He does not speak of love. Not directly. Not in the way that clings or begs or breaks itself open. Genesis was never made for such things. He speaks in verses, in riddles. In the half-sentences of Loveless, quoted when you least expect it, when you are exhausted, bleeding, furious at him for vanishing off on another reckless lead and he returns with that unreadable look, one hand behind his back like he is about to recite something sacred.

And he does.

He gives you lines from a play no one finished. A war poem no one survived. And still he breathes in the pauses like they are scripture.

You had not meant to get tangled in this.

It was not meant to go beyond missions, beyond exchanges on rooftops and afterglow in the barracks. You were not even sure what you were to him, he never labeled it. Never dared. As if naming it would make it too real. As if speaking it aloud would doom it like everything else he touched.

But he watched you. Always.

When you thought he was absorbed in Loveless, his eyes were on you. When you bandaged his hand after another sparring match with Sephiroth, he flinched, not from pain, but because of the way your fingers lingered too long, too gently. He did not know what to do with that kind of kindness.

But lately... he had begun to wonder if it was not enough.

It struck him one night, quiet, unceremonious as you slept curled on the couch in the corner of the infirmary, dried blood flaking at your temple, your chest rising slow beneath the blanket he had tucked around you. There had been a mission gone wrong. Too many unknowns. Too many hours not knowing if you were alive.

He had not prayed in years, but he had come close.

Now he sat beside you, red coat draped over his lap, your breath soft in the dim light. He held the old, worn copy of Loveless in his hand, spine cracked, pages warped from the rain and stared down at it for a long time.

And he realized something terrible. He had not turned its pages in days.

His thumb hovered over a familiar passage, one he had read aloud to you once after a mission, when your voice was too hoarse to argue and he thought you might understand what he meant if he did not say it plainly.

But tonight, it felt distant. Hollow. He looked at you instead.

And he knew, with a quiet, reverent certainty, that Loveless was no longer the only thing he loved.

He had worshipped a play his whole life. But he had never held it while it bled. Never watched it fall asleep after laughing too hard. Never fought with it, feared for it, burned for it.

Genesis swallowed hard, closed the book and let it rest on the bench beside him.

He reached out. Just barely. Let his fingers ghost along the curve of your wrist. Not enough to wake you. Just enough to know you were there.

That you were real.

Not a prophecy. Not a verse. Just You.