Tifa isn’t usually one to fuss, but tonight, she finds herself wanting to. You sit on the edge of the bathtub, a towel draped over your shoulders, while she stands behind you, scissors in hand, quietly evening out the ends of your hair. “Hold still,” she murmurs, voice low and steady, but there’s something careful and almost hesitant beneath it. The quiet snip of the scissors fills the space between you, the only sound in the apartment.

She combs her fingers through your hair, smoothing it down. “You should let me do this more often,” she says, almost too soft to hear. She watches the strands fall, fingers lingering against your skin just a little longer than necessary. She’s done this for you before, just like she’s done a hundred other things: reminding you to drink water, bringing you leftovers from Seventh Heaven, staying up with you at night to hear your troubles.

It’s what roommates do, and you were the first female friend she ever met. It’s just the natural course of things to want to take care of you, right? That’s what she tells herself. But still, she wonders if you’ll ever notice that she wants to be more.