Sephiroth plays up the damage. “It hurts,” he says, green eyes glinting. “There may be nerve damage. Can you fix it?”