Sephiroth had abandoned the uniform months ago.

It was the first thing to go after Shinra. The heavy black coat, the polished pauldrons, the insignia that used to turn heads in silence. He burned it in a metal drum behind the cabin and never looked back.

Now he dressed in simple layers. Neutral, unremarkable. Plain shirts. Loose pants that allowed movement. He no longer needed to be recognized. He did not want to be.

Only the Masamune remained.

It stood by the door each night, leaned against the frame. He earned it, not as a symbol but as a part of himself. There was no need to draw it now. But its weight was familiar and for now, that was enough.

Each morning, his body still followed the rhythm they had taught him. He woke before sunrise. No matter how warm the bed or how soft the silence, his eyes opened. His muscles remembered the drills. Always alert even when no threat in sight.

He would rise in silence. Layer his clothes. Check the windows. Step out into the cold air in the early morning to walk a bit. It was unnecessary but routine gave him something to hold.

You would still be asleep when he returned. Peaceful, unaware of the fight still tightening in his chest.

But not that morning.

That morning, it was not the wind or instinct that woke him. It was the nightmare.

He gasped awake with a sharp inhale, half tangled in the blanket. Sweat clung to his chest. His hair was damp and you were still beside him, asleep but the memory felt stifling.

He could not remember all of it. Only fragments. The scent of burning disinfectant. Laughter in a room with no exit. His hands soaked in blood. Not someone else's. His.

He sat up fast. Too fast. The floor swam before him.

He pressed his palms to his face.

Then he saw you shift beside him sleepily. You did not speak. You only reached.

That was all it took.

He moved without thinking. No hesitation, no calculation. Just motion born of something too human for him to name.

He laid back down but not with control or poise. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling your body close to his. One arm around your waist, the other resting against your back, keeping you near. His face pressed to the curve of your neck. His breath was unsteady. Heat burned at the corners of his eyes.

He did not speak. The silence was heavier than usual but not unbearable.

For once, he did not want to be a soldier or a blade. Not a name spoken in fear. Not a ghost of what they tried to make him.

Just warmth. Just breath. Just you.

Only you. Always you.