Chapter 10: A Tender Wake-Up
Cloud slept with a depth that was rare for him, a complete surrender. In the thin, pre-dawn light that bled violet through the stained glass, Aerith watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. His face was smoothed of its daytime vigilance, the sharp angles softened. He looked his age. He looked peaceful.
She drifted in that warm, comfortable space between sleep and waking, her body molded to the contour of his side. Her hand lay splayed on his stomach, feeling the subtle, involuntary tighten and release of his breath. As she shifted, turning more fully into him, the back of her knuckles brushed lower, over the thin fabric of his shorts.
He was already hard. A thick, solid line of heat against her.
The sensation was electric, jolting the last vestiges of sleep from her veins. She held perfectly still for a moment, listening to the even pace of his breathing. He was still under, but his body was awake for her, as it always seemed to be. A slow, secret smile touched her lips.
With infinite care, she slid her hand beneath the elastic waistband. The skin here was even softer, fever-warm. She wrapped her fingers around him, her thumb brushing the smooth, broad head, already damp. He was heavy in her hand, a tangible weight of latent strength. He twitched against her palm, a reflexive pulse.
In his sleep, a low, rough sound vibrated in his chest. His hips gave a tiny, unconscious thrust into her grip.
Aerith watched his face. His brow furrowed slightly, his lips parting on a silent exhale. She began to move her hand, a slow, languid stroke from root to tip, using the moisture she found there to ease the way. The rhythm was hypnotic, a private claim. She felt him swell further, hardening to an almost impossible density, his skin pulled taut like silk over steel.
His breathing changed. It hitched, deepened. Another small push of his hips, this one more deliberate.
“Aerith…” Her name was a sleep-thickened murmur, a question and an answer.
“I’m here,” she whispered, leaning in to press her lips to the corner of his jaw. She tasted salt and sleep.
His eyes opened. In the dim light, they were nearly black, pupils swallowing the blue. There was no confusion in them, only a deep, burning recognition. His hands came up, sliding under the thin cotton of her tank top, his palms hot and slightly rough against the skin of her back. He pulled her on top of him in one fluid motion, her thighs straddling his hips.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he rasped, his voice shredded by sleep and need. His thumbs stroked the undersides of her breasts, his gaze locked on hers.
She laughed, a soft, breathy sound of pure delight, and settled her weight over him. With one hand guiding him, she lowered herself, taking him inside in one slow, uninterrupted glide that made her eyes flutter shut. He filled her perfectly, a familiar and astounding completeness. She paused, fully seated, letting her body adjust to the delicious stretch, feeling the tremble in his thighs beneath hers.
He let out a long, controlled breath, his hands tightening on her hips. “Good morning.”
“The best,” she agreed, and began to move.
It was a slow, grinding rhythm, a languid exploration. She rocked forward and back, using the leverage of her thighs, setting a pace that was less about frenzy and more about sensation. Each drag of him within her sent tendrils of heat coiling through her abdomen. She braced her hands on his chest, feeling the powerful beat of his heart under her palms.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice a low rumble she felt as much as heard. His hands drifted from her hips up her sides, a possessive survey. “Riding me. Taking what you want.”
“What I want is you,” she corrected gently, leaning down to kiss him. It was a deep, slow kiss, matching the rhythm of their bodies. He met it with a hunger that was tempered by a profound, aching tenderness. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, dislodging the ribbon.
They stayed like that for a long time, kissing as she moved, the world outside the church walls ceasing to exist. There was only the slide of skin, the shared breath, the quiet, wet sounds of their joining. The light shifted from violet to pale gold, painting stripes across his chest, her shoulders.
His control began to fray. His hips started to meet her downward strokes with sharp, upward thrusts that knocked a gasp from her lips. The change in angle was exquisite. Her own movements became less controlled, more desperate.
“Cloud…” Her voice was a plea.
He understood. In a sudden reversal of power, he rolled them over, pinning her to the mattress without ever slipping out of her. The sudden weight of him, the press of his body along the entire length of hers, made her moan. He hooked his arms under her knees, pushing them back towards her shoulders, opening her utterly to him.
“Mine,” he breathed against her throat, and began to drive into her in earnest.
This was different from the frantic claiming on the grass. This was deep, purposeful, each thrust a deliberate punctuation. The bedframe creaked a soft, rhythmic complaint against the stone floor. Her cries were muffled against his shoulder, her teeth sinking into the smooth skin there. He didn’t flinch; he seemed to welcome it, a sharp counterpoint to the overwhelming pleasure.
She was close, teetering on an edge she knew he was holding her at. His pace was brutal, unwavering. “Let go,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Come for me, Aerith. Now.”
The command, the sheer ownership in it, shattered her. Her orgasm broke over her in a relentless series of waves, a silent scream locked in her lungs as her body convulsed around him, pulling him deeper. The intense, rhythmic clenching tore his release from him. He stiffened, a sharp groan ripped from his throat, and she felt the hot, pulsing flood of him deep inside, each jet a perfect echo of her own contractions.
He collapsed, his weight a welcome burden, his face buried in the crook of her neck. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken unison. The sun was fully up now, a bright bar of gold cutting across their tangled legs.
Eventually, he shifted, sliding out of her and rolling to his side, taking her with him so she stayed tucked against his chest. His heart still hammered against her back.
“We missed sunrise,” she mumbled into his arm.
“Saw something better.”
She pinched his side, earning a grunt. They lay in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the birdsong that filtered in from the garden.
“I’m hungry,” Cloud announced eventually.
“You’re always hungry after.”
“Physical exertion requires caloric replenishment.”
She giggled. “Spoken like a true mercenary manual.” She untangled herself and sat up, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. She found her discarded panties, a torn and useless scrap of cotton. She held them up with a sigh. “You know, we go through these like candy.”
He looked at them, then at her, a flicker of smug satisfaction in his eyes. “Worth it.”
She threw them at his head. He caught them effortlessly.
An hour later, clean and dressed, they were back on the sun-drenched steps, sharing a bowl of berries and thick yogurt. Aerith’s legs felt pleasantly shaky. Cloud ate with single-minded focus, but his free hand rested on her knee, his thumb stroking idle circles.
“We need supplies,” he said between mouthfuls. “The dry goods are low. Soap. Maybe some real coffee.”
A trip to the sector market. The thought sent a little thrill through her, mundane and wonderful. A normal thing. A together thing.
“We could go this afternoon,” she said, trying to sound casual. “If you want.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. The peace was a living thing, settling in her bones. It was fragile, she knew. The world outside the church walls was not kind. But here, now, with the taste of berries sweet on her tongue and his solid warmth beside her, she let herself believe it could last. For a little while longer, at least.
He finished the last berry and set the bowl aside. His hand left her knee to cup her chin, turning her face toward his. He kissed her, softly, a kiss that tasted of yogurt and promise.
“For me?” she whispered against his lips, teasing.
He kissed her again, deeper this time. “Always.”
“Always.”
The word hung in the sunlit air between them, a vow sealed with the taste of berries. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumb stroking her lower lip. The market, the supplies, the world beyond their garden wall—it all seemed to recede, irrelevant.
A slow, impish idea uncurled within her, warmed by his kiss and the memory of his body shuddering beneath hers just hours before. She stood, stretching her arms overhead with a casualness she didn’t feel. The thin cotton of her dress clung to her damp skin.
“I’m going to change before we go,” she announced, her voice light. “It’s getting warm.”
Cloud just grunted, tipping his head back to soak in the sun, his eyes closed. A picture of indolent satisfaction.
Inside the cool, dim church, her heart began a faster rhythm. She went to the old wooden crate that served as their dresser. Her own clothes were folded neatly, clean and simple. His were a haphazard pile of dark fabrics. On top lay a familiar soft, grey shirt, the one he’d worn the day before. It smelled uniquely of him—sun-dried cotton, clean sweat, and that faint, metallic scent that was just Cloud.
She slipped her dress off, letting it pool at her feet. The air kissed her bare skin. She picked up his shirt, the material well-worn and soft between her fingers. She knew it was a provocation. She pulled it on. The hem fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves swallowing her hands. She rolled them up once. It was enormous on her, a cozy, fabric embrace. She didn’t put on anything else.
The mistake, the delicious, thrilling mistake, became apparent the moment she walked back outside.
Cloud had moved to the water pump, splashing his face. He straightened, water dripping from his chin and hair, and turned. He saw her. His entire body went very, very still. His eyes, blue and piercing even across the distance, traveled from the messy crown of her head, down the drape of the fabric that hid and hinted at her form, to her bare legs below the hem.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The intent, focused heat in his gaze was a physical touch.
Aerith walked toward him, the cobblestones cool under her feet. She stopped an arm’s length away, tilting her head. “Is this okay for the market?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. He closed the distance between them in two silent strides. His hands came up, not to touch her, but to fist loosely in the excessive fabric at her hips, anchoring her. He bent his head, his mouth finding the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder. His lips were cool from the water, his breath hot.
“No,” he murmured against her, the word vibrating into her bones. “This is not for the market.”
She shivered, leaning back into him. “No?”
His hands slid around from her hips, smoothing over the shirt, mapping the terrain of her body beneath it. He splayed his fingers across her stomach, pulling her firmly against him. She felt it then, the hard, insistent press of him through his trousers, nestled perfectly in the cleft of her ass. A sharp, wanting gasp escaped her.
“This,” he said, his voice low and rough at her ear, “is for right here.”
He began to kiss her neck in earnest, not gently, but with a focused, open-mouthed hunger that left damp trails on her skin. Each kiss was a brand. His hands moved, one sliding up to cup her breast through the fabric, his thumb finding her nipple and circling it into a tight, aching peak. The other hand slid down, over the plane of her stomach, lower, his fingertips brushing the downy hair at the apex of her thighs.
She was already wet. The knowledge that she wore nothing but his shirt, that he could feel every tremor, that he knew exactly what he was doing to her, made her head spin. She arched against him, pushing her hips back into the solid ridge of his erection.
“You did this on purpose,” he accused, nipping at her earlobe.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she breathed, the lie utterly transparent.
He chuckled, a dark, gratified sound. The hand on her breast moved to the first button of the shirt. He popped it open. Then the next. His kisses followed the path of exposed skin, moving from her shoulder to her collarbone. The morning sun warmed the parts of her he revealed. Cool air and hot lips. The contrast was dizzying.
He opened the shirt completely, letting it hang loosely from her shoulders. His hands came around to span her bare waist, his skin calloused and warm. He held her like that, half-dressed in his clothes, utterly exposed to the garden, to him. His thumbs stroked the indentations of her hips.
“You seduced me,” he said, his voice thick. It wasn’t a question.
“Did I?” She reached one hand back, curling it around his neck, pulling his mouth closer to hers. “Or did you let yourself be seduced?”
His answer was to spin her around to face him. The shirt gaped open, baring her completely to his gaze. His eyes drank her in, a slow, possessive survey that left her skin burning. He bent his head and took her mouth in a deep, consuming kiss. There was no softness in it now, only a claiming as potent as their first joined rhythm of the day.
He walked her backward, never breaking the kiss, until her back met the sun-warmed stone of the church wall. The roughness of it scraped against her bare shoulders. He pressed into her, his body a solid line of heat, his hardness grinding against her stomach. The thick cotton of his trousers was a frustrating barrier.
She fumbled with his belt buckle, her fingers clumsy with need. He helped, making quick, efficient work of the fastening. He shoved his own clothes down just enough, and then his hands were on her thighs, hiking them up around his hips. She was open to him, held against the wall, supported by his strength and the relentless desire in his eyes.
There was no gentle guidance this time. He positioned himself and drove into her in one fierce, unyielding thrust. The fullness stole her breath, replacing it with a broken cry that was lost in his mouth. He held there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers, both of them panting.
“You,” he grated out, “in my shirt. Nothing else.” He pulled back and slammed home again, the force knocking a soft oh from her lips. “You knew.”
She could only nod, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders. He set a punishing, exhilarating pace, each movement leveraging her weight against the wall. The shirt was still on her arms, tangled, a flag of her surrender. He gripped her thighs, his fingers pressing into her flesh, controlling the depth and angle of every stroke.
She was wound so tight, so fast. The visual of it—their joined bodies, her exposed in the daylight, clothed only in the symbol of him—pushed her toward the edge with terrifying speed. She chanted his name, a ragged prayer against the column of his throat.
He felt her tightening around him, the fluttering onset of her climax. “Look at me,” he demanded.
Her eyes, glazed, found his. The connection was more intimate than anything physical. She saw the storm in his blue gaze, the absolute focus, the raw, unguarded want. It shattered her.
Her release tore through her, a silent, seismic event that clenched every muscle. She buried her face in his neck to muffle her scream. The intense, rhythmic pulses around him tipped him over the edge. With a guttural groan, he followed, his own release pumping into her as he pinned her to the wall, his entire body shaking with the force of it.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant rustle of leaves. He gently lowered her, her legs trembling so badly they could barely hold her. He kept his arms around her, holding her upright, his face buried in her hair.
The shirt was a rumpled, damp mess between them. He carefully pulled the sleeves back onto her shoulders, doing up a few of the buttons with a surprising tenderness. His hands lingered on the fabric.
“We’re not going to the market,” he stated, his voice hoarse.
She laughed, a weak, happy sound, and leaned her forehead against his chest. “Not right now.”
“Not right now.” The words were muffled against his chest, where she could still hear the frantic drumbeat of his heart slowing to a steady march. He smoothed her hair, his fingers catching on tangles. She didn’t move, letting the solid reality of him hold the world at bay. The sun climbed higher, warming the stones at their feet.
Eventually, he stirred. “We still need things.”
“I know.” She sighed, the practical world intruding. Her legs felt liquid, but the persistent hollow of hunger was now undeniable. “But I’m not wearing that into the sector.” She plucked at the damp, rumpled collar of his shirt.
A slow,almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He retrieved her discarded dress from inside, holding it out. She changed right there in the garden, the soft cotton a familiar comfort against her sensitized skin. He watched, his eyes thoughtful, as she tied the belt. The ordinary act felt profoundly intimate.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Almost.” She finger-combed her hair, giving up with a shrug. “Lead on, mercenary.”
The walk to the Sector 5 market was a journey through layers of life. They navigated narrow, winding paths between leaning houses, the air thick with the scent of damp earth, frying food, and the ever-present mako tang. Children screeched, chasing a makeshift ball. An old woman watered potted herbs on a windowsill. Cloud’s hand found hers, his grip firm, a silent anchor amidst the chaotic warmth.
Aerith loved these trips with him. He was different here, not softer, but focused. His eyes constantly tracked their surroundings, a silent assessment of alleys and faces, but his thumb would stroke her knuckles absently. He was guarding their peace, and the certainty of it let her relax completely.
The market unfolded in a noisy, colorful sprawl beneath the skeletal remains of the plate above. Canvas awnings flapped in the faint breeze. They moved through their routine with practiced ease. Cloud hefted a sack of rice onto his shoulder, his muscles cording with the effort. She picked outsoap, choosing the lavender-scented bar because she knew he secretly liked it. She added a tin of real coffee, a luxury, and watched his eyes lighten just a fraction.
She lingered at a stall selling pastries, golden and glazed. “Cloud?”
He followed her gaze. “Get two.”
She did, handing one to him, taking a bite of her own. The sweetness of apple and flaky crust exploded on her tongue. She ate it as they walked, licking sticky sugar from her thumb. He finished his in three efficient bites,then used a corner of his sleeve to wipe a smudge of glaze from her chin. The gesture was so commonplace, so tender, her heart squeezed.
The supplies were gathered, the pack on Cloud’s back growing heavy. They stood for a moment in the flow of the crowd. Aerith finished her pastry, brushing crumbs from her front. The last, most specific item remained. It was a ritual, one that always made her insides flutter with a mix of shyness and deep, warm security.
She bit her lip, looking up at him. He met her eyes, understanding dawning without a word. He nodded once, a slight tilt of his head toward the far end of the market, where a small, cluttered pharmacy nestled between a junk dealer and a textile stand.
The bell above the pharmacy door jingled, a sharp, brittle sound. The inside smelled of dried herbs, disinfectant, and dust. It was quieter, insulated from the market din. An older woman with kind, tired eyes and grey hair woven into a severe bun looked up from behind the counter. She knew them by sight now.
“Afternoon,” the woman said,her voice raspy.
Cloud gave a curt nod. “Afternoon.”
Aerith busied herself examining a display of neatly rolled bandages, her ears tuned to the low rumble of Cloud’s voice. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t mumble. There was no awkwardness in his posture, just straightforward practicality.
“We need a box.” He said it the same way he’d requested the coffee tin.
“Of course,” the shopkeeper said, turning to a shelf behind her. She pulled down a flat, rectangular box. The brand was common, the packaging innocuous. She placed it on the counter. “Anything else?”
Cloud’s gaze flicked to the box, then back to the woman. “The larger size.”
A subtle shift occurred. The woman’s eyes widened a fraction. A faint, pink hue climbed her weathered cheeks. It wasn’t judgment, just a flash of pure, human surprise. She recovered quickly, clearing her throat. “Right. Of course. Let me… check the back.”
She disappeared behind a faded floral curtain. Aerith felt her own face grow fiercely hot. She stared intently at a bottle of cough syrup, praying for the wooden floorboards to swallow her. She heard the rustle of boxes, a soft thump.
Cloud remained motionless beside her, a pillar of calm. His arm brushed against hers. He didn’t look at her, but his shoulder pressed gently into hers, a tiny transfer of strength.
The woman returned, a different box in hand. This one was slightly wider. She placed it on the counter with a soft tap. “Here you are.”
“Thank you,” Cloud said. His voice was completely even. He reached into his pocket for gil, counting out the exact amount,his movements methodical.
The woman took the coins, her eyes darting from the box to Cloud’s impassive face,then quickly away. She busied herself with the register, though the sale was complete. “You two have a good day now,” she said,a trifle too brightly.
“You too.” Cloud picked up the box.He didn’t shove it in the pack with the coffee and rice. He held it in his left hand, plainly, as if it were a packet of screws. With his right, he took Aerith’s hand, his fingers threading through hers.
The bell jingled again as they stepped back into the sun and noise. The market sounds rushed in, a cacophonous relief. Aerith’s blush felt like it was burning her face from the inside. She pressed her cheek into Cloud’s upper arm, hiding in the familiar texture of his sleeve.
He squeezed her hand. “You okay?”
She nodded against his arm, unable to form words.Her embarrassment was molten, but underneath it ran a current of pure, adoring warmth. He had done that,without a flicker of discomfort. He had asked for exactly what they needed, shielding her from the entire exchange, carrying the weight of the moment—and the box—without a single comment. He made sure. He always made sure.
They walked in silence for a block, the strange, intimate tension of the pharmacy slowly dissolving into the rhythm of their steps. He finally stopped by a vendor selling roasted nuts, bought a small paper cone of them, and handed it to her.
“Snacks,” he said, as if explaining a fundamental law of the universe. A tiny, almost invisible smirk played on his lips. “For later.”
She took the warm nuts, the scent of salt and rosemary earthy and comforting. She popped one in her mouth, then another. The ordinary deliciousness of it grounded her. She looked down at the box in his hand, then up at his profile, at the sun catching the blond spikes of his hair.
“My hero,” she said, her voice finally steady, laced with playful affection.
He snorted softly, but his grip on her hand tightened.
The walk back to the church was quieter, the pack heavier, the afternoon sun painting long shadows. When the rusty gate clicked shut behind them, it felt like closing a door on the entire world. The church swallowed them in its still, flower-scented silence.
Cloud set the heavy pack down by the door with a soft thud. He placed the box of condoms and the nuts on the small, rickety table they used for meals.The mundane items looked surreal in the sacred space. He shrugged off his harness, the leather creaking, and removed his sword, leaning it against the wall with a care that was both ritualistic and routine.
Aerith watched him, hugging herself. The blush was gone, replaced by a spreading,liquid warmth. He moved through the space, lighting a few candles as the daylight began to fade, their flames casting dancing shadows on the stained glass. The simple, deliberate acts of preparation—the securing of their home,the laying out of what they needed—unraveled the last of her shyness.
He turned to her. In the candlelight, his eyes were very blue. He didn’t reach for her immediately. He just looked at her, a question in his gaze that had nothing to do with words.
She walked to the table,picked up the box, and handed it to him. Her fingers didn’t tremble.
“For me,” she whispered, echoing the old, powerful phrase,but this time it was an offering, not a request.
He took it. His free hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. He bent his head and kissed her, a kiss of profound,wordless understanding.It tasted of rosemary and security and the long, shared road home.