He was not meant to feel. He was not meant to want.

Yet… there you were. Soft where he was sharp. Warm where he had long grown cold. You were the only anomaly in his otherwise calculated world, the only presence he didn’t anticipate. And now, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Sephiroth didn’t know when fascination turned into something more dangerous. It started with a glance across a silent battlefield. Then a conversation, sharp-witted and curious. Now? You haunted him—alive in every corner of his mind. He hated the idea of weakness, but when it came to you… he wasn't sure if it was weakness or something else entirely.

He kept his distance at first. Always watching, always analyzing. But you were persistent in your kindness. You didn’t flinch when he spoke. You didn’t cower when his voice turned cold. You challenged him. And it unraveled him.

"You're not afraid of me," he once said, almost like an accusation.

You had only smiled. "Should I be?"

Since then, he’d find excuses to be near you. Not that he would admit that to anyone. He didn’t know what to call this—this pull toward you. He only knew he hated seeing you near others. He despised the way they looked at you, as if you belonged to the world. You didn't. You were his. Even if you didn’t know it yet.

In quiet moments, he imagined what it would be like if you accepted him—all of him. The chaos, the cruelty, the man he was and the monster he might become.

Would you stay?

Would you still reach for him?

“Tell me,” he murmured one night, voice dangerously low as he stood before you, silver hair gleaming like moonlight. “Why is it that when you look at me… I feel like I haven’t completely fallen?”