A/N: Warning: Some explicit sexual content
V.
As the next week rolls around, Tifa falls into her work like it's her life source. She arrives at her office at 7:00 am instead of 8:00 am. She brings her lunch and works through it. She walks out of her office and talks to the other employees in her department, discussing with them the general ideas and progress, keeping tabs on who is struggling or requiring more time to complete projects. She talks with Barret, who is more enthusiastic than he had been the prior week about the projects—probably because he's able to do what he's the best at doing: commanding and leading the groups for melding the different departments of both brands together.
By midweek, she sends updated drafts of her works to Cloud. She'll have another meeting with him on Friday, and they'll have a newly implemented company meeting the following week. It's exciting. Tifa's looking forward to seeing what the different departments are incorporating and how each of them are adapting for the merger.
She receives a reply from Cloud ten minutes after she sends her updated drafts.
Ms. Lockhart,
I admire how much progress has already been made. I realize we are to meet on Friday, but could I inconvenience you to stop by my office around the end of the work day, around 4:30 pm? It will be brief. I will not keep you any longer than 5:00 pm.
Regards,
Cloud Strife
Chief Executive Officer
SOLDIER CORP
Oh, he wants to inconvenience you, does he?
Tifa nearly blanches at the sudden Jessie-like voice that infiltrates her mind. Blushing, she shakes her head in a huff. She's spent too much time with them, lately.
She is, however, immediately intrigued by the email and equal parts terrified, inconvenience aside. Tifa opens up her reply.
Mr. Strife,
Of course. I will be at your office at 4:30 pm. I hope it's not
Tifa pauses. She backspaces the last four words.
If there is anything you would like me to change or edit before our 4:30 pm meeting, please send me your suggestions so I can present them.
Sincerely,
Tifa Lockhart
Senior Executive Marketing Specialist
SOLDIER CORP
His speed never ceases to amaze her. Twenty seconds later, he sends his reply.
Ms. Lockhart,
I don't want you to change anything.
Cloud Strife
Chief Executive Officer
SOLDIER CORP
Tifa blinks at the response. A bright streak of pride washes into her stomach, and she begins to smile. It's unnecessary to reply, but she's too happy to care.
Mr. Strife,
Great. I look forward to meeting with you.
Sincerely,
Tifa Lockhart
Senior Executive Marketing Specialist
SOLDIER CORP
If her reply is unnecessary, his is superfluous. It gives her another jolt when her email pings.
Ms. Lockhart,
Likewise.
Cloud Strife
Chief Executive Officer
SOLDIER CORP
Tifa doesn't realize she's grinning until five minutes later, when she's shading Shiva's jawline, tinting her skin a rich, icy blue.
"Back again, are we?"
Tifa is greeted by the lovely Scarlet Dagger. Tifa plasters on a smile.
"Yes, I am. Let Mr. Strife know I'm here?"
"Oh, I'm sure he's quite expectant," Scarlet answers, her perfect, white teeth sharp and glinting in her smile, rimmed with bloody red lipstick. It looks like she's just devoured a raw steak. She picks up her receiver, and hums her inquiry to Cloud. "Certainly," she answers after a moment, placing it back onto the holder. She looks Tifa up and down.
"Another skirt, today?"
Tifa tries to maintain a straight face, glancing down at her ensemble. No surprises, there. Dress shirt, pencil skirt, black stockings. She looks back to Scarlet.
"Another red dress?"
Scarlet purses her lips and is about to reply when Cloud's office door opens.
Tifa is surprised when she sees Cloud in the threshold, looking at her and nodding, gesturing for her to enter. "Come in, Tifa."
Tifa ignores Scarlet and walks into his office. He closes the door behind her, walking beside her to his desk. Instead of offering her a seat, as is his usual greeting, he leans against the front of his desk to face her. She remains standing as well, waiting for him to start, and he states, "This had been unconfirmed a few weeks ago, merely a rumor that the Shinras evaded answering until we made the merger official. You might have heard it, too. It's about Rufus Shinra, Mr. Shinra's son, potentially taking over the company."
Tifa slowly nods. She had heard this floating around the hallways and read some speculative articles online. Either way, Tifa didn't think it would change anything.
"I have," she answers.
Cloud crosses his arms in front of his chest. A navy suit, today, she notices briefly. A black suit vest and, strangely, no tie. He looks oddly incomplete without one.
"I met with both of them this morning, and they finally confirmed the rumor. Mr. Shinra is retiring once the merger is final. Rufus Shinra will take over the company in full. While I don't anticipate any significant changes from a business standpoint, Rufus did communicate that he requires specific…conditions for the rebranding."
A sudden bout of understanding hits Tifa. "Oh, I see," she says, contemplating. A slow pour of dread begins entering her stomach. "Are they…drastic conditions?"
Cloud must recognize her hesitancy, because his eyes, steely and sharp when shuttling out information, soften just slightly enough to help with the coming blow. "Fortunately, no. I didn't want this to dampen your progress, because you and the rest of the marketing department are firing on all cylinders. I just…wanted to give you a personal account of Rufus Shinra and what he would like to see in the brand."
He pushes off his desk and walks closer to her. Tifa, in a panic, steps a few feet away, but Cloud merely grabs the back of the chair that she usually sits in. He begins to drag it around to his side of the desk and positions it beside his own.
"Have a seat. I'll talk with you about my discussion with Rufus at the meeting."
Tifa stares at the placement of the chairs. They're close.
Why is she being such a coward? He is only a person. Internally sighing at herself, she walks to the chair while Cloud takes seat. He pulls up a document, and she sees Rufus Shinra's picture as a thumbnail at the top. Listed below seems to be a timeline of events, and Tifa realizes it's his biography.
"First, I wanted to let you know that I don't want you to change anything that you're doing," Cloud says, turning in his chair to look at her. Her chair is static, so it doesn't roll like his does. In this position, there are a few inches between them. "This is a merger, and Rufus will have to learn how to compromise if he isn't…pleased with the marketing department's work. They don't have a marketing department of their own, so that's our advantage, here."
Tifa nods, smiling a little. "That's good to know."
Cloud watches her for a moment. "Luckily, all that Rufus specified was that he wants an R and S to be incorporated in all of the designs. Something to…identify himself in the company, besides the name."
Tifa weighs this in her mind, her leftover dread blunting with relief. "That's not bad at all. We could make something like a watermark in the corner of each one."
Cloud rubs at his chin. "I mentioned that at the meeting, but Rufus is a bit more…enigmatic than his father. He wants something bolder and unique to fit his personality."
The way Cloud says enigmatic and personality has Tifa examining his side profile. It almost sounded sarcastic, but she can't be sure. She hums, opening up her tablet and opening a new, blank project. She titles it RS.
"Okay. No watermark, then."
Tifa frowns and opens up the other projects, shifting through them for a better mental visual. "Bold and unique…" she mutters. The images that crop up in her mind are big and blaring, the R and S superseding the balance of the design. She doesn't want the placement of the letters to pull away from the heart of the design, nor does she want it to seem out of place or jumbled.
"I pulled up his biography, in case that would help give you a better…idea," Cloud says slowly. "I wasn't sure what would…inspire you."
At the hesitancy in his words, Tifa doesn't have to try to smile at him. "Thank you. I've never met him, and I have no idea how he runs a business, so any information I can get will be helpful. I can also send it to the marketing department if you could email it to me."
"Sure," he says, clicking out of the document and doing just that.
"So, unique and bold…" Tifa says to herself, tapping the electronic pen on her lip.
"He's not."
At Cloud's words, Tifa stops tapping her pen. She glances at him in surprise.
"He likes to think so," Cloud continues, clicking back to the word document with his biography.
"Then tell me what he's like, Mr. Strife," Tifa says, instantly curious. Perhaps it had been sarcasm she detected in his words before.
Cloud's mouth opens and closes. He clears his throat, and as he speaks, his words are once again edged with the blank, straightforward tone of business. Suddenly, all echoes of his previous conversational timbre are gone.
"The entire Shinra family has been in business for three generations, each building upon their empire. Rufus' father, Shinra senior, catapulted it up to what it is, today, and he's taught Rufus every aspect of it—allegedly. Rufus grew up with everything at his disposal. He went to an elite boarding school. He went to the most prestigious university in Gaia and received his Masters in Business and Economics. He was bred to be the future head of the company, always knowing he would get it."
Tifa listens to him, and she begins to compare. She has a mental tally of Cloud Strife's successes in her mind—milestones she's read about, his education, how he got to be one of the world's youngest CEOs. Rufus and Cloud are nearly as dichotomous as Shiva and Ifrit.
She knows the bare essentials. Cloud's family never owned a business. He grew up in a small town, his parents making lower-median income and not necessarily knowing the luxuries of life.
Cloud's account of Rufus is not inspired. It is deadened, as though he is a computer spitting out facts.
"Okay," Tifa says, continuing to watch him. "Tell me what you think."
He pauses, turning toward her again. "What?"
"What do you think about Rufus Shinra?"
Cloud's demeanor shifts—just enough—before he shutters and closes himself off.
"My personal opinions have no place in this discussion."
Tifa finds herself disappointed. He is distancing, now, she realizes. He is locking himself shut tight.
"What if it's off the record?" she says.
He looks at her, lifting an eyebrow. "Off the record?"
"I'm curious," she admits, and it's a knee-jerk response. She wants him to tell her, and she's almost desperate for that shift again, that ruffle. Now that she knows it exists, she can't forget it. "I think it'll help me figure out how to incorporate him into the brand."
Cloud begins to shake his head. "I'm not sure I can see how it will help you."
She breaks his stare, looking back down at the blank note on the tablet.
"Facts and history are all well and good," she begins slowly. "But it doesn't give any insight into personality or character. When I meet with clients, that's the first thing I need. I have to know who they are to focus on what they want. It's…it's the same with this."
She looks up, and they catch eyes again. It takes a moment before she sees the shadowing happen, and her heart trills up the artery in her neck. She can nearly feel the gears of him shifting as they sit so close.
"Off the record," he states, his throat bobbing gently with a swallow. He glances away from her. "He's arrogant. He's not used to working for what he has, because he expects to get it no matter what he does. Being born into wealth has made him…entitled. It makes him an asshole most of the time." At that, Cloud's lips curl up into a wry smirk. "His father is an asshole, too, but what father isn't?"
These words grip Tifa with high interest. That he's using her favorite word to describe him is—ironic. And…telling.
What father isn't?
"Mine's actually pretty great," Tifa tries, using a light tone.
Cloud looks back at her, smirking. "I'm glad one of us had a good father."
Unsure how to respond, Tifa twirls her tablet pen over the screen. She writes nonsensical notes if only to collect her thoughts. She writes asshole and arrogant and silver spoon.
Quietly, once she's built up enough confidence, she asks, "What was your dad like?"
"He's dead, so it doesn't matter."
Tifa almost flinches at his tone. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't be." He shifts in his chair. "So, off the record. I hope that helped you."
His tone is final. The topic is finished. She notices the rigid line forming on his jaw, once more. He is not so shuttered, now, but he does seem to be frustrated—or angry—something she hasn't seen within him in the last few meetings.
Hating the darker tone that's infiltrating him, Tifa tries to lighten the mood.
"Well, at least there will be an S, and we can pretend it's for Strife."
Cloud gives her another small smirk, but this time it is amused and not wry. "I don't really care about that."
Tifa blinks, surprised. "You don't? But it's your company."
His chest falls in a sigh. "Sure. But I don't care about my name being in lights. Nobody needs to know unless they want to, and if they do they can just look it up."
Tifa's lips slant in a frown. "What about all the magazines? The news stories you interviewed for?"
Cloud raises a brow at her admittance, and she realizes what she's exposed. She tries to lightly brush it off with a shrug. "Everyone reads them in the company. We all know."
"I…do them because they won't leave me alone otherwise. The faster I can get it over with, the better."
He hates attention. It strikes her immediately. She hadn't realized, but it makes sense. Besides the magazines and newspaper interviews, she's never seen him make public headlines. He doesn't make large appearances. His interviews were only over business and no divulgence of his personal life. Tifa remembers, because she had been curious. How had he become such a dick? She had thought, reading over his mechanical answers and coming up short. Moogling him had been just as disappointing, with hardly three sentences over his personal life and his education.
"Do they bother you often?"
"Not as much, anymore, but they will when the merger happens."
The sentence sounds tired, as if he's already exhausted from the future. Tifa smiles a little.
"Maybe this next time won't be so bad."
He makes a noncommittal noise. "It will be."
Tifa laughs lightly, surprised at how dry he says it.
"I was trying to make it seem less awful."
"I appreciate you trying, but nothing you can say will make it better."
She looks up to him, and he's giving her a small smile. Her blood zings with the same jolt. She ignores it and continues smiling back at him.
"Worth a shot," she says. He doesn't respond, only staring with his smile. His gaze is a heavy press against the front of her body, and it's a strange sensation—almost as appealing as a weighted blanket. "Um, were you able to look over any of the updated drafts I sent?"
Cloud shifts, but he doesn't swivel away toward his computer. "I glanced over Shiva and Ifrit, but I wasn't able to look over the others."
Tifa glances down to her tablet and busies herself with opening to her Shiva, attempting to ignore how close they've been. She can feel the heat of him in the space that separates them, and it grows with its distraction.
"I've mostly been adding additional details to her for now, deciding on her shading and her lines," she says, placing the tablet between them on his desk. Cloud inches forward, and his knee bumps against her calf. Tifa tries not to let it bother her.
"This is…good," he says, his eyes running over the picture. He brings a hand forward to graze against the glass of the tablet. When he does, it pulls up her annotations. Tifa stops breathing. She never erased her silly note from the previous week.
Cloud notices it, his brows furrowing when he sees it. He gestures to the words Cloud said this? And the surprised smiley face. "What did I say?"
Tifa's blush is nearly as hot as a bonfire. "I—um—nothing. You didn't say anything, I was just…"
He looks at her, but there is nothing aggressive about his stare. It seems…amused. Nearly friendly. It's so shocking that Tifa confesses.
"Last week, I was surprised at what you said about Shiva and Ifrit. That they were complementary. Their energies matching the businesses. And that you liked it."
He smiles at her, and it's a bit wider than it had been before. A line appears around his mouth, creasing along his lips.
He's handsome, she thinks. That's irrelevant.
"I like nearly everything you make," he says.
"Yeah, nearly. Not those first drafts."
"I'll never live those emails down, will I?"
It almost sounds like a tease—is he teasing? He's smiling, and that's enough to punch her throat. Teasing and smiling together is such an impossibility, it feels as though she's stepped through a rift into another reality.
He's human, remember, she thinks, and she feels his heat, much more blistering than minutes ago. She smells his cologne. It's a fresh tang, like clothes right out of the dryer. Like summer morning dew. Faint and mild, but distinct enough to know that it must be him.
"Not for a while, Mr. Strife," she says, and her voice comes out weak and quiet. She breaks her gaze away from him, and her eyes catch on the tablet's dialogue clock.
"It's after five," she says.
Cloud follows her gaze, but he doesn't move away. "Fifteen after. I lied to you. I've kept you overtime."
His tone remains different. It's not gentle, but it's close.
She smiles. "Oh, it's fine. You're paying me enough to work twenty-four-seven."
He glances at her again, and his eyes hook on her lips. Her skin feels as though it's quaking from how abruptly her heart is racing.
"I hope you don't feel I'm working you too…hard," he says.
Tifa's eyes fall to his lips. His cologne wraps around her in a relentless cradle, squeezing her like a fist. It suffocates her like the pour of honey—sharp, sweet, and slow.
"I can't work hard enough," she says under her breath. Her calf continues bumping his knee.
"You should have a life outside of this, too, Tifa," he says, and his tone matches her own. She's never heard it this way—quiet, a low rumble, tumbling against her like a secret.
"I do," she says. "Do you?"
"I have a murphy bed in the corner of my office."
He manages to make his quiet words dry. She hears the sarcasm in full this time. She smiles, but her throat is too tight to laugh.
"Workaholic, then?"
At this, she's surprised and delighted at the pink blush that blooms over the ridge of his nose. "Haven't found anything else to waste my time on."
She tilts her head. "What do you want to waste your time on?"
His shoulders raise in a breath. His brows furrow as he stares at her, and his eyes are unfocusing, as if he's contemplating something out of his reach. They are the color of a blue flame, flickering and soft and heated, holding onto the wick but desperate to jump and start a fire elsewhere.
"Other things," he says, and it's all that he'll allow himself to admit.
"You need to find those things," Tifa says, and she feels bold, suddenly. She feels the zap and the jolt, the careening and the chaos, her heart pounding so loudly it's all she knows.
Something happens. The pressure of his knee builds against her calf. The charge is fierce. A battery is melting, somewhere. Her entire body is burning against the gaze of his blue eyes, under the blue flame of them, and it is as if she's been hit with an acid spill.
It is one quick motion. He comes forward, and his mouth is on hers in a flurry, and the immediacy of it has Tifa gasping and tensing before her lips relax against his. Her eyes are open wide at the first touch, but they begin to close once her body realizes what's happening. Her hands have minds of their own, on autopilot, coming up and grappling his shoulders. There's a fluid, black heat filling up her stomach, instantaneously, dripping lower and lower into her core. It circulates through her with scary intensity. It mingles with the heat and charge, and his lips aretoo soft, matching the boyish lines of his face, and insistent, and blatantly straightforward. It is a punch in her stomach. She loses her breath. Her hands find their way to his neck, and her fingers fist into his hair as he sucks her bottom lip in between his teeth. He pushes into her, rolling forward enough so that his knees entrap her thighs, his hands on her hips. As blunt and forceful as the kiss is becoming—and it is happening so fast—he handles her with care. His hands don't leave her hips, digging into her just enough to secure her in place. His tongue runs along her lips, and he dips his tongue in and out of her, inching deeper and deeper until it settles so far into her, it erases any and all coherent thoughts that struggle to push into her mind. She can't remember a time when someone kissed her so viciously or possessively or relentlessly. She sighs into it, and she feels his hands shudder.
It doesn't last long enough. When they break away, they break away slow. Tifa stares at him. He stares back.
The slow wave of reality crashes against her like a gentle tide. She takes her hands away from his neck. His hands drag away from her hips.
Her heart continues thudding. Thud. Thud. Thud. How many beats of her life has she lost from this one kiss? From the last forty-five minutes sitting with him in this office?
A cold wash hits her, running over the gentle tide, because—because did she just make out with her CEO?
She stands. Dazedly, he stands, too.
"I'm—" he tries.
"I didn't—" she stutters.
A banner of red crosses over his nose in a blush. It spreads into his cheeks. It takes him a moment to get a better handle on himself, and Tifa sees it in real time—his dazed vulnerability being shoved back into the deep folds of his bones.
"I'm—uh—that was unprofessional of me."
Tifa hesitates. They are still standing close, hardly any space to separate them. Her adrenaline is on an IV drip. Thud, thud, thud. There goes her life.
"I'm—I don't…" she attempts.
She takes a step back, then another, her mind screaming again for her to run. Her heart reverberates in her to stay. She's unable to move any further.
"I—I understand if you…if this requires you to file a complaint to HR. I'm…not sure what came over me. I apologize."
He's cocooned himself, again. He is no longer a human but a mechanical creature, tightening his screws and securing his metal plating.
An irrational anger spikes against Tifa's chest.
"I was unprofessional, too. It wasn't just you. I—"
"There's no need to take any blame, Tifa. I lost my…"
Mind, Tifa finishes.
"Composure," he states. "It won't happen again."
The anger perpetuates. Why is she so angry? She clenches her stomach and tries to push it out of her.
"…why would I go to HR?" she asks.
"I would think the reasoning is obvious," he answers. She looks at him, but he's stone, again. All blank and apathetic.
How can he do that? She wonders. How can he turn himself off?
"I'm not going to go to HR, Mr. Strife. And that you think I would, now, after I—I—" kissed you back—"is telling enough, isn't it?"
Cloud opens his mouth and hesitates. He almost comes back to himself, she can see it. At least, she thinks she can, and she hopes that's what she's seeing, but he says nothing. Eventually, Tifa sighs and shakes her head. She reaches across the space, and she brushes against him as she grabs her tablet.
"I need to go. It's 5:30," she says stiffly. "You've kept me long enough, haven't you?"
Quietly, he says, "Yes, I believe I have."
She looks at him one more time, and his eyes are impenetrable. Brilliant sapphires in his skull—beautiful, but hard and lifeless.
She turns on her heel and strides out the door. She closes it roughly behind her. Her lips tingle like she licked an electrical outlet. Her skin hums like static.
She hates that she doesn't hate it. In fact, stewing in her anger and her frustration at his answering apathy—at seeing him enclose himself from his mistake—their mistake—she is mad that she's so…so…
Afraid. Attracted. Attracted and afraid.
When she gets back to her apartment, the handful of time that they pressed their lips together is the only thing she can think about. It haunts her until her mind allows her to be taken into an uneasy slumber.
And yet, sleep betrays her, still, because she dreams.
She floats between an alternate reality, that rift she had felt in the office, her vision blurred around the border with smudged, white edges. She stands in front of Cloud's expansive window pane, taking up the entirety of the back wall of his office. Midgar is covered in a light dusting of fog, and she can feel the chill of the dawn, the sun not yet above the horizon. The incomplete glow refracts into the fog, and the city is gilded with a sheen of gold. Tifa's breath hits the window, condensing and fading.
Cloud's behind her, his chest hovering before her back. The inch of air between them is a cushion of heat, and she wants nothing more than to press into it, to feel the collision of her back into the wall of his chest.
She can't move. She's frozen, staring at Midgar below them.
"You wanted to speak with me?" Cloud asks, his words hitting her ear in a puff. She smells his cologne again. It smells like the warm summer sun beating down on a grassy hill. He smells like midday heat.
"Yes," dream Tifa says. "What do you want to do with me?"
His hands fall around her hips and he edges forward. The hard length of his body presses and lines against her, and she suddenly realizes she's wearing an indecently short pencil skirt, her stockings, and a bra. There is a distant niggle that this isn't how she should be dressed, but it is suffocated by the fabricated normalcy of the dream.
"I'm no good at talking," he says, his voice a raspy, confident, smug rumble. They vibrate through his chest. "Let me show you."
His tongue hits the soft skin under her ear. One hand trails up from her hip to the underside of her breast before bypassing the bra, flicking blunt fingers across the pucker of her nipple. The other slips down to the bare skin available between her skirt and her stockings. He presses fingers into her inner thighs before pushing her skirt up higher and higher.
Then she feels him against her bottom. His length is hard, and he's—
One finger teases between her underwear and the juncture of her leg. Her stomach tightens and curls, and she is burning up like dry paper. She's on the edge—he hasn't touched her yet, and she's trying to quell the unstoppable twisting that builds and builds.
That one finger slips underneath her underwear, hitting and pressing delicate, wet skin once. Her legs tremble, and the power of orgasm rocks over her.
"I told you our company couldn't lose you," he says. "I couldn't lose you."
His voice sounds like there's a smile bordering the words. She wants to see it so badly, because it is an extraterrestrial thing, something spawned off this world and on another, because how can it exist here on this planet, how can it fit so well on his face—deep, cerulean eyes crinkling along the sides, lips stretched wide, teeth white and shining? She almost comes again at the thought.
"Oh, Cloud," she moans.
"Come visit me, again," he answers her, but she feels his body fading away. "Let's waste time, together."
He's gone, and she continues standing there, staring out the window.
Tifa jolts awake. Her heartbeat thunders between her legs, her pillow clamped by her thighs, gently rubbing against her. She's on the edge—but did she actually…
She hasn't had a wet dream in…she catches her breath, waiting for the thunderous, sensitive beating to pass. Has she ever?
I couldn't lose you.
Let's waste time, together.
She runs her palms over her sweaty face. It was one kiss. One stupid, reckless, wonderful kiss.
She's not sure if she'll survive this.
She arrives to her office the next day at 7:30 am. She went on a morning run. She went through her Tae Kwon Do routine. She showered, dressed, ate breakfast, manually washed dishes—all before work.
She couldn't sleep past 4:00 am. She kept thinking about Cloud Strife. She kept thinking about the kiss. She kept thinking about how stupid this all is.
She wanted to exhaust her body enough to exhaust her mind, but it continues to whirr incessantly as if she's plugged into the mako energy of the planet itself.
She decides to change her ensemble for the day. Instead of a skirt, she wears a black business dress. It is belted and streamlined and it hugs her, but it is conservative. The fabric stretches just enough to remain breathable, and it ends at mid calf. Tifa doesn't wear it often, but she needs to change something to give her some semblance of…peace.
She settles into her desk and pulls up the myriad projects. She's made a list of deadlines for herself for each one, and she opens them up according to the timeline. She opens up the attachment Cloud sent her of Rufus Shinra, and she stares at his picture for a moment, attempting to color in the lines of his character. She begins thinking about her conversation with Cloud, and how his jaw buckled and hesitated, and how he relented when she asked him to tell her his opinion. He caved. It hadn't been difficult—not nearly as difficult as she had previously imagined.
She pauses her work, shuffling through her inbox, and pulls up one of his old emails to reread. To remember how ruthless it was.
But the sting it holds for her is gone. She can see Cloud Strife behind the words of the email—can see his hardened gaze but hear his softened words— "Not to discourage you, but to remind you."
She clicks out of it with more force than she intends, and she pulls up Shiva and Ifrit. She's spent so much time on Shiva, and she's too blue. She crops out Ifrit and begins to drown herself in the angry, violent sweeps of red, orange, and deep, ochre brown.
Before she knows it, the clock is edging toward noon. Not hungry, she continues working. She's blaring music in her ears, one of her favorite symphonic arrangements, and she's now almost made the entire body of Ifrit when she only needs the head. Might as well finish it, she thinks, color blocking and shading.
Because of the music in her ears, she hardly registers the knock on her door. At first she thinks it's her imagination, but once they grow louder, she takes off one of her headphones. She glances at the time. It's Thursday. She didn't receive an email. She visits with Reeve after lunch. Frowning, she says, "Come in."
She finishes one last line before she glances up to see Cloud Strife in her doorway.
"Miss Lockhart," he says, halfway through the threshold. He looks…out of place. Out of his natural habitat. Her office is very different than his own, much less severe and softer with colors and decoration. Him standing there, wearing all black—black suit jacket, black tie, black, shining dress shoes—he looks like an ominous specter. "May I talk to you?"
Her shock at his presence keeps her from answering immediately. She takes off her headphones completely, staring at him.
"I…yes. You may."
She stands from her desk. She has a few chairs, but she's pushed them up against the wall off to her left. She usually plans for meetings. It's unnecessary to grab them, so she comes to stand in front of her desk, crossing her arms and waiting for him. He closes her office door behind him, and he takes a few steps inside, standing about five feet from her.
"I was going to email you, but…" he starts, holding her gaze for a moment before looking off to the right. He pushes his hands into his pant pockets. "I wasn't sure what your answer would be."
"Afraid I would reject meeting with you?" she asks. Drawing Ifrit has spiked her boldness. And after yesterday—she's not sure anything could faze her anymore.
He looks back to her. A small, wry smirk pulls at his lips.
"Yeah. Something like that."
"Good to know a girl couldn't scare away the CEO."
He shifts his weight, the smirk remaining. "She almost did." His chest heaves in a sigh. "Look, uh, Tifa, I'm here to discuss what happened in my office. Yesterday…"
"Was a mistake," she finishes.
When she says it, she notices the furrow of his brow. His lips fall into a line.
"Like I said before, it was unprofessional. And…anything pertaining to a relationship in the same business office is against company protocol."
"Yes. I know," Tifa says. She places on hand on her hip. "Like I said, a mistake."
Cloud hesitates. "I don't…do that. I don't…lose my composure."
Tifa watches him. He looks as if he's on unsteady ground. She wonders if his hands are fisted in his pockets, but the black thread of them makes it impossible to tell.
"I know you don't," she says.
"I don't…allow myself to lose sight of what needs to be done," he continues. He glances away from her. "I've never felt I needed…something else."
Tifa blinks at him. She watches him as he tries to unravel himself in front of her. He's trying to shed the cocoon, and Tifa is astonished. He's standing in her office, unleashing one big try.
Who is he? She wonders.
Her dream hits her with a terribly timed force. Let's waste time, together.
"I understand this is against everything I've ever done. I know this is not how this is supposed to be," he says. He glances back to her, his jaw sharpened again, like a knife gleaming in the moonlight. "I shouldn't have…kissed you yesterday, and I am sorry for breaking my professionalism. But I can't be—" he pauses. He stares at her. He takes a few steps forward. "I can't be sorry for what happened."
The hair prickles on her arms. She presses back into her desk, looking up at him.
"You can't?" she asks.
"You can be mad at me—I expect you to be…something," he says. "And I can't expect anything from this, but—the real reason I'm here is to tell you that I want you."
Tifa stares at him. Her blood pools in her stomach. His eyes are gleaming again—like sapphires—but they aren't hard and lifeless. They swirl like there's a spirit in them, and their intensity bulldozes her.
"You…what?"
A smirk plays at his lips again, but this time they are sparked by something else. He takes another step forward.
"I want you. And I hope after yesterday…I hope you want me, too."
She takes a sharp breath. Staring up at him, the past few months ram and run through Tifa's mind. All of her emotions she's been unable to grasp together, each slipping through her hands, unattainable in their chaos. She thinks about acceptance, and how hard it is. She thinks about the peace she hasn't felt in so long when once it had been so easy. She thinks about Zangan's words: "You may be asked to do something you've always thought yourself incapable of doing."
She thinks about death, and how life is a series of moments and tragedies, one after the other, all compiled against one another like building blocks.
Nothing about them has been conventional. It has been a strange, electrified three weeks learning not only about herself and her limits, but also learning about him—because against all odds, he is a human with a beating heart, and she wishes he wasn't because it would make things so much easier.
Easier. She needs to stop thinking about easy. Nothing good is ever easy. Nothing great is ever easy.
And what will this be? she wonders as she pushes off her desk, as she closes the distance between them. What will this be?
"I want you," she says.
Cloud's eyes shift and they swirl. He stares at her, his eyes darkening with the shadow, now so much more prominent. The windows are now bare and cracking open. She must look wild, because she feels wild, her heart whipping like a wild horse bucking off the rider. As wild as she felt when she had her first meeting with him, when she did five hundred things she never thought she would do.
"Are you sure?" he asks her.
"I'm sure," she answers, her voice thick. She hasn't been so sure about something this whole year. She reaches up to grasp behind his neck and he reaches for her waist, slipping his hands around her. He pulls her in, and when their lips converge, it is erratic and fast. It is quick and messy. The certainty of want has evolved the depth of it, how instantly he invades her mouth. How abruptly her fingers thread through his hair.
It's soft, she thinks. He doesn't use hair gel. It sticks up all on its own.
She moans when his teeth graze against her lip. His breath settles into her pores.
He's a ball of summer heat, and it pours over her like a warm rain shower. He runs his hands across her back. One of her palms falls to rest on his chest, slipping underneath the space of his suit jacket. The planes of him are hard and unforgiving, and she wants to know. She wants to know what he looks like underneath the shield of his suits and ties. Under the metal plating and screws.
He pushes her backwards toward her desk. Her bottom hits it and he lifts her on it, but her dress is too long to ride up on her thighs like her skirts. She feels a blunt rush of frustration, because she is heating up—burning—taut—and this is better than her dream of him.
His hands run up her back, and she thinks he might be finding the zipper, and she's so turned on by the thought—the thought of Cloud Strife trying to unzip her—and his hands are fumbling and shaking in their desperation.
A knock cracks against her door. Tifa jumps at the rap, breaking apart from their kiss. Cloud, his face vulnerable and dumbfounded, takes a moment to regain his semblance of composure. Tifa wants to remember what he looks like this way, so gobsmacked and uncaring, as completely taken in the kiss as she was.
"Ms. Lockhart?" The door begins to open. "I had a quick question about—oh! Mr. Strife!"
In record timing, Tifa has stood and pressed her dress down on her thighs, running an hand through her hair to tame the flyaways. Cloud took about five long strides away from her, hands back in his pockets.
"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you two were in a meeting!" the girl says. Her name is Rachael. She began as an intern, and now Tifa has placed her on one of the R&D rebranding teams. Tifa tries to smile at her, catching her breath.
"Not at all, Rachael," she says, mildly breathy.
Cloud clears his throat. "It is fine. I was just leaving."
With that, he glances back at Tifa, then makes his getaway out her door and into the hallway.
Tifa distractedly listens to Rachael, her mind following Cloud Strife down the hallway, back to his office. It is lucky, she thinks, that she isn't wearing lipstick, today.
When Tifa is alone again, she locks her office door. She presses her back against it. She takes in a deep breath and exhales. She goes back to her desk and attempts to get back to work, but she continues to be…wound up. Taut. When she shifts in her chair, she nearly whimpers at the sensation.
It's been fifteen minutes and she's still turned on.
She bangs her forehead one her desk in despair and annoyance. She groans. She stands up and paces and waits for the thrumming to subside. It's a strange, delectable frustration. If she paces fast enough, the seam of her underwear rubs against her just right and she covers her eyes with her hands and pauses her walk. She glances to her left. She has a personal office bathroom. It holds a toilet and a sink, a small four by four chunk of space. She thinks about it.
She's already locked her office door, and she can go to the bathroom and lock it for extra protection. It might take her five—ten minutes at most. It would all depend on how much her imagination could take her. She closes her eyes and thinks about Cloud's expression, the mixture full of wanting and vulnerability, which is the most she's ever seen.
She shifts, and the sensation is unbearable. She groans again, and she wonders if he's feeling as unbearable as she is. She wonders if she can simply email him and meet him in his office and—but—the mere thought of emailing Cloud Strife for sex is insane in that it wass so improbable but now, suddenly, is one hundred percent possible.
She eyes the clock. It's almost 1:00 pm, now. He'll be in meetings. He's always with someone or doing something important during the day. She doesn't think she can wait this out. She decides on impulse and stuffs herself into her small bathroom space. She locks the door.
She keeps the lights off. Before she can think too hard about what she's going to do, she undoes the belt around her waist. Then she unzips the back of her dress, imagining his fingers trying to find the tiny, metal head of it—and his fingers had been fumbling. She exhales as she pushes the dress down enough to loosen in the front and drag her fingers down her navel. She bites her lip and hesitates for one second before pushing herself against the locked door, closing her eyes, and pushing her fingers below her underwear.
She remembers what Cloud's tongue felt like running along the line of her lip, his cologne seeping into her skin. How dark and sharp he looked, dressed in all black.
We were matching, she thinks, belatedly, gasping as she runs her fingers along her wet skin, slick and heady and taut. As she brushes against her arousal over and over, she jerks from the buzz of pleasure, and she can't believe she's doing this, thinking about Cloud Strife in her work bathroom—when, now, could she just arrive to his office and ask?—but the same thought makes this even hotter, makes her wind up tighter, because she never imagined she'd be offing herself in her own bathroom over the man who wrote her emails that made her cry, with his ink stained eyes that now gleam like icy fractals, with his once emotionless, now penetrating stare that glimmers so much more when he gazes at her so intently, a stare that can unbutton her dress shirts and unzip her dress with the severity alone.
She imagines how his hardness felt in her dream. She deeply digs her fingers into her skin while she thinks about his length, shuddering against the door, her moan echoing in the small, cramped space. She runs her thumb over her clit, her legs shaking, and she envisions the lines of his body—how it must look underneath his dress shirts and his slacks, if he is truly married to gym equipment, if he is cut with a muscled abdomen and strong thighs and toned shoulders and capable fumbling fingers as they slip inside of her messily and quickly and run along her clit like he's unzipping her, instead—
She breathes heavier. Her moans become louder. She feels it coming. It begins as a deep, trembling quake, slowly building, rising like a skyscraper, higher and higher and higher until it punctures the stratosphere.
She breaks in a moment, and she braces herself against both the door and the wall. Her legs are unable to keep her standing, weak with her release, and she slides down to the floor. The sheen of sweat covering her brow makes her dewy, and it takes her a few minutes to catch her breath. When her heartbeat settles and she opens her eyes, the dimness of the bathroom meets her. She can't even feel embarrassed about this. Riding on the euphoria of her orgasm, the only thought she finds herself thinking is, What would it have been like had it been his fingers instead of her own?
She smiles a little, pushing her head back against the door.
At his words and the look on his face, she thinks she might know sooner rather than later.