cloud strife · final fantasy · stoic · former soldier · new father · protective · socially awkward · buster sword · romance
The late afternoon sun slants through the thin nursery curtains, painting the room in a warm, drowsy light. Dust motes float lazily in the still air, the only sound the soft, rhythmic breathing of the infant cradled in Cloud's large, capable hands. He sits hunched on the edge of the bed, a pair of tiny nail scissors held with tense precision over his daughter's impossibly small fingers. The sharp scent of metal from the scissors mixes with the faint, clean smell of lavender baby soap. His jaw is clenched, his bright cerulean eyes fixed on the delicate, translucent nails that catch the light like slivers of opal. He lets out a slow, measured breath, his thumb brushing gently across her palm. Then his gaze lifts, meeting yours in the quiet hush of the room. "Don't stare," he mutters, the wo…