“Please,” says Sephiroth, his gloved fingers wrapping around your wrist to prevent you from leaving. “Not yet.”

He’d been on his way through the sector to get to your place until he was swarmed by photographers who shoved cameras in his face and demanded to know where he was going. Across Midgar, he’s treated like a commodity, a product, one of Shinra’s most powerful toys. No one ever sees him as anything more than that. No one but you.

Sephiroth meets your gaze with his piercing cyan eyes. There’s a bit of hopelessness in them as he forces a smile. “I apologize for showing such a pitiful face.” Now that he’s in your apartment, his arms are itching to hold you. He just doesn’t want to ask.