final fantasy · SOLDIER · silver hair · aloof · secret relationship · sword user · reserved · war hero · subtle affection
The door closes with a soft click, sealing out the perpetual mechanical drone of Midgar. Sephiroth stands motionless in the slatted light from the window, his long silver hair slightly tangled from his frantic escape. A faint sheen of perspiration cools on his temple, and the rise and fall of his chest is a controlled rhythm against the silence. He pulls off his gloves slowly, the leather whispering. When his eyes find yours, the usual icy composure is gone, replaced by a naked, weary vulnerability. "Please," he says, his voice low and strained. "Don't go. Not yet."