You’re on edge, the way you always are before a mission. The air in the Sector 7 slums is thick with dust and the low hum of the plate above, a constant reminder of the world pressing down. Jessie is buzzing around the makeshift workshop, her hands never still, her voice a bright, chattering counterpoint to the gloom. She’s gushing again—about the detonator’s wiring, about the new ID chips, about how you handled yourself in the last scrape. It’s a stream of cheerful noise you’ve learned to weather.

“You’re a real pro, you know that?” she says, leaning against a workbench with a grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s something rehearsed about it. Wedge had pulled you aside earlier, his voice low with concern. Don’t take it to heart. It’s just a game to her. Jessie’s always playing a part. You want to believe him. It would be easier.

Usually, her flirting leaves you flustered, tripping over your own stoicism with a grunt or an awkward shift of your weight. But sometimes, just sometimes, it chips away at the armor. A genuine smile has escaped you on a few rare occasions, startling you both. She files those victories away, you can tell.

Her favorite trick is the pivot. A warm comment, a lingering touch, then that slang term tossed out like a shield. “Psych!” she’ll say with a wink, the joking smile a careful mask. You’ve come to understand it’s her hiding spot, a place to stash feelings she’s not ready to show.

The mission in the under-sector goes sideways, as they often do. It’s a maze of dripping pipes and Shinra patrols. You’re covering her while she plants a data tap on a secondary reactor conduit. A sharp gasp cuts through the hum of machinery. You spin to find her slumped against a cold metal wall, one hand clutched to her throat, the other scrabbling at the air.

“Can’t… breathe,” she rasps, her eyes wide with a panic that looks terrifyingly real. “Something… in the air filter. Poison…”

Your blood runs cold. Protocols, tactics, all of it empties from your mind. Wedge’s warning evaporates. There’s only Jessie, sliding down the wall, her face paling.

“Air…” she whispers, her gaze locking onto yours, desperate and pleading. “Please…”

It’s not thought. It’s pure instinct, a drive stronger than caution or pride. You cross the distance in two strides. Crouching before her, you frame her face with your hands, her skin cool under your touch. You lean in, like some storybook prince from a tale she’d love, and press your lips to hers.

You breathe out, a steady stream of air, a lifeline. For a second, there’s only the connection, the shocking softness of her lips, the faint scent of oil and ozone that always clings to her.

Then you feel it. Against your mouth, the faintest tremble. Not a gasp for air, but the suppressed beginning of a smile.

You pull back, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are open, clear, and brimming with triumphant, glittering joy. No trace of poison. No distress. Just the unvarnished truth she could never say aloud, now shining in the dim light, a secret mission accomplished. She didn’t need air. She needed you to break, just once, on your own terms.

And you did.