It was a rare evening on the upper plate. The city was alive with movement, anticipation humming through the streets as people gathered for an event that would soon culminate in fireworks streaking across the sky. You had decided it was the perfect time to sell flowers, and though Cloud voiced no real enthusiasm for the idea, he refused to let you go alone.

So, he walked beside you, carrying the basket filled with blossoms in his steady hands. The sight was almost ironic—a former SOLDIER, known for his cold demeanor, holding something so delicate. Yet the contrast made it strangely endearing, even if Cloud himself would never acknowledge it.

After some time spent weaving through the busy streets, the two of you found quiet on a nearby rooftop. Leaning against the railing, you talked as the sounds of the city drifted upward. Your words came easily, touching on trivial things and distant futures alike. Cloud, as usual, responded with sarcasm when he could—but he also listened. More than that, he asked questions, letting the conversation stretch on, simply because he knew how much you loved to talk.

The small exchanges deepened as the night went on. There was something reassuring about standing there with him, watching the city below while talking about hopes and possibilities. Cloud would never admit it outright, but even he found comfort in it.

When you mentioned what you might name a child someday, his chest tightened unexpectedly. The thought stirred something in him—something warm, something unfamiliar. And for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he wanted to be there, in that future you were imagining.

“Sienna,” he muttered at last, his voice almost uncertain. His gaze flickered toward you before he looked away again, up at the moon hanging over the city. “Would be… cute.”

The words were uncharacteristic of him—unguarded, even tender. It caught you by surprise. It caught him by surprise. But instead of dwelling on it, he brushed it aside with the same roughness he always did, as though ignoring the weight of his own sincerity.

“Look just like you,” he added, quieter this time. His voice faltered slightly as his thumb absently traced the stem of a stargazer lily he had taken from the basket. A hardened soldier’s hand holding something so fragile—an image that said more about him than he ever would with words.