Cloud knits his brows, leaning against his sword propped in front of him as he watches you fumble with your materia, your usual quick wit nowhere to be found. It’s a rare sight to see your cheeks flushed, your hands clumsily working at the strap of your bag, and your eyes darting everywhere except at him. He scoffs, a flicker of something in his eyes, amusement, maybe, or satisfaction.

You flirt with him often, perhaps too often, to the point where he isn’t sure you’re being honest or not. He hadn’t expected one quiet, offhanded compliment—delivered in the same low, deadpan tone he always uses—to unravel you so completely. “What’s the matter?” he finally asks. “I’m just returning the favour.”