A/N: I began this maybe eight years ago and finally finished it because, as I'm now obsessed with final fantasy 7 again, I was going through all of my old stories. I had so many of them I either never finished, gave up on, or had a plot that was too out of my depth and scope of imagination and writing capabilities because I was (still am) a child and did not have the talents or endurance to finish them. Now that I'm a little older, I think I can handle it. Or not. But here's to trying, because I am gonna miss the hell out of playing the remake for what—another year? Two? Five hundred? Are video game creations essential during a pandemic? Because yes, I believe they are. Especially if they're about eco-terrorsim and killing the earth while you're a character that doesn't really care because that's ironic.

I am not funny with writing. Give me emotional turmoil and manipulation and angst. That I can do. Humor is hard, but I tried? I bet you can spot where my old writing ended and my newer writing began.

It's weird to be back in the world of final fantasy 7 again after so long, but I am really, really enjoying it. I didn't even know I missed it. Happy reading! All comments, thoughts, love, hate are inhaled like chocolate and heroin.

Party Like Your Heart Hurts

"Aren't you glad you came, now? The DJ is the bomb!"

Yuffie screams loud enough to cover the music and then some. Tifa winces in response.

"Sure, Yuffie," she says, somewhat limp as she lets Yuffie run her across the bar to the dance floor. She swings her arms around Tifa and does a Wutain hop step that Tifa's never seen before.

"If I'm going to dance with you, I'm going to need another drink," Tifa states.

"What?" Yuffie shrills. Tifa rolls her eyes. "Do that awesome dance move you showed me!"

"I need a drink, Yuffie."

"But we already did that!"

Yuffie has approximately five percent body fat. No matter how much alcohol she imbibes, her tolerance never raises. She only needs a few stiff drinks before she's flying high on drunken bliss. Tifa's pretty sure her tolerance has something to do with owning a bar, no matter how family-friendly. Or maybe it's the size of her boobs. Either way, both can't help.

Yuffie doesn't even need shots to act the way she does, arms and legs deftly moving like water around Tifa. For a ninja, Yuffie's pretty much got every angle down. She could include a double backhand spring into her dance moves if there weren't so many people in the way.

"Don't be such a log, Teef! Do that really hot dance move you showed me a few days ago!"

Tifa blows a stray hair out of her face. Yuffie's talking about a dance move she performed in their shared bedroom, alone, copying one of their favorite singers on television. It had been a joke, but that seems to have been conveniently forgotten.

"After I drink."

She tries to get away, but Yuffie's grip is unrelenting.

"No!" she shouts. "You can't rely on a depressant to help you forget about dark, tall, and so-quiet-it's-painful! You need a stimulant! And to get one, you gotta let loose and dance like you wanna fuck the shit out of someone!"

Tifa grimaces. "I think rebound sex is worse than getting drunk, Yuffie."

"What?" Yuffie shouts again, bobbing her head around. It's nearly unhinging from her neck. Tifa smiles a little at her, but untangles herself from Yuffie's grip, shaking her head and lifting her hands up in a placating gesture.

"Sorry," Tifa says, raising her voice. "I'll be back soon."

Yuffie pouts, gives her a dry look, and continues her moves elsewhere, bumping into strangers and grinning when they bump back.

Tifa shoves her way back to the less congested freedom of the bar. Sometimes, she wishes she could be as easy-going as Yuffie. She makes up and breaks up without a care in the world. She's the most resilient person she's ever met, flicking through boys like reading a good book and tossing them aside when she's done.

Yuffie's a sex hound. At least, she claims to be. Maybe she'll know what it's like to get a broken heart when she's courted the right way. Or not. Is Tifa the only one wired that way?

She takes a vacant seat at the counter and orders her drink.

Rude was—is—a great guy. He'd send her flowers, frequent her bar and make eyes at her, ask her on a date, kiss her hand, open doors. He was a gentleman plus one. He did all those things she dreamed about a guy. Treating her like a queen. Giving her attention and displaying just the right amount of possession. His eyes were warm and lingering underneath his sunglasses, telling her things his voice couldn't.

Yeah. It'd been great. There was nothing exactly the same as being courted, given affection and returning it. Maybe she was old-fashioned, but she enjoyed it. And he was persistent about it. So what happened?

She sucks her drink down, setting it in plain view for the bartender to refill.

She didn't know—still doesn't know. Maybe she didn't give him enough inclination to take it a step further. Maybe he got tired of their time together, their conversations. Maybe she plainly sucked at being a girlfriend. Maybe she missed a cue.

She's always been kind of bad with the males. Gaining their attention was one thing. Her breasts made that one of the easiest things in the world. Keeping their attention was another thing entirely.

Whatever. Maybe he wanted sex.

She almost spits out her drink.

He wanted sex.

Of course.

She hadn't told Yuffie that she never let him unfold the laundry, but Yuffie had asked and interpreted Tifa's blushing as confirmation. So Yuffie just shrugged, patted her head, and told her, who needed him, anyway? If he couldn't appreciate her for anything other than wanting physical pleasures, then he wasn't worth it in the first place. Tifa didn't have the voice to dissuade the assumption.

God, how stupid can she get? It's what all guys want. And they'd been dating long enough—but…well…

Sure, maybe Tifa is a little old-fashioned, but she isn't a prude. And Rude never communicated that that's what he wanted…

Not that he was very good at communicating, but Tifa always prided herself on reading him. Could she have missed such a gigantic sign? Wanting sex is like a blinking neon light after midnight. Blaring and obvious.

Newly angered and frustrated, Tifa finishes her third drink without breathing. If she mentioned anything to Yuffie, she'd probably look at her pityingly and with a frown, mad at her for never correcting her on such a detail. Not that sex was the only binding element to a relationship. Something else was wrong, and the only thing Tifa's mind could see was herself. Her personality? What else could it be? It wasn't Rude. Not from what she could tell. He was great. Perfect. Quiet, yes, but perfect.

She glares at her glass. Then when she gets tired of not getting any answers from her empty glass, she glares at her newly refilled glass. Then she notices a man sitting beside her—seemingly alone, like her—nursing a dark drink. Probably bourbon. Whiskey. Something bitter to take the edge off the harsh cruelties of the world.

"Hey," she starts. "If we dated, would you dump me if it had been five months and we hadn't had sex?"

Normally, Tifa would never ask a complete stranger such a direct question. But this is what it's come down to, her pride stripped and personality coming into question. Also: inebriation.

The man turns his head, looking at her bemusedly and raising a brow above very blue, icy eyes. They're a surprisingly intense shade, but she keeps the stare. Eventually his lips pull down into a frown, his bemusement evolving into amusement.

"What kind of sex?"

She almost snorts at his answering question. "Oh, I don't know. Any?"

His eyes remain on her face, though she wonders if he's tempted to look at the rest of her. Most of the males do that. Look at her. Not that she's never not flattered by perusals, but Rude hasn't been her only break up, and something tells her her boobs are part of her predicament.

"No."

She huffs. "Don't act like there's a right answer to this. I want an honest opinion."

This time, she does notice him look down at her. "Did you want me to say yes?"

"No! I mean…" she sighs. "Never mind. Forget I said anything." She waves a hand at him, then turns back to her drink.

"It's a hard question to forget," says the man, but he turns back to his drink, and she's not sure why she was so hopeful for him to give her the answer. The one answer that would answer everything.

Tifa slows down on her drinking, keeping time on her fourth. It's a minute before the man speaks again, and it takes her completely off guard.

"Was he blind?"

Tifa turns and stares at him. "What?"

"You know," he says, gesturing toward her body. Tifa feels her jaw dropping. "Sure, the guy'd want to have sex with you, but there's gotta be another reason if he didn't want to see you every day."

Was he flirting? "Excuse me?"

"You own a mirror. You know what you look like."

Is that a compliment? Tifa isn't sure. She feels her cheeks go hot in fervor or incredulity, she isn't certain. She shakes her head. "What?" she splutters.

He glances down at her glass. "You might want to stop drinking."

"I do not," she says, narrowing her eyes. "I can handle myself. Maybe you're the one who should stop drinking."

His gaze flickers, and he leans toward her with his elbow on the counter. "You're the one who asked my honest opinion."

His eyes don't bother her. It's more of the way they search into her soul. Jeez, even Rude's eyes couldn't do that.

She inwardly sighs. Rude.

She averts her eyes, looking back at her half-emptied glass. "Thanks, I guess. But what's done is done." She finishes the rest of her drink, setting down the glass with a resigned thunk, and goes to stand. Her head lightens for a second before returning to normal. Her arms and legs feel light enough with the burning euphoria of alcohol, and that's really all she needs.

"Leaving?" he asks her.

She shakes her head, forcing a smile. "Dancing." She turns before thinking better of it. "Wanna come?"

His lips turn up in a quiet smirk. "I don't dance."

She places her hands on her hips. "Can't dance or won't dance?"

He half-shrugs. "Both."

She squints at him. "So you're just here to drink?"

"I guess."

"That's not an answer."

His brows rise in amusement again. "I was roped into coming."

She makes a show of glancing around him. "By who?"

"My friend and his girlfriend."

Ah. Classic case of The Third Wheel-ism. Maybe.

"So where's your date?"

"Don't have one." His eyes leave her as he goes back to his drink.

She steps up to him. "Then how could you have been roped if they didn't set you up with someone?"

"I've got persuasive friends."

The way he says it almost sounds like he's talking about a murder.

She can relate. She has the same problem with Yuffie, most of the time.

"Well…" she says, shifting her weight around on her heels. "I can teach you how to dance."

She garners his attention again. "Teach me?"

There's something in his face that makes her indignant. She stands taller, placing her hands on her hips. "Yeah, teach you. It's not hard."

He gives her a skeptical look instead of answering.

She sighs. "C'mon. Don't be such a sickler."

"Sickler?"

She blushes. "Stickler. I said stickler."

He smirks again. "Okay. Stickler."

"So?"

"So…?"

"Dance. You, me."

"What about, dance, me, you?"

She smiles before she realizes he's making fun of her.

"Cut it out!"

"Cut what out?"

"The thing you're doing. It!"

"It?"

One long, drawn breath flows out of her. She crosses her arms.

"Fine, I bake tack my invitation."

"…what? Bake—"

"Take back! I said—" She interrupts herself with an involuntary noise of frustration, her lips pressing over her teeth. She opens her mouth to bite something out, but he surprises her with a little smile instead of a little smirk.

It's a nice smile. She wonders what it looks like when it's a full smile.

He takes advantage of her pause. "Go dance. I'm more of a visual learner, anyway."

Not knowing what to say to that without sounding even stupider, she quickly turns away to leave him and finds Yuffie, who's on the edge of the floor, making eyes at someone or other as she does very provocative things while she dances.

It's only when she goes to stand next to her when what the guy at the bar said registers. She glances over to him, finding that he's looking at her, too.

Holy Shiva, she thinks. He's seriously going to watch me dance?

Guys only did that to Yuffie!

Or, well, if they ever did it to Tifa, she didn't notice. If she thought a guy was watching her, she'd be uncomfortable enough to stop dancing. Leering, creepy, men were definitely not the kind of attention she wanted.

Yet, the guy's stare isn't leering. It doesn't seem creepy.

It is kind of…hot.

She grumbles at herself. Tipsy or not, she's got to collect herself.

"Yuffie," Tifa shouts, tearing Yuffie's eyes away from the man she's gazing at by forcefully turning her. "I need your help! There's a guy that's watching me dance!"

Yuffie keeps doing her own brand of sexy things. "So?"

"So," Tifa emphasizes. "I need guidance!"

Yuffie frowns at her. "Guidance? What guidance! Aren't you drunk enough to dance like you usually dance when you aren't down in the dumps?"

Tifa takes too long to process the sentence. "Well, I don't know, I think I'm thinking too hard about – "

"Oh, I know!" Yuffie says, suddenly excited. "Let's role play! Lesbians are fun."

Tifa blinks. "Yuffie, we only do that for you and your watchers."

"Yeah," she says, deliberately. "But it works for every male with a working dick, and you finally got the attention of a guy that makes you nervous even when you're tipsy, so I say we bust out the hotness."

Tifa almost protests, if only to protest what Yuffie implied. But then Yuffie moves her hands onto Tifa, sliding to the beat, and Tifa's inebriated limbs start moving, and she starts sliding, and she starts dancing back. Suddenly, it's easy with Yuffie grinning at her without a care in the world. The thrum has her eyes closing, forgetting where she is for a few precious moments. She moves a hand up to her hair and combs her fingers through it. Eventually, she opens her eyes, glancing back to the man at the bar.

She can't make out his expression, but he's still watching her. Isn't he? She's not sure anymore. It's hard to tell under the dark, shadowy lighting and the blur of bodies. Truthfully, the fact of the matter is, she suddenly wants to just dance, regardless of who's watching. Who cares? She hurts, and it's dulled by grinding against Yuffie, then grinding against some stranger behind her and in front of her and beside her, and it feels a hell of a lot better than it did when she first arrived.

She hears Yuffie make some kind of catcall behind her when Tifa starts dancing with another guy beside her. He places his hands low on her hips, all warm and digging. She turns her back to him, leaning into him and reaching a hand up to grasp the man's neck, letting her lips part slightly. Minutes pass. It might as well be hours. She closes her eyes. His hips sway with her hips, knees bending to give them more leverage. She lifts her other hand up eventually, clasping both hands together behind the man's head, and she feels his hands rise up an inch, settling near her belly button. His lips are by her ear, his breath is on her neck. Goosebumps rise unwillingly at the sensation.

She slides her eyes open just enough, the bar right in the middle of her line of sight.

The man's seat is empty.

Something deflates inside her, and she almost loses the beat to keep dancing.

What is so wrong with her that no one wants to stick around? Not even for a stupid dance? Not even to watch her? She doesn't think she's bad at it—not nearly as good as Yuffie, but good enough, right?

She must lose her edge, because the man behind her slows and asks, "You okay?"

And there's something about the tone—how scratchy and rough.

She gasps and snaps around, staring up at him wide eyed. She looks back to the vacant spot at the bar then back up to his blue eyes.

She points, accusing. "But—but you said you—"

He smiles at her reaction, like the smile before, and it is so distracting. "I'm a fast learner."

Her mind reels through her burning buzz. How long, exactly, had she been dancing with him? She hadn't even felt the transition between the man she started with and him. Her face starts sizzling. Had she run her fingers through his hair, pressed into him like a snake?—and it was even worse because now, technically, he isn't a complete stranger.

The spots scald where he touched her.

"Um…" she says. "Sorry. I didn't notice when you…switched."

"Doesn't matter," he tells her, glancing over to the bar. "Figured it'd be better me than someone else."

He says it so casually and bluntly that she gives him a curious look, saying with a playful lilt, "A little full of yourself, aren't you?"

He looks back at her, but doesn't answer her question. "You put on a show."

She feels herself smiling, the rouge of the alcohol blistering her veins. "Did it turn you on?"

"Did what turn me on?"

She leans forward a little, right hand grazing boldly on his stomach.

"Don't be like that," she says, swaying to the back rhythm. "Since I know you're here, why don't we keep dancing?"

He watches as she tries to propel him along with her. "Are you always like this?"

She hears herself laugh, and she never laughs like that. But she doesn't care, now. The guy's eyes don't pierce her as much as they did before, and everything's all the better for that.

"Of course not," she admits freely. "But this is fun, don't you think?" She presses against his chest, and he leans with her. She catches his eyes fall to her clip in her hair, then her red stained lips. It's almost as if he hesitates when he finally puts his hands on her hips. She smiles. Her sways linger, and she influences his movements, body tenaciously cutting the space between his.

She and Rude never went dancing. At least, not this kind of dancing. Rude could dance a killer waltz, transporting her to another place rather than the restaurants they went to. They were good nights—and she hates how she thinks of him in so many past tenses, as if he's lying around in a coffin.

But some things ended like a death. For them, the friendship inside the relationship could not be salvaged. She tried—she could tell he tried, in his own way. They can still talk, at least. They can talk about all kinds of mundane things. The weather. How are you? I'm well. Great. Goodbye.

She's certain, however, that she will never talk to him about anything else.

She watches the pulse pluck through the man's neck in front of her—and it's a nice neck. A lot of things are nice about him. It occurs to her that his name might be nice, too, but she's not going to ask him what it is. Names lead to subjects and topics and things that hold weight.

Instead, she weaves her arms around his neck, pulling them close together like a coil. Her heels give her enough height to be near eye level with him, noses brushing, and she asks, "Do you want to go somewhere?"

He's quiet for a moment, and even uncaring and falling into inebriation, she can see his eyes thinking—like they're swirling around his iris, blue spirals twisting all around.

"There are plenty of empty tables," he says.

It's so unexpected, it pulls a laugh out of her.

"No," she elongates. "Not a table. Not here."

He humors her. "What did you have in mind?"

"Somewhere…" she says. "Somewhere where we can…"

He watches her struggle with that stupid little smirk on his face, and all she wants to do is kiss him. So she does. It doesn't take much, since they're so close already. And when she feels him, all warm and alive and real, right up against her, it's all so wonderful and thrilling and amazing.

She's never kissed a stranger before.

She's never been a floozy—and she's never been easy. Maybe that's her problem. Is that a problem?

She decides right then, in the middle of their kiss, that she'll pry herself open and be the easiest, most vulnerable being she can. Because she has enough control of herself to do what she wants to, and that's what she wants to do. No one can say any differently. Life is short and painful, so why not?

He responds to her, one hand tight on her hip, the other flat on the small of her back. His lips are as needy as hers, pressing hot with raw desire. It shocks Tifa with how intimate this is with a person she hardly knows, her world becoming her own adrenaline-charged heartbeats and the man's teeth.

Her fingers blaze trails through his hair, and he answers by licking her bottom lip. She leans further into him—her legs turning to jelly—and he supports her weight with his own as she collapses her lungs in a delicate moan.

He breaks away from her a second after, eyes dark under the lights.

"C'mon," he commands, grabbing one of her hands with his, leading her toward the exit.

Tifa still has a thread of logic with her, surprising herself. "But Yuffie—"

"Your friend?" he asks. "She'll be fine."

She looks behind her, catching Yuffie's dark head bobbing, seated at a table. She's talking to a man who may or may not be a serial killer, considering his attire.

They catch eyes for a moment, and all Yuffie does is grin wide and waggle her fingers after her, winking with absolutely no discretion whatsoever.

"Okay…" Tifa trails. "But if she gets kidnapped, it's your fault."

He looks over at her with the barest of smiles. It's only when she notices the motorcycle he's leading her to that she doesn't think his smile is cute anymore.

It's suddenly very hot. Too hot. She's sweating.

"Oh," she says.

"Ever ride a motorcycle before?" he asks, settling himself on the seat. He turns back to her and holds out his hand. She stares at it.

"Never."

"I won't let anything happen to you."

What a weird choice of words, she remembers thinking.

"You drank."

"I had one an hour ago. I'm fine."

She stares at him. He stares back.

Then she places her hand in his, letting him help her onto the saddle. It could be the best or worst decision she's ever made—and she's okay with that. Drinking, dancing, a motorcycle, a guy who's wearing all black. Sure. Yes. This is fine.

He hands her the helmet that he unhooks from the motorcycle handle, and she's pleasantly surprised at the action. She fumbles with it as she finds it necessary to say, "Just so you know, I'm a black belt. Tae Kwon Do. I can kick your ass."

He revs up the engine, loud and angry. "I'll keep that in mind."

Satisfied, she goes and wraps her arms around his waist as he slowly turns onto the road. She tightens her grip when he speeds off right away.

She doesn't notice where they go or what roads he takes. But it doesn't take long for her to get used to the rumbling of the engine beneath her, the gears ticking like a heart. Mixing the sound with the coolness of the wind and the warmth they both create pressed together, she closes her eyes and lets relaxation fill her.

"Where do you live?" he asks her sometime, voice just loud enough over the din of every other noise.

"Mm," she mumbles. "Seventh Heaven."

She must doze, or the alcohol must catch up to her, because she can't remember what happens next.

When Tifa wakes up, she opens her eyes to familiarity, soft sheets, soft pillows, and a sun that is too high—and just a little too bright.

She's on the verge of having a hangover, but she doesn't yet—so that's good. She might have a headache later, and she makes a mental note to drink water immediately.

She sits up, pressing her palm to her forehead when her mind starts to reel back. Her brain feels like rubber, and when she tries to remember what exactly she did the night before—and how she miraculously ended up home—things come in bits and pieces.

Wallowing in self-pity. The man at the bar. Dancing with the man at the bar. Making out with the man at the bar. A motorcycle.

Her lips burn at the memories. She feels the ghost of his tongue when she closes her eyes. But her sheets aren't tangled up like she actually went through with what she was considering the night before, and Yuffie—

Tifa glances at the bed pushed against the other wall, making out the ball inside the sheets, curled up in Yuffie-fashion. She waits for the tell-tale snore, and she smiles a little when she hears it.

No telling how or when she got back home. She'll probably sleep all day.

She gets up off the bed, and it confirms her suspicions of not having sex with some random, but attractive, stranger. She can't tell if her relief trumps her disappointment.

She washes up in the bathroom before going downstairs to the bar, checking the clock again just to make sure her bedroom clock wasn't lying. 2 pm. It could be worse, she thinks. She grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, checks the mail, makes lunch, and does a few chores before there's a knock at the front door.

She frowns as she makes her way to the door. It must be the supplies she ordered from Corel, though she only put it in the day before. The deliveries are never this speedy.

It doesn't even cross her mind to look out the peephole. Once she opens the door, she almost falls over.

It's the guy from the New Midgar bar, holding a vase of wild red roses. They stare at each other for a long moment, and Tifa doesn't think he seems as surprised as he should be.

"I have a delivery for a Miss Tifa Lockhart," he says, mortifyingly nonchalant. Tifa's mouth hangs open as she slowly takes the gift out of his hands.

"You're…why are you delivering…" she manages, shaking her head. "Is this some kind of joke?"

He raises his brows at her. "I'm doing my job. I'm a courier."

She feels very stupid and very enlightened at the sudden information. She winces.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, I'm sorry. I just wasn't expecting to see you." Again. Ever.

He crosses his arms, eyes roaming to the interior of the bar. "Your friend make it back?"

"Yeah," Tifa answers, about to ask him how Yuffie made it, before her eyes find the small card perched on a plastic prong among the stems. She feels a sudden sickness at the name. "She…did."

He notices the shift in her attitude. "Is there something—"

She forces the flowers into his chest, his arms uncrossing to catch them.

"Do you think you could return these to the sender?" she asks, anger upending her manners. "Or if it's too much hassle, you can throw them away in the trashcan on the left side of the building."

His face is filled with puzzlement, glancing between her and the flowers, before it evolves into a look of knowing. And aversion.

"You were dating Rude?"

She flinches at his tone. "Yes. Now I'm not. And he still has the audacity to send me flowers after almost three weeks."

He watches her throw up her hands. She huffs. "Ugh! I'm just so…oooohhhhh," she grumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Of all the stupid things...Of all the times…"

The man changes his stance, motioning the flowers. "I can return them."

She looks up at him, abruptly feeling terrible and grateful and ashamed. She immediately shakes her head.

"You know what? You've done so much already, what with…last night," she says, meekly. "And driving me back home and…and everything. I'm sorry you had to do that. I promise I'm not really like that."

He leans against the doorjamb, eyes amused. "Some part of you is like that."

She opens her mouth then closes it, crinkling her eyes at him. She gives a half-smile. "Well, maybe," she relents. "But only rarely."

"It's okay."

She averts her eyes. "You only liked me that way because I made out with you."

She swears she can see his cheeks dust a very light pink. He rubs the back of his head with a free hand.

"I, uh…like I said, I can take these back."

She notices his stutter. Her smile grows. "Only if it doesn't put you back on any of your other deliveries. I can always just throw them out."

"I'm not that busy," he says. "Besides, he deserves it."

They look at each other for a few seconds. She glances at the clock.

"Well, it's almost dinner time. If you aren't too busy, I can whip you something up. It's the least I could do."

He seems flustered by the offer. "I appreciate it, but I should get going."

"Oh, right," she nods. "Of course."

"Yeah…" he says. "Maybe some other time."

"Yes, yeah. Some other time."

He scuffs his boot. "I…should get going," he says, again, lingering for a moment before turning. "I'll…see you around."

"Sure," she says, stepping closer to the door and leaning out, her hand on the knob. "Come back anytime."

He gives her one of his tiny smiles, gets on the same motorcycle he drove last night. He places the flowers back into the box they must have come in, and speeds off.

Once he's out of sight, she closes the door and breathes out, puffing her cheeks up. She guesses that could have gone worse.

Rude must get the message. A few weeks pass, and Tifa doesn't receive one peep from him. She doesn't receive a package from the new courier, either.

She believes that was she feels is…neutral. A little bland about Rude, but it's turning stale. It at once feels as though eons have passed as well as minutes. Sometimes she thinks back to those five months, trying to imagine things she could change, but it was all natural enough. Even if she went back, she's not sure she could change anything. Not how she acted, not what she did.

During slow times at the bar, when she doesn't have anything to cook or clean, she thinks about the guy from the bar, if only because she'd never done something so crazy and reckless to herself. She'll think of their kiss and compare them to Rude—at first out of spite, then out of curiosity. Then she'll think about it just because she's completely smitten with the memory.

She has to admit, the stranger gave her hope. He was, if not conventionally, a perfect gentleman. He talked to her, danced with her, kissed her, then showed her home. If they did anything else, she knows she would have remembered it. Surely if she remembered the kiss, then she definitely would have remembered anything else.

And then he helped her finalize her relationship with the flowers.

He was so handsome when he blushed.

And he was a courier. Being a courier is a hard job. There's a reason there's such a shortage of them—not many want to, or have the ability to cross terrible stanzas of rough terrain, fight off beasts in the long stretches of fields, or take on the vast loneliness the occupation entailed.

He must be a good fighter. He did have muscular arms, now that she thinks back to it. He had a singularity to him, too. The look of someone who's been on their own long enough to gain that thickened aura. Tifa was an orphan—became one—and she knew an orphan when she saw one, tipsy or not.

It starts to irk her, days later, when she tries to think of a name for him. Of course, it's good that she doesn't have one. It'd be forever burned to her mind if she did. And since she doesn't have one, it'll be easier to let the memory fade. It'll make a good story, one of these days.

Wednesday nights are the busiest time for Seventh Heaven. Patrons cram into booths and tables, families arriving between six and nine. Some people defy the odds and sing karaoke between ten and eleven, and others hit the jukebox and dance when there's enough room. No grinding or obscene moves. That doesn't happen until after midnight, and the time usually includes the people Tifa has to kick out at two.

It's nearing ten o'clock when the next wave of customers come in, with the staff members making whirlwinds around to tables, and Tifa and her other bartender, Jessie, are in charge of cranking out drinks, talking, and smiling to patrons.

It's only when Yuffie swings around the counter, fetching the water pitcher from bar, when Tifa loses her stride.

"Yo, Teef!" she says, a tell-tale grin on her face. "On your eleven, Mister Make-Out's at the booth with a couple others."

Tifa blinks. "What?"

"Mister Make-Out. You know. Don't act like that, I know you're so excited right now," Yuffie says cheekily. "Want me to get his number for you? Cop a feel and say it's from you? Tell him you want sex, this time?"

"Yuffie, shut up," she growls, noticing two customers in earshot not able to conceal their humored looks. "Don't do anything. He's just a customer. Treat him like you treat every customer."

She pouts. "But Teef, it's been ages since you saw him. Wouldn't a nice romp—"

"I can still fire you, Yuffie."

Yuffie hears the blatant threat. She sneers. "Ugh, fine, boss lady. It's your loss."

She sashays off into the throng, and Tifa has to keep herself from looking off diagonally to see if Yuffie had seen the right guy. Half-fearing that they'll catch eyes when she looks up, she forces herself to concentrate on the customers in front of her.

It lasts about three minutes. It's just a twitch of the eye. She smiles at a customer, then blends her glance by looking off to the side.

Yuffie's right. He sits in a booth, across from two others and sitting beside another, facing toward her. She looks away before he has a chance to catch her looking, but she feels a genuine smile creep up on her. She feels her steps perk up a bit, and the casual questions she directs to her patrons aren't nearly as tired as they were before.

"One whiskey sour, coming right up," she tells one of her customers, moving down the bar line to grab the right ingredients. She's pouring in the whiskey when the patron in front of her gives her a simple, "Hey."

She almost starts, but manages not to spill whiskey everywhere. She glances up, taking in his shock of hair and blue eyes so close up. She notices two bandage strips underneath his right eye, and the wrap around his left bicep, the lines of a bruise peeking out from behind it. Maybe the injuries are from his job. She gives him a smile in greeting.

"Hey. How've you been?"

"Busy," he says. "You?"

"The same," she answers, finishing off the drink. She turns to the side. "Hey, Jess, can you give this to Robert? Thanks." She turns back to him. "What'd you like to drink?"

"I don't want anything."

She squints at him, mostly playful, before the man sitting next to him interrupts.

"You must be new, sonny. Tifa doesn't let you sit up here to talk if you don't buy anythin'." He grins at her. "Her words don't come cheap."

Tifa puts a hand on her hip and cocks it to the side. "Thanks for the explanation, Eddie," she says, winking at him.

"Anytime, darlin'. You better watch out for that one," he says, jutting his thumb to his side.

"You might be right," Tifa says, eyes shimmering at the stranger. "He's a suspicious character, isn't he? The cuts and the bandages…"

"Damn right."

The man raises his brows at their jesting, but he keeps quiet, silent enjoyment in his eyes as he watches her.

"Alright, then," the man says. "Give me something hard."

"Do you mean soft? Or tight?" Yuffie says, barging around the corner from the side counter. "Because I'm pretty sure Tifa wouldn't mi—"

Tifa jams her elbow into Yuffie's side as she passes behind her, causing Yuffie to cough like she swallowed a cloud of dust.

"Ugh…" she grumbles. "…thanks for the bruise, boss."

"I can raise your rent," Tifa sing-songs back, laughing as Yuffie holds her ribs.

She turns back to the man in front of her, only to find him watching her. It's such an intense, earnest, soft look. Her smile falls and she feels her face heat up. She tries to hide it by looking away toward the bottles of alcohol behind her, acting like she's searching for a drink.

"Is whiskey fine?"

"Sure," he answers, and she busies herself with the ice. She grabs the whiskey bottle she used minutes earlier, pouring a few fingers into his glass. When she hands it to him, he tips it up.

"Thank you, Tifa."

She doesn't know what it is about him—if it's anything real or just her imagination—but the way he says her name gets under her skin. Like he's digging a place for himself and settling there.

She gets this from him saying her name. She's crazy. She's made up too many stories about him in her head.

"I've been meaning to ask you," she starts, leaning against the counter on her elbows. "Each time I've talked to you, I never thought to ask you your name."

He takes a sip of his drink as she speaks. "Does this mean you're asking?"

She has to admit, there is something intriguing and mysterious about a man with no name.

"I think I'd…rather…" she trails, eyes catching on a new patron that walks through the door. She immediately straightens, frowning.

"Jessie?" she calls over to her right side. "Watch my side for a minute? I'll be right back."

"What's wrong?" the man asks.

"Just…something," she tells him as she walks around from behind the bar.

She catches Rude's eye quick enough, noticing the way he shifts when he must see her from behind his sunglasses.

It's funny how she's not mad at him, anymore. At herself. At anything. Reflections over the past two months filled her with murky feelings, a montage of the good times in lieu of the bad times.

But when she sees him now, coming to her bar willingly, on his own, it feels like a punch in the throat. It's full of that what if, that remember what we once had? It fills up her esophagus like question marks, running through her like all of those potential futures. It's a staid, somber taste in her mouth.

Tifa has always forgiven naturally. It's never been a hard thing for her to do, and she hasn't thought of it as a blessing until this moment, when she remembers her broken heart reflecting back at her in Rude's sunglasses, when she remembers her tears and her weakness. How little she felt, curled up on her bed and thinking about what she had done wrong, what details she could have changed. Those dark and cold little moments when she was alone with her thoughts.

"Rude. Hi," she says, coming up to him. They stand close to the entrance.

He nods to her, face softening. He opens his mouth, and then he closes it. He struggles, rubbing the top of his head before taking his sunglasses off. He looks at her with his direct stare, and she feels herself parrying it back, like the look is a swinging sword and her heart is a shield instead of a prize.

"Tifa…" he says, voice sounding coarse with disuse. "I'm sorry. I've been thinking a lot these few weeks. I left you without answers. I couldn't give them to you. You deserve more than that—"

"Oh, Rude," she says, silencing him by lightly touching his sleeved arm. "I don't deserve anything. It's okay. I don't need answers."

How odd it seems to be, now, when once she craved it like her favorite candy. Anything for a hint of an answer and for a reason. Dulled by the passing of time, staring up at the ceiling when lying awake at night, she's reached the threshold of not caring. It wouldn't matter. The answers would never satisfy her. There is no reason for her to indulge in what she doesn't need, even though once—once—it was the only reason there was.

"But…Tifa, don't say that…"

She shrugs. "It's true. You know me well enough to know that."

He looks down to the floor. He has the decency to seem ashamed. "I'm sorry about the flowers."

The terribly saddened way he says it pulls a warm laugh from her. "I know you meant well. At the time I got them, though…"

"I know," he says, grimacing. "Cloud told me."

She blinks. "Who?"

"WRO's new delivery boy."

Recognition washes over her. "Oh. Right. Cloud. Um…"

"If…if you ever need anything," Rude continues, shifting his weight. His telling sign that he's not sure how to convey what he means. "Just…just let me know. I'll be around, even if I couldn't be then."

She nods at him, placing a hand on her hip. "I'll hold you to that, okay?"

She manages to get him to smile a rare smile. At least he can leave with something—a beam of hope, a clean slate—even if it's a lie.

"I might stop by sometime, if that's…"

"Of course you can, Rude. This place isn't off-limits to you, you know, as long as you order something from the menu."

He hums a laugh. "Sure. I will. I'll…see you, Tifa."

"Goodbye, Rude."

When he walks through the door, it's almost as if the last weight leaves her. It's the last tug on the loose thread of an old sweater, completely unraveled and ready to be remade.

She returns, smiling, behind the counter. Her expression is the exact opposite of…Cloud's. Cloud. The name's mystery is gone, but when she glances over him she realizes how much it only whets her hunger to know more.

"Everything okay?" he asks her, once she takes back her place from Jessie and refills a customer's drink.

"Everything's fine, Cloud."

He glances up sharply at his name.

"He told you my name?"

He says it like the words are poison. She furrows her brows at him.

"Well, he told you mine," she answers back. "Even though it was on a card."

"I knew before that."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"When I brought you back here," he says, bluntly. "Owner of Seventh Heaven. Everyone in Edge knows you."

Oh. She hadn't thought of that. She frowns, trying to think of something to say. She glances down at his drink, seeing it empty.

"Want a refill?"

"No, thanks," he says dismissively, glaring at the counter. It's a definite change of pace from his earlier flirtations.

"Then I'm sorry," she answers. "But I'm going to have to ask you to leave the counter."

Glare still on his face, he looks up at her. "But I ordered something."

"And now you finished." She smiles apologetically, grabbing a washrag from the sink. "I'm sorry, Cloud, but rules are rules. I can't be partial to you and no one else." She starts to wipe down her work area before the few spills make the wood sticky.

"You could be if you wanted to be."

She pauses, glancing up at him. "What?"

"You could be partial."

She smiles and continues. "Well, if you become a regular, I might be."

He taps his forefinger and middle finger, as if thinking.

"What did the bald guy want?"

She gives a disapproving look at the name. "Rude, you mean? Not a lot, just…uh…"

She's suddenly uncomfortable with the topic—under his stare, she feels a bizarre sense of pressure.

"Nothing," she says. "Everything between us is fine, now."

"You're back together?" he says after a moment, tone flat but eyes incredulous. She shakes her head.

"No, not at all," she smiles. "Maybe we'll be friends, maybe we won't. Time will tell."

His glare finally diminishes into the vestiges of a smile.

"Whoa!" Yuffie barges behind the counter again. "Was that who I thought it was? What the hell did he want?"

"He wanted to apologize, Yuffie," Tifa says, rolling her eyes. "Why does everyone act like they hate him?"

"Um, newsflash Tifa!" Yuffie shouts, waving a hand in front of her face. "He broke your heart? Remember? He just took off like he realized you were some kind of alien? Seriously, who would do that to you?"

Yuffie's point is valid. Still, Tifa sighs.

"I've been fine for a while. You know that."

Yuffie rubs her chin, as if thinking. "I guess I'd be fine, too, if I was getting attention from—"

"Yuffie!" Tifa interrupts sharply. Yuffie laughs, moving down to the other side of the bar.

"Whatever, Teef," she calls, and Tifa doesn't miss the wink she sends Cloud.

Tifa groans. "Can you ignore her? Please?"

"Only if you let me keep sitting here."

She puts her hands on her hips. "Someone drives a hard bargain, don't they?"

"If it's worth it, yeah."

She's been on the verge of blushing ever since he's arrived. She gives a little huff, not knowing what to say.

"F-fine," she says, making a small shrug. "I'll let you loiter. But only tonight."

"Only tonight?"

She gives him a mock-glare. "Don't push it, Cloud. I have a reputation."

A moment later, a beautiful girl comes up behind Cloud, light brown hair plaited down her back, ending close to her hips. She places a hand on his shoulder, smiling.

"Hey, Cloud."

He turns to look at her, returning her smile. Tifa averts her eyes and busies herself with cleaning.

"Hey."

"Listen," she says. "Zack and I are heading out. We have to take Biggs back to his apartment. He…kind of passed out."

"Kind of?" he asks, turning further to glance at a booth.

The girl shrugs. "He's had a rough week, you know? Besides, we haven't complained too much about you avoiding us to sit up here." She catches Tifa's eye and winks. "I guess it is hard to find pretty bartenders to flirt with in this town…"

Cloud gives her a flat stare. "Goodbye, Aerith."

She titters, pats him on the head, and leaves.

Tifa watches her go. "She seems nice," she teases him.

"She's not," he tells her, face completely serious.

She laughs at him. "Was she one of your persuasive friends?"

"Yeah," he says, surprise edging his tone. He looks over her. "You remember that?"

She meets his stare. "Sure, I remember."

He raises a brow. "How much do you remember?"

Is this a trick question? She's not sure.

"Enough," she says breezily.

"Enough?"

She fidgets, other customers gaining her attention for a few precious minutes.

He's still amused when she turns her attention back to him.

"So you remember the good parts?" he asks.

"Good parts?" she says innocently. "There were good parts?"

Cloud doesn't fall for it, half-shrugging and saying, "I can help jog your memory."

She blushes furiously. Her eyes fall to his lips on accident.

"If you want to," she challenges lightly, trying to brush off her embarrassment.

He looks at her lips, too.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

She jerks at the question. "Um, the same thing as today. Open for lunch through dinner, then man the bar."

"When's your next day off, then?"

She isn't expecting this. He is very direct when he wants to be.

"Sunday…"

"Pick you up at seven?"

Her brain stalls. "Oh. Um. Okay."

He smiles at her, leaves a generous amount of gil, then stands up from the stool. She watches him go until another customer calls her over.

I guess it's a date, she thinks, heart hammering in her chest.

Sunday evening comes quick.

Yuffie's been throwing every kind of dress Tifa's way all day, up to the last minute.

"You're just so conservative right now," Yuffie whined at her once Tifa held up her selection. "He already saw you in this one," she said, bringing out a slinky slip of fabric Tifa's almost ashamed to say she wore. "He's going to be so disappointed when he sees that."

"Okay, it is not that bad!" The dress isn't as terribly conservative as Yuffie's judgment proclaims it is. It's just a nice, simple black cocktail dress. There's nothing wrong with it. In fact, it's one of her favorites. And it is technically a first date. She's got to leave him wanting something. You don't put out all the goods on display at the first date.

"But he's already seen you in this," Yuffie rebuts, shaking the slinky dress. "And all the goods were on display. All of them."

Tifa purses her lips. "Whatever. I'm still wearing this one."

"Fine. But remind him that it's a date and not a funeral."

Tifa rubs her face with her hand.

"I'll be sure to mention it during the eulogy."

Yuffie barks a laugh before rushing into the bathroom and pulling out approximately twenty-seven pieces of cosmetics. Tifa doesn't wear much makeup in general, and when Yuffie catches her dubious look at the bathroom counter, she places her hands on her hips.

"Oh my gosh, c'mon, Teef! Just a little something! He already knows what you look like without, so let's do more than powder and mascara. We can make this so fun."

Yuffie brandishes different brands of eyeshadow like they're ninja stars. Tifa eyes them, crossing her arms as Yuffie's eyes gleam like she's planning something diabolical. That usually never bodes well.

"As long as I can choose the colors. Remember when you tried to make me wear neon green eyeshadow and peppermint lipstick?"

"It was Christmas!" Yuffie protests, but Tifa can't suppress her laughter any longer. "But fine, be boring as long as you wear some. Cloud is gonna go bananas. He's going to be like, who is this goddess before me?"

Tifa shakes her head, rummaging around the different colors. "I'm sure he'll fall to his knees in shock and wonder."

"He'll clasp his hands over his heart and ask the heavens what he ever did to deserve this day."

"He'll weep tears of unadulterated joy and enlightenment."

"He'll jump off a cliff just to make sure you're real."

"He'll pass out in the doorway, unable to handle my beauty."

"He'll wish he wore something more adequate. Or nothing at all."

Tifa snickers, attempting to begin with her primer as Yuffie continues describing more outlandish scenarios.

At 6:55 pm, Yuffie asks, "Do you think he's the type to be fashionably late?" She peeks out the window. "Or maybe the kind to be too early, so he idles down the street and waits until it's time? Or he's the kind who is super early, then underestimates how long it'll take him to get the nerve to leave his idling spot and he ends up fashionably late?"

Tifa's lips quirk. "That should be your first question when he gets here."

At 6:58 pm, there's a knock on the door. Yuffie places a hand on her forehead. "Oh, he's the right on time type. I might swoon."

"He is a courier," Tifa says, the flutter of nerves suddenly swallowing her stomach like a vacuum. "Makes sense."

She grabs her purse from the bar, checking it one last time for her essentials. She brushes a hand down her dress and feels a brief pang of doubt over her ensemble choice.

"Don't be nervous," Yuffie says lightly. "I know it's your first real date in forever, but it'll be fine."

Tifa gives her a tight smile. "Thanks," she says, readjusting herself one more time before heading to the door.

She opens it and sees him there, standing to the side with hands in his pockets. He's wearing casual, light blue jeans that are fitted well across his thighs. His shirt is relaxed, dark grey cotton, melting across his torso like butter. The sleeves cut into his arms, accentuating where his shoulders fold into his biceps. Tifa doesn't tend to get hung up on physical attributes but she can't deny he's very nice to look at.

"Hi," she says.

"Hey," he says back. They glance at each other for a moment, and Tifa swallows the engorging bundle of nerves in her throat.

"You ready to go?" he asks, gesturing behind them. His motorcycle is parked at the end of the curb, glinting under the dazzling glare of moonlight. It's all sleek lines and black metal. She can almost feel the tick of the cooling engine from where they stand.

"If you bring her back at a decent hour, I will be so disappointed!" Yuffie calls behind them. She points at Cloud. "If you don't give her the best time of her life, I will kick your ass."

"No pressure, then," Cloud answers. His eyebrows raise in quiet amusement.

Tifa rolls her eyes. "Don't listen to her."

"Yes, listen to me!"

"I'd like to try," Cloud says, directing his answer towards Tifa. She tries not to blush.

"You won't have to try very hard," Yuffie says. "Tifa loves everything."

Embarrassed, Tifa shoves Yuffie in the shoulder. "Not everything."

"I know you, Teef. He could take you dumpster diving and you'd somehow find a way to enjoy it."

Tifa purses her lips. Just because she tries not to judge…

"Good thing. That's what I had planned," Cloud says.

Tifa glances back to him, happily surprised to find he's giving her a small smile. He offers her his arm, and she threads it around his elbow.

"You ready?"

"Yes."

"Have fun!" Yuffie sing songs, waving enthusiastically. She closes the door, and Tifa is sure she's watching them through the window, peeking behind the curtain.

They make their way to his motorcycle, the muggy evening saved by the occasional cool breeze.

"I'm not taking you dumpster diving," he says.

"I was worried."

"Nice dress, by the way."

"Thank you. Nice…clothes," she says. What she really wants to say is that his ass looks good in those jeans. If she was as daring as Yuffie, she would. She is not Yuffie. Just thinking the words make her fill with shame.

"I was told I better clean up."

"Your persuasive friends again?"

"They are wise when they want to be."

They come up to his motorcycle, and he takes his seat. He offers his hand to help her on, but the fabric of her dress requires her to hike it up above her knees and even further when she situates herself behind him. He doesn't seem to mind.

Of course he doesn't mind, she thinks, the voice suspiciously sounding like Yuffie. I'll bet he'd love your legs wrapped around him like this in a frontal position.

He hands her a helmet, and she sees he's brought two of them this time. He clips his on before he revs the engine. Her legs squeeze him, tensing for the takeoff.

"It'll only be a few minutes," he tells her. She nods.

"Sure," she says, carefully resting her chin on his shoulder. She wraps her arms around his torso, suddenly feeling like they're part of his shirt. Melted butter, she thinks again.

As they take off down the streets of Edge, Tifa relishes the rumbling life of the motorcycle and how it feels to be pressed up against a man who is almost still a stranger. Even if this night leaves much to be desired, and even if it turns out to be the worst date in the history of dates, at least she will remember the bridling anticipation, the bristling potential, and the muffler of the motorcycle drowning out everything else.

It is, in fact, not the worst date in the history of dates.

He takes her to a restaurant called the Honey Bee, in between the outskirts of Edge and New Midgar. It's taken inspiration from its sister business in Sector Six, utilizing the more tasteful attributes of design. It's less gawdy and more upscale, with chandeliers and luxurious, upholstered booths, gleaming cherry wood tables, and a color scheme rimmed with velvet reds, whites, and accented with gold trim. At first, the entrance is a dizzying array of sparkles and crystal, but the inner sanctum of dining tables pull back the extravagance with touches of personal décor—portraits of old Midgar and landscapes of Gaia, small, intimate candles in glass bulbs the shape of a honey bee, the lighting soft and welcoming.

This is the kind of place that cleaves at your wallet. Tifa bites the inner meat of her lip, unaccustomed to such lavish indulgence. She glances at Cloud's jeans and tries not to question.

The maître d' doesn't ask who Cloud is, smiling brightly and grabbing menus straight away. "Ah, Mr. Strife. Follow me."

Tifa raises her eyebrows. "They know you?"

He shrugs. "The owner and I are…acquaintances."

Tifa blinks. The owner is just on the other side of famous. He has his own clothing line, cosmetics, athletic wear…Tifa even has a few of his exercise tights. She waits for him to expand, but he doesn't. Once they are seated, the curiosity gets the best of her.

"The owner is Andrea Rhodea, isn't it? He's…a big deal," she says.

"A lot of people like him," Cloud says. "He gets along with most, and he owns several businesses."

They pause to order drinks when the waiter appears. Tifa panic orders water, feeling uncertain about ordering a glass of wine, then feels silly about hesitating.

"How do you know him?"

"I first met him on my deliveries. He's one of WRO's biggest clients in the area. Then I met him again through a friend. He's very…enthusiastic."

"What do you mean?"

Cloud smiles quietly. He tends to have that demeanor about him. Everything is subdued and quiet. Soft smiles, soft movements, nothing extravagant. He is the opposite of their surroundings.

"He has specific…tastes," Cloud says. "If he likes you enough, he'll force you to go to his parlor and dance with him."

Tifa's eyebrows raise. "Dance? I knew he put on a lot of choreographed shows at the Honey Bee Parlor, but…" She pauses. "Wait, does that mean you've danced with Andrea Rhodea?"

He runs a hand along the back of his neck. "I didn't dance. It was more like he dragged me across a stage."

An abrupt, flustered laugh is pulled out of Tifa. "You danced with Andrea Rhodea!"

A light blush finally appears along the bridge of his nose. "I didn't…dance, but he wanted me to."

Tifa shakes her head at him, a mirthful smile stretched across her lips. "You did. You know how to dance, don't you? That's why you danced with me the other night."

"I—that's not why I—" he stutters, only saved by the waiter delivering their drinks. Once the man leaves, Tifa ploughs on.

"It's okay, Cloud. You can admit you know how to dance."

He shakes his head, opening the menu and pouring over it with an overabundance of scrutiny. "I really can't dance. Andrea does that with everyone."

Tifa opens up her menu as well, but she hardly glances at it. "So you just came up to me that night because I was so irresistible?" she teases.

He glances up to her then glances away, almost burying his head into the itemized entrees. "I—well, yes," he states.

Tifa loses her smile for a moment, surprised at his serious admittance. She becomes suddenly bashful.

"Oh," she says. "Um. Thanks."

"Why are you surprised?"

"I don't know," she says, shrugging and shaking her head. "It's not every day I'm told I'm irresistible from a man who's danced with Andrea Rhodea."

Cloud scowls, trying to cover his amusement. "You know what? I'm sure he'd like to take you dancing, if I introduced you."

Tifa pales. "Oh, no I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I was just teasing you."

"Apparently, it's every girl's dream to learn how to dance from him."

"Not mine!"

"Don't worry, Tifa," he says, his smile still subdued but his eyes alight. "Your secret's safe with me."

She shakes her head. "You are the worst." She leans forward. "Actually, maybe you could teach me. You already know all his dance moves."

"Keep fantasizing."

"I will," she winks. Cloud gives a lowly scoff.

They have to turn away the waiter two times before they've actually looked at the menu long enough to decide on what to eat. In the midst of their conversation, Cloud orders a whiskey, and this inspires Tifa to order a glass of wine. The alcohol warms his icy eyes, the green bordering his irises more pronounced, mixing with the deep blue in the candlelight. She could stare at them for days. He seems interested in her questions and what she has to say, talking about her life in the bar and before it, how she met Yuffie at university, how she became a business owner, meeting Barrett Wallace purely by accidental happenstance.

He is not an extrovert by any stretch of the imagination. He answers her questions when she asks them—how did he get his job? What made him want to be a courier? Did he want to be one? How did he get to Edge? Where did he grow up? He tells her he grew up in a small town, coming to New Midgar out of directionless opportunity. It is easy, he says, to leave a home when you have nothing and no one. He says it without pause, and Tifa is struck deeply with the words, because she knows exactly what he means. He took odd jobs, eventually enlisting in the army for a few drafts. It taught him how to fight, and a courier seemed to be a natural occupation to qualify for when he was discharged.

His humor is dry and sarcastic and blunt, and he never laughs outright, only giving the occasional lowly scoff as he had before, briefly smiling with only his lips. What would he look like with a toothy grin? She wonders when they're almost finished with their meal. Would it dazzle like the sun, or would it linger and haunt like the moonlight?

They share a decadent dessert—a rich, dark chocolate, five-layered slice of cake—and Tifa's stomach rolls with fullness and the curling disappointment that the dinner is coming to an end.

Far from the worst date in the history of dates.

In the middle of scooping up a piece of cake, Tifa says, "I was nervous about this."

"About what?"

"This…date," she says, swirling her fork around. "It's hard not to have expectations."

"Well, at least the food was good," he says. She looks up at him, and he's smiling.

"Arguably the best part of the evening," she smiles.

"It helped with the stretches of silence."

"And the terrible ambience of the restaurant."

"The piano playing in the background."

"The doting waiters." She glances off to the side towards the textured, dark red walls and the vaulted ceilings, bordered with intricate patterns of crown molding. She sighs with content. "Thank you for brining me here. I think…I needed this."

They are quiet for a while, and when Tifa glances back to him, he's watching her. His face gives nothing away, inscrutable underneath the dim, dusky lights. She stares back, attempting to ignore the thundering rumble of her heart.

The waiter comes with their check, and Cloud takes it without a word, placing a handful of gil inside the fold. He sets it to the side and continues looking at her.

"Wanna go somewhere?" he asks.

She doesn't have to think about it. "Yes."

He stands and offers her a hand. She takes it and stands as well, their fingers linking. She is warm from the wine and the cake, dizzy from the indulgence, and thinks about how disappointing life can be—and how exquisite it is when it's not.

He drives her to a crest over the outskirts of New Midgar. It overlooks a long, rolling stretch of undeveloped land, and the stars are poignant and blinding and unobscured from the electric lights of the big city.

"I drive this route a lot on deliveries," he tells her, idling the engine. "It's my favorite view."

"It's beautiful," she says quietly under the din of the motorcycle. "What territory do you travel?"

"Wherever I need to go," he says. "Keeps it interesting."

He tells her he travels far and wide. There is never a reason for him to turn down a job because of distance or time. Time is what he has in abundance, never needing to check in with anyone, never needing to be somewhere for someone other than a client. There is a level of independence that comes with it, and the monsters keep from it becoming too monotonous.

"It sounds lonely," she says under her breath, her thoughts coming out of her without thinking.

He merely shrugs. "Loneliness has never bothered me," he says. "I've never known anything different."

She glances at the line of his back in front of her. He is a solitary being and a wandering soul, sitting comfortably in her grasp.

"You have friends," she says.

He scoffs his laugh. "They forced their way into my life. Sometimes, I think they're purely accidental."

"So, not all alone, then."

She sees the side profile of his smile. "No, not alone. They're there to make sure life doesn't get boring, either."

Tifa thinks of Yuffie and laughs. "We have that in common."

They take a long, winding road back to Seventh Heaven. As the engine hums underneath them, it feels both powerful and ponderous, slow and steady and lazy, like the first few minutes upon waking. She is relaxed as she leans on him, hands hugging the taut ridges of his body, her ear against his back. She hears the heavy beat of his heart when she concentrates, closing her eyes.

She knows the moment they pull up to her home. The motorcycle putters to a quiet stall when he shuts of the engine. She exhales and disentangles herself, swinging her legs off. He toes the kickstand and follows. They make their way up the sidewalk pathway, up the steps to the door.

"Thank you," Tifa says. "For all of it. The dinner, the drive…"

He crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm glad you came."

They look at each other for a long moment. Tifa shifts her weight before turning toward the door. "Okay. Goodnight."

"Uh—" Cloud says, taking a step forward. "I… I know you were drunk last time—"

Tifa frowns. "I wasn't drunk," she protests. "Just a little intoxicated."

"Right," Cloud says, and his lips turn up into a smirk, the same smirk she saw at the night club. Her neck heats. "Well, no matter what you were, I'd…"

She dares herself to take a step forward. She crosses her arms, too, tilting her head at him.

"You'd what?"

He sighs, glancing off to the side. "I'm not good at this."

"You were good that night."

"Anything is good when you're drunk."

Tifa narrows her eyes at him and feels the very childish urge to stamp her foot. "I was not drunk!"

At that, he finally cracks a smile that shows his teeth. Ah. The thoughts in her mind scatter. Moonlight. The smile is the kind that'll haunt. She's temporarily ruined. There's nothing more she wants in that moment than to step forward and kiss him, so she does. She steps forward and plants her lips on his slightly opened mouth, tasting teeth and tongue and dark chocolate and whiskey and—it's better. It's better than all the indulgence and wine and food. She kisses him until she's full to bursting, until she can't breathe. His hands cradle her lower back and hers tangle behind his neck.

"Let's go out, again," he says when they break away. They remain close, her hands lingering on his shoulders.

"Okay," she grins. "When?"

"I get back from my next delivery on Wednesday."

She kisses him. "That's the busiest night, here."

"Then I'll sit at the bar and buy drinks all night."

"I'll save you a seat."

"…my friends will probably want to come."

"I'd love to meet them."

They spend a few more minutes kissing. When Tifa finally breaks away, she gives a breathless laugh.

"Then next time, we should go dancing and you can teach me everything Andrea Rhodea taught you in his parlor."

"I never should have told you," he says despairingly, but his lips are still tilted up in a smile.

"I'm so glad you did."

When they finally say their farewells, the way he says see you soon has her giddy with longing and excitement. She immediately begins to miss him as she closes the door, pressing her back against it with a contented sigh. She glances up to the clock face over the bar, reading 1:52 a.m. The late hour is something Yuffie will be assuredly proud of.

As she goes upstairs to change for bed, the smile won't leave her. How quickly emotions can change, she thinks, from inner despair and turmoil and questions about herself—so many questions and critiques and what ifs and why nots—all the things that shouldn't matter that once mattered very much. When she lies in bed and pulls the covers up to her chin, listening to Yuffie's fitful snores across the room, she finally believes in all of the despair and disappointment with people and with herself, believes in it and loves it and cherishes it because what she feels now is the opposite—and all the more sweeter for it.

She closes her eyes and looks forward to Wednesday.