#softgh0stwrites

You sighed, shaking your head to clear the intrusive thoughts while your hands busied themselves breaking apart bread. You were hungry, ravished from your journey but you didnt feel like sitting with the group and cooking out over a grill or sitting at one of the pubs. Especially if he was there, so close to you but distant anyway. Utensils would’ve been helpful, but you didn’t have any, and the loaf crumbled unevenly under your grip. Seated on the beach of Costa del Sol, you watched the dreary sun slowly sink toward the horizon. Its soft, molten orange glow only annoyed you more—it was the same color as Vincent’s eyes, mocking you.

The bread crumbled further as your hand tightened, frustration bubbling over as you muttered a string of curses. Reaching for the jar nestled in the sand beside you, you unscrewed the lid with quick, practiced fingers. The honey glistened inside, and you dipped your fingers in, spreading it on the bread without care for the sticky mess. You didn’t mind. You could always lick it off later.

'I wish it was him licking it instead with an apology,'

Groaning at the stray thought, you shoved the honey-slathered bread into your mouth, chewing loudly in a futile attempt to drown out the ache in your chest. That night, when you had cried quietly into your pillow, it hadn’t been for yourself. No, it had been for him. You ached for the man who was so convinced he didn’t deserve even the simplest affirmation.

You finished the bread and licked your fingers one by one, your tongue sliding between each digit methodically. The sticky residue would’ve been a nuisance if you decided to join Aerith and Tifa for cards later, though the thought felt distant. They’d already noticed your mood over the past week, pressing you despite your insistence that it wasn’t a big deal.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you stared out at the darkening waves, the scrape of loneliness rising behind your eyes. Even the sun was abandoning you, slipping away to hide behind its lover, leaving you here in the itchy sand with sticky fingers and crumbs on your face.

Amidst the rhythmic sound of lapping tides, the soft clink of metal broke through, unmistakable and familiar. Your heart sank and burned all at once. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Of course it was him. Of all times, why now? He probably wasn’t even here on his own volition—maybe the group was waiting on you for something.

The clinking stopped, and the last light of the sun threw his shadow over you. You clenched your thighs with your palms, steadying yourself before forcing out the words.

"Is something happening? I’ll just be a few more minutes." You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your voice to stay even despite the hammering pulse in your throat. "Please."

The final word quivered with unspoken desperation—a silent plea for him to leave. If he wanted you to move on, to stop feeling this way, he needed to walk away. You couldn’t see him, couldn’t smell him, or you’d be undone all over again.

But he didn’t leave.

The sand shifted behind you, and a steady warmth radiated at your back. Something soft brushed against your bare shoulders, and the hair on your neck stood on end. Opening your eyes, you glanced down at the shadow cast over you. Vincent had seated himself at your back, lounging lazily with one leg outstretched, the other bent at the knee. His head drooped slightly forward, his posture casual despite the tension crackling between you.

Irritation bubbled in your chest, mixing with the undeniable yearning to lean into the silent comfort he was offering.

"That wasn’t an invitation, you know," you muttered, a sharp edge in your voice.

If it bothered him, he didn’t let it show. "I thought we were sharing nice views," he replied, his tone as dry as ever.

"You’re facing the wrong way, and the sun’s leaving us behind," you sighed, your exhaustion seeping into your words. Despite yourself, you scooted a little closer, cautiously leaning into his back. He didn’t move away.

Despite everything, you wanted this. You should’ve known it would take time, patience, effort. A soft chuckle rumbled through him, low and unhurried, and you couldn’t help but wonder if his humor was that dry or if he’d caught on to what you were implying.

"Would you prefer I turn around?" he asked, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. There was a quiet note in it—almost like he was asking for forgiveness.

You leaned further into him, your head brushing against his shoulder blades. He was so tall that even the small bump made your neck ache, but you didn’t care.

"Do you even know how much..." You stopped, stumbling over the words in your head. "Do you... think of me?" The question slipped out in a whisper, hesitant and vulnerable.

If he could feel the way your heart was hammering against your ribs, you’d have thrown yourself into the waves out of sheer embarrassment. You could handle it if he said no if he finally shut you out completely. But deep down, you knew better. There had been too many moments—unspoken glances, the brush of his hand against yours while unpacking boxes, the way he always seemed to linger near you. His body betrayed what his face worked so hard to hide.

"Often," he admitted, his voice low and steady.

Before you could respond, he shifted behind you. The next thing you knew, his legs slid around your frame, his knees bent and enclosing you as his arms rested lightly over them. You were trapped, but the weight of him didn’t feel oppressive. Instead, it was grounding. Comforting.

"Too often," he added, his breath warm against your ear. The tone of his voice was thick, lazy, syrupy, and god when it brushed the shell of your ear you wanted more.

He didn’t quite touch you, and you knew that if you wanted to, you could get up and he wouldn’t stop you. He’d let you leave. But something about this moment felt different—this was far too forward of him.

Tilting your head back, you looked up at his face, catching his eyes for the first time in what felt like a month. He was beautiful in the way only he could be, his hair sticking to his skin from the heat, a dusting of peach along the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. But it was his eyes and their slight vulnerability in dusky depths that held you. He watched you as you watched him, and your mind lagged, struggling to process that he actually thought of you.

Your lips tilted into a half-smile. "Well, you don’t show it, do you?"

You reached up, your fingers brushing toward him instinctively a part of you knowing he wouldn’t push you away. There was something different about him, it was something softer. You noticed his mouth working at the top of his neckline, lips parting and closing again, before he let out a sigh so heavy it seemed to carry all his restraint.

"How would you like me to show it?" he asked, his tone challenging, dripping like poison unto you. A poison you'd drink yourself stupid with.

"Vincent," you began, bracing yourself for the vulnerability in your next words, "I don’t want you to pull away from me anymore." Even as you said it, you felt the rise of panic, ready to run if he rejected you again. You didn’t think you could handle another cold refusal.

But instead of answering, his hand settled near your waist, hovering as if asking for permission. The heat of his palm radiated through your clothes, and even though he didn’t touch you, you could feel the electricity in the air between you. He leaned forward, tilting his head down to meet your gaze fully. Your neck began to ache from the angle, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. His bangs fell into your eyes, tickling your nose, making you shiver.

God, he had to be ridiculously flexible to contort down to you like this.

"I can’t—" he started, his voice faltering as the sun flared in his eye. He swallowed hard, his words thick and heavy. "I need— I want, but I can’t..." His voice cracked slightly, and your breath caught as you stared at him. His lips, parted ever so slightly, were the perfect shape, a cupid’s bow you couldn’t stop imagining against your own. You wanted to feel their softness with your fingertips, your teeth, your tongue.

Gathering your courage, you let yourself lean against him, resting your head on his collarbone if only it wasn't covered with his cloak, buckles, and leather. Your lashes batting up at him shyly. "You want?" you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. "Tell me."

Your voice made your cheeks burn, the sound of it so unfamiliar, almost foreign. This was all so strange like one moment you were trying to forget him, to bury this infatuation, and the next, you were slotted between his thighs with him looking like he wanted to devour you whole.

Slowly, carefully—as if not to startle you—he moved, although he probably never could with how loud his movements were in general. The crinkle of leather and the soft click of his gauntlet sounded loud in your ears as he raised his hand, sliding it under your jaw. His touch was impossibly gentle, his glove cool against your skin as he tilted your face upward, stretching your neck a little further, exposed. He was studying you like he was committing every detail to memory. His thumb brushed a lazy, feather-light stroke along the side of your jaw, over the sweep of your ear and towards your temple. His gauntlet fingers left a trail of icy fire in their wake, making your mouth dry and you felt your resistance to forgive crumbling under his care.

He touched you as if you were glass, his grip sweet and fragile. The ocean breeze picked up, ruffling your clothes and making you shiver as you closed your eyes, momentarily overwhelmed.

"Everything," he finally murmured, the word purring from deep in his chest, thick with vulnerability. "Anything you’ll give me. Whatever you need from me." His tongue darted out briefly, wetting his lips, and your gaze lingered on them, sinful and inviting.

You couldn’t stop yourself. Shifting, you captured his hand in yours so it didnt hang useless between you, turning to nestle on your knees so you could meet his gaze at eye level. Your head spun with thoughts, ideas of what to ask for or what to take since he was offering so freely. But something nagged at you. Something twisted about this self-service he was offering.

As you leaned closer, you noticed the bleary haze in his eyes, half-lidded and dusky. You inhaled sharply, catching the faint scent of liquor. It was bitter and strong. The realization hit you like a splash of cold water.

"Are you—?" you started, pulling back slightly, unwilling to let this go further if he wasn’t in the right state of mind.

He stilled, and for the first time, a rare and crooked grin spread across his lips. His sharp canines flashed, making you swallow hard. You didn’t know what he found so amusing, but the sight of his grin struck something deep in your chest. He carded a hand over his face, ruffling his dark locks and leaving himself even more disheveled than before.

After a moment of composure, he answered, his grin fading as he met your gaze with quiet intensity. "No. Unfortunately, I’ll never have the luxury of letting go." His tone was heavy, but his lips quirked faintly, almost self-deprecating. "You’re not some villain out to steal my virtue, so don’t trouble yourself."

His hand slid back under your chin, guiding your face closer to his as his gaze dropped to your mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed instinctively, thinking this was it, finally...

"What if I am a villain out to steal your virtue?" you squeaked, half-joking, half-desperate.

His breath ghosted over your cheek as his nose bumped against the top of your cheekbone. Slowly, he inhaled, as if memorizing the scent of your skin. His nose brushed lower, gliding along your jaw before returning to hover near your lips. The sensation sent shivers racing down your spine.

"Tough luck," he murmured, a quiet smugness in his tone as if to say it was never in question to begin with, his virtue. He continued his gentle ministrations, making heat pool low, fire stocking your belly. His lips were whispering over the places his nose touched, but only slightly, not daring to touch you quite yet. He had said that touch was very important to him, so the act of this was unthinkable to you. You hadn't thought you'd be sitting here being stock still as he took pleasure in teasing you with haunting trails of that mouth. You were almost worried he would end up finding sticky honey and crumbs if he continued at this pace, hoping to god it wouldn't ruin the moment.

In all the silence passing between you again, he was making you lose your train of thought to reply, your throat swallowing as his lip just barely fluttered over your pulse point before he continued to make you squirm.

His voice low and velvety, a dangerous whisper. "What do you plan to do with my virtue once it’s yours?"

He was entertaining you while also asking a weighted question, his face pulling back slightly to meet your gaze as your eyes opened. You could see how strong his restraint was, like stone, ceremoniously holding himself together without letting a single crack show. But now, here with you, those cracks were visible, his facade slipping as his eyes stayed fixed on yours, the weight of his stare pinning you down.

Before you could answer, he spoke again, his voice softer, almost as if the words weren’t meant for you.

"I’ve already given more of myself to you than I meant to," he admitted, the frustration clear in his tone. His eyes dropped for a moment before meeting yours again, his brow furrowed. "You shouldn’t want me. You’re something I was never meant to touch, but I keep reaching for you. I can’t stop."

The raw honesty of his words made your heart ache. You could see how much he hated admitting it and hated the truth of it. His problems felt like they went far deeper than just a man betrayed by Shinra and left to wander alone. There was a darkness clinging to him, a weight heavier than regret, and it was clear it had been with him far longer than you realized.

You took his hand that was still in yours, raising it to your cheek and nuzzling against his knuckles. The cool material of his glove contrasted with your skin, but you didn’t care. Slowly, you lowered his hand to your lips, pressing a soft kiss there, like a quiet apology for being the source of such turmoil.

"You haunt me too," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. You kissed each of his fingers as he watched you, his gaze flickering occasionally toward the darkening horizon, like he needed to steady himself. "You’re my ghost, drowning in regrets I don’t know anything about." You paused when his teeth bit down on his bottom lip, the flash of his sharp canines staying in your mind. "But I’d never think less of you for struggling with what you carry."

Before he could retort with self-pity and dismissive ideas about himself and what you should think of him, you squinted your eyes as if to say; Save it. You weren't usually so bold, but this idea that you're sitting in front of him being vulnerable as well. Another crash of water against the tides pulled you both from the intense stare off, your mind struggling to catch up to all that was occurring but nothing about Vincent was simple- you knew it. He was already giving you so much more than he ever did, spoke to you more than he ever had, you couldn't falter in this moment. Your hands were trembling at the idea that you could make one wrong move or simply open your eyes to find you had fallen asleep on this wide beach.

After a moment, you let go of his hand and rested your head on his shoulder. It felt silly to want to hold him tight, especially after a moment ago when you’d wanted him in an entirely different way, not as tender. But right now, more than anything, you wanted to make him feel safe. If this was all you could offer, then so be it. Your arms carefully wrapped around his neck, cautious not to brush against his skin. Your fingers wanted to slide into his hair, but you wouldn't push it considering his shoulders were still stiff regardless of the golden shoulder pads he wore underneath the cloak. His gauntlet shifted softly as he pressed his hands against your upper back, his fingers spreading wide as he pulled you closer with a quiet, low grumble. He finally slumped a bit forward, cheek resting in a tilted fashion on the side of your head, puffs of his breath stirring your hair.

You stayed silent as the moments passed until your eyes began to close from exhaustion, both emotional and physical. Vincent didn’t seem to mind. The quiet was his element, his steady breaths and the sound of the tide lapping against the shore, keeping you from fully drifting off.

You knew he wouldn’t say anything like I fancy you, I love you, or even I like you. You could deal with that. Maybe you’d never hear those words from him, and maybe he didn’t want your love, only your kindness. It didn’t matter. As long as he stayed like this, as long as he was yours in these moments, you could be content. This version of him was yours to keep, and you wanted to hold onto it selfishly.

Still, the thought of him opening up to others someday, making meaningful connections, or finding peace in conversation was comforting. You didn’t want to keep him entirely to yourself. But here, now, in the warmth of his hands on your back, his thumb brushing softly against your shoulder and rubbing lazily down to your lower back and up again, the quiet comfort he shared with you, this was yours.

He rarely ventured into town when it was this crowded, much less left the security of his upper-floor room at the inn. The happiness in the air made something inside him squirm like it was pressing him toward an inevitable interaction he wasn’t prepared for. As he wove through the crowds, he made a conscious effort to look unapproachable, his usual armor against unwanted conversation. He wasn’t here for idle pleasantries anyway. He was looking for something specific, a place he had seen once when you arrived but had given no thought to until last night when overhearing your conversation.

Vincent wasn’t usually one to eavesdrop on conversations, but your voice had been involved, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy hearing you speak.

-----

You had been helping Aerith carry drinks back to your table at the pub, both of you engrossed in conversation. Tifa had gone with Cloud to get supplies, Cid was busy with learning new navigation equipment, and cait sith- not really sure what he was up to. Vincent had straightened slightly from his usual slouched position in the corner of the establishment, trying not to make his attentiveness too obvious as he lazily draped his arm over the back of the bench. He was only here because he didn't trust sleezy drunkards not to try to follow you two back so despite your insistence that they would be okay, he came along anyway. His eyes followed you, but you hadn’t noticed yet. Good.

"Do you have a favorite flower?" Aerith asked, her face lighting up with a bright, eager smile, clearly thrilled to finally have someone to talk to about it.

"I’ll be honest, I don’t know enough to pick one. But I used to read about flower language all the time!" You admitted, a faint blush dusting your cheeks as you scratched behind your ear. "Kind of silly, I know."

Vincent’s brow furrowed slightly. Flower language. He had never given much thought to it before, never had a reason to but the way you spoke about it, there was a quiet sincerity there. Did you see meaning in those kinds of things?

Aerith gasped, clapping her hands together. "Of course not! Flowers have been an important part of history. It’s not silly at all! The language they hold—" she leaned forward, propping her chin on her hands, "—even back then, people used flowers to say the things they couldn’t put into words. And I think we both know a few guys who aren’t the best at talking."

She playfully nudged your ribs just as you were taking a sip, making you choke slightly as a few drops dribbled from your mouth. You wiped it away with the back of your hand, grimacing softly.

"Yeah, Cloud is pretty quiet unless you prod him too much, huh?"

Aerith gave you a knowing look. "Oh, don’t think I haven’t noticed your little telepathic connection with Vincent." She took a swig of her drink, eyes twinkling mischievously. "You’re practically attached at the hip! You sure stare like you want to be."

Vincent stiffened. Telepathic connection? His clawed fingers curled slightly against the wood of the bench. That was an exaggeration. Surely.

Your hands flew to your face, groaning in mortification. "It’s that obvious?"

"Mmmhmmm," Aerith hummed, grinning. "But that’s okay. I think it just means you find comfort in each other, right? He’s around the group a lot more when you’re there." She pointed out matter of factly.

Vincent exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking toward the wall. He wasn’t aware he had been that obvious, maybe he should tone it down and give the both of you some space. It didn't bother him per say, just complicated the moments you two were able to hide away in the corners and sneak intimate moments. Particularly that old storage closet on the HighWind, it had become his favorite place to linger by, seeing as most of the time you pulled him in there it ended with the both of you breathless, your clothes disheveled and his hair out of place.

"Really? I never noticed…" You shyly toyed with a loose strand of hair, gaze flickering across the room until it settled briefly on Vincent.

His eyes snapped away instantly, fixing very intently on the faded menu beside him on the wall.

"He makes me feel really safe," you admitted quietly. "Even though his gaze is… intense sometimes. I don’t think he means to be. At least, not usually?"

He barely kept himself from shifting in his seat. Safe. The word rang in his ears, foreign yet something else. The way you said i made it sound like a miraculous compliment. He may have felt a little grateful for his superhuman hearing after all.

"Well…sometimes I want to know how he feels," You hesitated, continuing but lowering your voice. "It makes me think about love languages. What do you think guys like that want?"

Vincent’s opposite hand twitched slightly where they rested against his knee. Oh, this would be interesting.

Aerith pursed her lips in exaggerated thought. "Hmmm. Touch." She dramatized it by saying it breathily with a teasing look.

You went rigid, face heating. "Ahhh… maybe," you mumbled. "But I was thinking more along the lines of gifts, quality time, words of affirmation…"

Vincent slouched even further into the bench, his legs spreading wider as a couple of ladies happened to glance at the empty spot beside him. One look with his glowering eye was enough to have them turn around and perish the thought of approaching.

Love languages? He supposed he had heard of it before, but the idea of applying it to himself felt somewhat foolish. A man like him, who had spent decades trying to erase himself, thinking about something as trivial as love languages? He supposed he did have a soft spot for the classics of all things.

Aerith sighed dramatically. "That’s a tough one. I don’t know him well enough to say, but—" Her gaze lowered to the hands wrapped around her mug, her expression softening. "There used to be someone I loved. He would always drop by unexpectedly, like he always had the time to do so." She smiled wistfully.

Vincent studied her expression carefully. He knew that look. It was the same way someone smiled when trying to mask old wounds.

"Ah! That’s cute, spill more." You linked your arm with hers, trying to comfort her a little.

Aerith chuckled, lifting a hand to toy with the ribbon in her hair. "That’s how I got this. He gave it to me as a gift, and I never could let it go… even when he disappeared."

Your eyes seemed concerned, you reached up, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly. She beamed at you, as if to say she was okay talking about it. It didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"It’s okay, I’m mostly over it. And anyway," she paused to take another swig, "We were talking about you. So, what is it that you think he likes?"

Vincent was still staring at the menu vaguely, eyes reading the faded lettering there. Raspberry sorbet. He had never had it before, but he had been reading the word over and over long enough that he could almost taste it. Sweet.

"He seems like a more traditional person, I guess… maybe at one time he would've liked dates?"

His breath stuttered, his hand coming up to his face, gazing at his empty leather glove. At one time. That was true, wasn’t it? At one time, he had been a man who could have entertained the thought of simple joys like dates. But those years were long past and the world had moved past simple walks on the beach hand in hand, probably. Picnics on Sundays with watermelon in the summer, rolled up button down shirts and bare feet in the grass. He remembered thinking he would court a woman someday, bring her lavish gifts from his corporate job, be home on time for dinner, but even then his bodyguard work never allowed him those luxuries. That life was entirely foreign now and not something he was sure of.

"So no Golden Saucer raves, check." Aerith made a swishing motion in the air as if marking off an invisible list.

"What about you though, what would you want?" She asked as you were still concentrating on what Vincent could possibly like.

"I think flowers is a good place to start, I'm a bit of a hopeless romantic," Your signature lop sided sunshine grin in place made Vincent's lips smile under his cowl. He could do hopeless and romantic, it wasn't too far off from his own views really.

-----

Vincent let out a silent exhale, pulling himself back to the present as he picked up his pace through the streets of Kalm. He didn’t know why your words lingered in his mind, but they did. You had considered him—his past, his nature, his preferences. In a way it felt good to be noticed by you.

You’d taken a leap of faith with him, putting yourself in a vulnerable position and gave him something he didn’t know how to ask for. The least he could do was acknowledge it, even return the gesture. He wasn’t good at these things, but he could at least try for your sake. His steps carried him toward the center of town, but instead of the busy marketplace, he turned into a quieter alleyway where a wooden sign swayed in the breeze, adorned with a cascade of trailing ivy.

Mira’s Floral Boutique

He hesitated. Standing outside a flower shop felt more daunting than hunting Sephiroth himself. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to clear the absurdity of his thoughts. Why was this so difficult?

His fingers flexed at his sides, his body caught in an awkward limbo between entering and leaving before anyone from the group saw him lingering here.

Then, before he could overthink it, he stepped inside.

The chime of a bell overhead rang far too loudly in the small shop. He grimaced as the sound echoed, announcing his presence before he even had a chance to collect himself.

The space was quaint, filled with the soft scent of earth and blooms. Clay pots were stacked near the door, ferns and ivy hung from wooden beams, their long vines brushing against his head as he moved. He ducked slightly, feeling out of place—like some great beast trying to navigate a dollhouse.

His crimson gaze scanned the shop, looking for something—though he wasn’t quite sure what.

A rustling from the back caught his attention as a small, elderly woman shuffled out from behind a shelf stacked with yellow carnations. She looked old enough to have seen several lifetimes, her wrinkled hands covered in dirt from tending to the flowers. She squinted up at him, eyeing his dark attire with curiosity before waving him down.

"Ah, there you are! Can't see ya with those legs," she chuckled, shaking her head. “I’m assuming you’re here for the flower deal?”

Vincent swallowed. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Was there a deal? He could just nod and pretend. God, no, that wouldn’t work. He exhaled slowly, shifting uncomfortably.

“Uh…”

Great start.

The woman’s expression twitched with amusement.

"You're not used to this, are you, young man?" she teased.

“…No.”

She let out a knowing laugh, motioning for him to follow her toward the back of the shop, where buckets upon buckets of fresh flowers lined the walls. He had never seen so many colors in one place. The sheer variety made his mind stall. How was he supposed to know what you like when there were this many options? Roses, gardenias, some kind of bleeding flower- oh, bleeding heart. Nice.

"Alright then," she said, dusting her hands off on her apron. “Are these for someone special?"

Vincent hesitated tearing his gaze away from the stressful choices he was about to make, his grip tightening slightly at his sides.

“…Mm.” A hum of agreement, she could think that if she wanted. Make it out to be whatever.

A rolled-up piece of wrapping paper lightly thwacked against his arm. He blinked, mildly stunned, as the woman squinted up at him.

“She’s either special, or she’s not, young man.” She scolded and shook her head. “Now, tell me about her.”

Vincent stiffened. His first instinct was to shut down the conversation entirely, but she was already walking toward the flowers waiting for his answer. He wasn't used to speaking about someone else to some random stranger, but something about the old woman seemed earnest. It wasn't like she was going to run down the road gossiping about this strange, lanky man who walked into her store with his gun still attached- He hoped.

He swallowed, choosing his words carefully as he didn't know exactly how to explain you.

"She’s… steady.”

The shopkeeper hummed, plucking a stem from one of the buckets absent-mindedly, it seemed like she did this a lot.

“She doesn’t push, but she doesn’t waver either,” he continued, voice low. "She’s perceptive, she listens." He tilted his head, one hand steady on his hip as he put serious consideration into it.

The woman smiled knowingly. "That’s rare," she mused. "Most people only listen to reply."

Vincent’s gaze drifted over the petals of a flower near him, the way they curled delicately at the edges. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, not really sure why he was suddenly becoming an open book to the florist about you.

"She makes space for people, even when they don’t know how to ask for it."

The shopkeeper nodded approvingly. “You talk about her like she’s something worth protecting.”

He tensed at that, but didn’t refute it.

With a satisfied hum and a tap of her fingers on the counter, she started plucking flowers from various buckets. Her steps shuffled through the shop, the wood creaking beneath her feet in protest. “Alright, I have just the thing.”

She selected a pink camellia, its soft petals full and vibrant. “Admiration and deep respect,” she explained, handing it to him first to let him smell.

Vincent studied it in his palm. That was a good start. She waited for him to bring it to his nose, he nodded his head in approval. It smelled sweet, soft.

Next, she added a few sprigs of blue salvia, their tiny blossoms delicate but striking against the soft pastel pink of the camellia. “This one means I think of you.” She shot him a glance. “Seems appropriate, considering you’ve been standing here looking like a man lost in thought.”

His jaw ticked slightly, but he said nothing. His eyes fixing her with an unamused stare.

Then came bellflowers, their lavender hue complementing the bouquet. “Gratitude,” she explained. “For the quiet kind of devotion, for the things left unsaid.”

Vincent’s fingers curled slightly around the stems as he collected them one by one.

Finally, she plucked a few delicate statice flowers, their clusters of violet petals weightless in her hands. “This one,” she said softly, “is for remembrance. For missing someone, even when they’re still near.”

A sharp pang pressed against his ribs, a sense of understanding settling deep in his chest. Though he wouldn't let it show as he shrunk further behind the red of his cowl.

The woman said nothing more as she wrapped the bouquet with a simple ribbon, tucking the stems into a soft white parchment before pressing it into his hands.

“There,” she said. “That should do it.”

Vincent looked down at the bouquet, the colors blending together in muted beauty. The weight of it felt different. More intentional than anything he had carried in a long time. It was like all his words were staring back at him in the face, yet the only people hearing it was in this room.

“…She’ll like these?” he asked, voice quieter than before a bit uncertain if his silly idea was truly just that, ridiculous.

The shopkeeper smiled knowingly. “If she’s anything like the way you just described her, she won’t just like them. She’ll understand them.”

Vincent nodded once, slowly, before pulling out the gil to pay. He tucked the bouquet carefully into the crook of his arm before turning toward the door. He could hear the shopkeeper call out to him once more about extra gil he was leaving behind, but his just raised his hand in acknowledgement. He figured since he was being so generous today a little extra spending wouldn't hurt his agony image.

The warm breeze met him as he stepped outside, ruffling his cloak and carrying the scent of fresh blooms with him. The bouquet felt heavier in his grasp than it should have. For the first time in a long while, he was bringing something to someone instead of pushing them away.

His skin tingled, his mind a restless current of thoughts—how you would react, what you would say, and, perhaps more troubling, what you might tell the others. Would you tease him? Would the group pry? Had he been too boring? Too traditional? Too old?

His long strides slowed, deliberately wasting time as the afternoon sun dipped behind passing clouds.

Was he being too traditional?

What even was dating like in this time? Generations had passed—what if the rules had changed? He had discarded his ideas of fun the moment he became a Turk, and after the experiment… did he even understand people anymore? What if he had gotten you all wrong?

A familiar voice broke through the haze of his thoughts.

"Ah, Vincent! I’ve been looking for you. I heard it’s going to rain soon, so I brought an umbrella! I've been looking all over, Yuffie said-"

Like the chime of the bell in the flower shop, your voice pulled him back, parting the murmur of the town around him. His gaze dropped first to the scuffed sneakers stepping into his path before flicking up to meet yours.

Instinct took over. His arm shifted, subtly tucking the bouquet beneath the folds of his cloak as if it would disappear behind the curtain of scarlet.

---------

Your eyes missed nothing. He was lost in his head before you even approached, you could tell by the way he was studying the ground below, the way his strides faltered.

You opened your mouth to ask, but before the words could form, a single drop of rain struck the tip of your nose. You blinked in surprise before laughing softly, rubbing at the spot with your sleeve. The sky had been clear earlier, but you supposed the clouds had been creeping in while you weren’t paying attention.

Still, your focus drifted back to him—Vincent, standing there stiffly, shoulders tense as if he were bracing for something. You knew him well enough to recognize when he was uncomfortable. The shifting crowds, the open space—he didn’t like being seen like this.

So you did the first thing that came naturally. You reached for his hand.

For a second, it almost felt like he didn’t want you to. His fingers remained rigid, unmoving, and you braced yourself for the possibility that he might pull away. But then, slowly, his hand relented, letting you take it.

You didn’t say anything, only gave a light tug, guiding him away from the bustling street. He followed without protest, his long stride easily matching yours as you led him toward the bridge by the water wheel. The hum of the town grew softer as you stepped beneath its arch, the sound of rushing water covering the world beyond.

It was quiet here. Private, sort of. The way he preferred things.

Still, he hadn’t said a word.

Your eyes flicked toward him, watching as he remained unnaturally stiff. His arm was still pinned to his side, his cloak folded awkwardly beneath it like he was hiding something.

"Hey, you okay?"

Your fingers squeezed his gently, a small tug to get his attention, but he was already leaning against the wooden railing that kept people from falling into the water, unmoving. You let go of the umbrella, it becoming cradled by the blades of grass.

You frowned, scanning him for injuries, fingers adjusting his cloak that wasnt pinned to his side.

"Are you hurt?"

He shook his head. "No, It's nothing."

His voice was slightly strained. And—was that pink on the tops of his cheeks? You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen him look quite like this.

Your lips quirked, curiosity sparking. What could possibly fluster Vincent Valentine? He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, as if he was in some kind of trouble.

"Does it have to do with whatever you’re hiding then?"

You leaned in, pressing his hand to your waist, tilting your head up to meet his eyes with a knowing hum. You were teasing, but only a little. Mostly, you just wanted to see what he would do.

His crimson gaze flickered to yours, unimpressed. A long-suffering sigh followed.

"You miss nothing, do you?"

"Sorry," you grinned. "Someone taught me how to be extremely observant."

He huffed—whether in amusement or exasperation, you weren’t sure but after a beat of hesitation, he finally moved.

"Fine."

With careful precision, Vincent unpinned his arm from his side, shifting his cloak away to reveal what he’d been hiding all this time.

A bouquet.

The rain started to fall down harder, the sound of it pelting the water snapped you out of your haze.

Soft pink camellias, delicate sprigs of blue salvia, the gentle violet of bellflowers and statice—all tied neatly together with a simple ribbon.

Your breath caught, eyes widening just slightly. You had expected something a lot more practical like maybe he bought himself a new weapon or at most a saucy magazine- although the idea of it would make you giggle. The idea of the Vincent Valentine viewing half naked articles of women with his skeptical gaze was hilarious.

Vincent said nothing, only held the bouquet out toward you, his expression unreadable but his body language screamed cautious. Like he wasn’t sure what you’d think about this gift.

You took your time viewing his outstreatched hand wrapped in the flowers, the delicate arrangement of soft pink camellias, sprigs of blue salvia, and violet bellflowers carefully tied together. It wasn’t just a bundle of flowers—it was intentional. Thoughtful. Him. It made you smile thinking of him having trouble picking out any of these, possibly having to ask for help. That alone made your heart flutter, he went out of his way to do something for you even if it made him nervous.

For a moment, you just stared, your fingers hovering over the petals like they might vanish if you touched them.

"Vincent…" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

His expression was unreadable, but his grip on the bouquet was firm, as if bracing himself. He wanted you to say something more, anything to ease him, maybe change his mind about tossing them entirely. He looked somewhat adorable with something so fragile in his grip, this tall man wearing dark leather with layers of belts and a warning sign practically hanging from his neck that said, 'Danger'

You exhaled softly, finally reaching forward, your fingertips brushing against the pink paper wrapping before you took it from his grasp, cradling it like something precious before you brought them to your nose. The pinks, violets, and lavender colors all seemed to compliment you as well, almost like a miracle. The petals ghosted your lips as you tried to commit the smell to memory, you're certain you would be sneezing later. Your eyes caught the movement of a little bell charm hanging from the end of the ribbon, it's glass reflection glimmering.

"They're beautiful."

The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

You traced the edge of one of the camellia petals, your heart warming at the meaning behind them. Admiration. Respect. Then the salvia—I think of you. And the bellflowers—Gratitude. Even the statice, nestled among them—Remembrance. You swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. He might not have said the words out loud, but he had. In his own way. Your fingers curled around the stems, holding them close. He thought about this. He thought about you.

Warmth bloomed in your chest.

Stepping closer, you tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, the corners of your lips curling into something soft. His crimson eyes searched yours, still cautious, still waiting.

You didn’t make him wait long.

Rising onto your toes, you pressed a feather-light kiss against his cheek, just above his jaw before sliding to the corner of his mouth. You pressed a little more firmly, but still gentle. It wasn’t rushed, nor fleeting. Just soft. Intentional. The way he deserved.

When you pulled back, you lingered in his space, just close enough to feel the warmth of him beneath his cloak.

His breath had hitched—so subtle that most wouldn’t have noticed, but you did. The way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his jaw tensed ever so slightly.

"Thank you, Vincent," you murmured, your voice warm, sincere, "You did so much for me today,"

A beat of silence stretched between you.

Then, slowly, his gaze softened. He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head just enough that a few strands of his dark hair fell across his face. It looked like your gentleness had brought him back down to you.

"Hm."

That was all he said. But then, just as you started to pull back, his fingers ghosted over yours—the metal of his gauntlet cold, his other hand warm. Before you could react, he grasped your hand, his grip steady but careful not to wrench you out of place. In one smooth motion, he pulled you closer, guiding you against his side beneath the cover of his cloak. It wasn’t forceful, nor awkward.

Your breath stilled for half a second, heart drumming against your ribs as his warmth bled into you.

You glanced up at him, but he didn’t look down—not at first. His eyes remained forward, as if this was nothing of note, as if it was just practical—a way to shield you from the cold, the wind, the world outside of this moment. It reminded you of that moment on the hill, where you had finally mustered the courage to get close to him.

But then, after a pause, he spoke, voice quiet.

"You're welcome."

And though it was just two simple words, you felt them float down deep in your chest.

Because for a man who had spent years keeping others at arm’s length, this—his warmth, his presence, the way his hand curled ever so slightly around yours—was something far more than words could ever convey.

And you squeezed his hand in return, letting him know you understood.

Your eyes widened though as realization struck.

"You totally eavesdropped on me and Aerith yesterday, I knew it!"

Horror flashed across your face as you stared up at him, clutching the bouquet to your chest. How else would he have known about the flowers?

Vincent let out a long-suffering sigh, and though he didn’t say a word, you could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

How diva of him.

"You were loud," he countered, voice flat, as if that was a perfectly reasonable excuse.

"Loud?!" you gawked. "It was a normal conversation—oh my god, were you lurking again?!"

He huffed through his nose. Not a denial.

Before you could press him further, he shifted, his hands lightly guiding you until your back was pressed against his chest. The bouquet was still nestled safely in your arms, but now, Vincent’s cloak draped over your shoulders, encasing you in a warm cocoon of crimson fabric.

Then, to your absolute surprise, he rested his chin on your head.

Your mouth opened—then closed. Opened again. A fish out of water.

Did Vincent Valentine just cuddle you? Voluntarily, out in the open?

"You’re lucky this is cute, because you'll still owe me an explanation later." You murmured, feeling a bit shy suddenly.

"Sure,"

You huffed, shaking your head with a small smile, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you adjusted your hold on the bouquet, inhaling the soft, lingering scent of the flowers.

"You know," you mused, "this does make us look like a very romantic couple. People are probably passing by and looking at us, thinking, ‘Wow, what a devoted lover, buying his partner flowers and wrapping them up in his cloak.’"

You expected him to reject your notion that you were a couple in the first place, not knowing if he wanted to label what you had between you anyway.

Instead, he scoffed, "Then stop talking, you'll make them look more."

You grinned. "But it’s cute—"

"Stop talking."

"I bet Aerith would—"

His hand gently covered your mouth.

You laughed against his palm, feeling the softest shake of his head above you. Even if he wouldn’t admit it, you knew the truth, that Vincent Valentine had absolutely eavesdropped on you.

Embarrassment tightened your chest, and a flicker of irritation bubbled up. How could he be so dismissive? Your huff of frustration drew a fleeting glance from him, quizzical but far from offended.

Summoning courage, you stepped closer, standing just an arm’s length away. Your gaze dropped, following the small circles your toe traced in the dirt. Clearing your throat, you spoke.

"Ahem, well, you can’t just hog all the nice views for yourself," you said, folding your hands in front of you. Who were you kidding? You hadn’t come out here to argue over scenery. The truth was far more vulnerable: you wanted to break through the enigmatic barrier he kept firmly in place, to do more than steal fleeting glances in silence.

'I want you...just you...'

The faintest sound escaped him. A sharp inhale, maybe a quiet chuckle, though you couldn’t be sure. He didn't seem to have a response to your childish whims. He didn’t push you away, instead leaning back against the wall with his face tilted toward the sun. His eyes slipped shut, offering you the rare opportunity to look at him without fear of being caught. He looked like a statue carved from alabaster, fragile yet powerful, with features so sharp and flawless that they almost seemed ethereal. His lashes were long and thick, the kind that would spark envy from anyone. You found yourself transfixed, curiosity urging you closer.

Your hand moved before your mind caught up, fingers brushing the edge of his cowl. The fabric was thicker than you’d expected, soft at first touch but rough when rubbed between your fingers. You held your breath, afraid to disturb the moment.

Suddenly, your wrist was enveloped in the firm grip of a leather glove. His eyes snapped open, sharp and questioning, though not quite angry. You froze under his gaze, words fumbling out of your mouth.

"Wah—I—It looked so comfortable... I..."

His grip loosened, the leather of his glove brushing your skin briefly before he released you. Your hand fell to your side as you dared to peek up at him. He didn’t look angry or annoyed—just curious, his intense gaze studying you as though committing every detail to memory while trying to decipher what he wanted to say. Though his lips were hidden by his cloak, the faintest softening of his expression suggested a trace of amusement.

"Do you want to stand beneath it?" he asked, his voice measured but not unkind.

Your breath hitched.

"Well—I..."

"Nevermind," he murmured, already retreating.

"No!" you blurted, then quickly corrected, "I mean, yes!"

An eyebrow arched at your outburst, but he extended the edge of his cloak, creating a space for you to step closer. Hesitantly, you moved under its fold, the warmth of the fabric draping over your shoulders and back. It wasn’t cold out, but the morning breeze carried a chill the sunlight couldn’t fully chase away. His cloak carried his warmth, enveloping you in a cocoon that made you shiver slightly from the sheer thought of it being his heat alone that was gracing your skin.

You stood there, silent but electrified by the proximity. Vincent remained still, his presence as steady and grounding as the wall he leaned on. For a fleeting moment, the enigma of Vincent Valentine felt just a little less untouchable.

This might be the one time you had this creature of the night to yourself- despite him waking up early most of the time now. The faint metallic scent of his gauntlet and the armor encasing his right hip and thigh mixed with the leather he wore and sent a tremor down your spine. It wasn’t particularly remarkable, yet it felt comforting, a warmth in contrast to the sometimes stifling air inside the Highwind.

Your heart raced, flustered by how close he was, even though the situation was entirely innocent. Or was it? Your focus fixated on the proximity of his hand to your thigh. If you so much as shifted, the edge of his glove would brush your skin.

Your thoughts betrayed you, flashing to images of those hands—swift, precise, and deadly as they slid to his holster during battles. Fingers deftly gripping his firearm, drawing and firing with unerring skill against fiends and monsters. You admired how well he worked with his hands, even if it was mostly just one. Those thoughts often lingered long after the battles were over, invading your nights with ideas you’d never dare admit aloud.

"Are you going to start exploring my hands as well?"

His voice cut through your reverie like a blade, and your eyes widened in pure horror. Caught. Again.

You swallowed hard, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks. Denial would be useless now.

"And if I did?" you shot back, stepping closer, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. "Could you handle it for even a second? I’ve never seen you touch anyone since you’ve been here."

He didn’t flinch at your words, his expression remaining as stoic as ever, but there was a faint flicker in his molten gaze, a hint of something you couldn’t quite place. His lips, hidden beneath the high collar of his cloak, pressed into a line as if he were weighing his response.

"Touch isn’t something I take lightly," he finally said, his voice quiet but cutting through the air in a dusky rumble. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in cautious curiosity. "It carries more weight than most realize."

For a moment, silence stretched between you, the space feeling charged with tension. Then, almost immediately, one corner of his mouth twitched—perhaps a smirk, or maybe just a trick of the light.

"But if you think you could handle it…" he added, his tone dipping just enough to leave you unsure if he was teasing or challenging you, maybe even inviting you in while he was still sure of himself "you’re welcome to study."

"Don't tease me," You mumbled shyly, he hadn't offered you his hand but he didn't seem to mind if you picked up the hand that had grabbed you earlier. You were careful as if he would break in your fingers if you squeezed too hard, "And since you offered so nicely, you're not allowed to pull back until I'm done." You stated weakly, hoping he wouldn't change his mind.

͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

Vincent’s fingers twitched at his sides, hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. He told himself to stay composed, to suppress the pulse of warmth surging through him. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, that flicker of longing buried beneath layers of restraint. Now it burned hotter, like a flame licking dangerously at the edges of his control.

Your touch was soft, tentative, yet it unraveled him in ways he hadn’t thought possible. He watched the delicate movement of your fingers trailing over his palms, over the leather of his gloves, and it sent shivers rippling through his body. He tried to convince himself it was nothing. Just a fleeting indulgence. Just contact. But his body betrayed him and his breath hitching slightly, his jaw tightening to fight the urge to lean into you.

This isn’t for you. The thought pounded in his head, an echo of guilt and regret that had become a second voice to him. He didn’t deserve this. Not after everything. He wasn’t meant to feel this warmth, this pull, this maddening ache to give in.

But the way your fingers lingered on his arm, feather-light and deliberate, threatened to undo him entirely. His crimson eyes flickered over your face, memorizing every curve and expression, his lips pressed into a firm line to hide the words that wanted to escape. He could see the way your lips parted to take in his scent, your teeth catching your bottom lip as you gazed up at him sparingly. He caught every time you zero'd in on his mouth, almost like you wanted to taste this forbidden fruit— to drink from his tongue.

You couldn't hide your want from him, your face was too vulnerable, too open and Vincent was nothing if not observant. He craves the idea of you trying to hide these thoughts only to be teased by him.

Instead, his hand hovered for a moment before curling into a fist at his side, a silent struggle to contain the desire to reach out and pull you closer. He wanted to feel more, to let the warmth of your presence seep into the cold recesses of his soul. He wanted you desperately, humiliatingly so, it takes his entire resolve to keep that under wraps daily and nightly. He'll often chase an adrenaline rush in battle to swallow these lusts for comfort, cover himself in blood so he doesn't forget what he is.

You took his restraint for comfort, leaning forward to press your midriff into the arm you caressed so gently. Your weight was more dependent on his arm now. His hands could encircle your waist to push you into this wall and trap you—No. He can't. A hiss almost escaped him. He could feel it shattering. Why? This is a vicious yearning, a sinful one, but why does the sin have to be his punishment to bear? He knows these answers perfectly well, but it's better to self indulge in this moment— a reprieve from his inner turmoil, a scrap of pity for himself.

Your lips, so velvet soft— he imagined, sang his name so sweet, "V-Vincent...I..." Your words would drive him mad, everything he wanted to hear, everything he dreamed about, and it's still too much right now.

"Don’t," he cut your speech, his voice strained, deeper than usual. It carried a weight you couldn’t ignore. It was a warning, but also a plea. "You don’t know what you’re asking of me."

He knows it's not as perfect as when you do it, but just seeing the nape of your neck is enough to send his heart aflutter.

Maybe he loves you in the quiet moments of a Sunday. During thunderstorms that cut the power, the air thick and muggy during the summer months. Yet, he still longs to feel your sticky skin, even if you're just pressed together side by side, glancing at your phones battery incessantly as your video continues to play background noise. When it dies, you'll find that he's very good at entertainment and stories.

He's also good at kissing.

His mouth would cool you down as he chugged the last remnants of his ice water. That ice melts on your skin quickly, causing shivering sensations. Where you pull, he chases gently, not to back you into a corner but to beg you into his hold. His eyes glimmer with mischief, soft and harmless, but something darker rises to the surface at times.

He loves you when your face is screwed up into expressions that would normally be humiliating, but he's causing them so it fills him with pride. His body tends to yours in feverish delight, enjoying every reaction, coaxing more and more. He's insatiable, partial to hearing you call his name by his ear, his love deep within you.

He loves you when reach out to him in his moments of weakness. When you're the only thing he holds in the palm of his hand, the only thing he has wanted to hold for a long time. Would you hate him if you realized how selfish he was? That everything was for you, about you, that his love was older than you knew. That you had buried your way into his life long ago, another life, another heart.

But you love him too, ever so quietly but so passionately in the way you hold his face. As if letting go would spell disaster.