“I’m fine,” grumbles Cloud, steering your hand away from his burning forehead with a feeble swipe of his hand. “It’s not a big deal.” Despite all odds, he’d been knocked off-kilter by a cold. Not mako exposure, not a fight against some sort of high-levelled monster, not even Shinra. Just a cold. And now, maybe a bit of a fever.

Cloud broods, leaning back against the headboard of the bed with his arms folded over his chest. Even wrapped in the blanket you’d forced around his shoulders, he looks like hell. Feels like it too. When you reach over to brush his hair back again, he doesn’t stop you nor does he move when your cool hand finds his forehead. He flinches from the unexpectedly pleasant touch, lashes low, mouth pressed into a line, but not in protest. Just stubborn silence.