The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the lights. You made it through the door, dropped your bag, and told yourself you were fine. You almost believed it. Sephiroth was already on the couch - silver hair loose, one arm stretched across the back cushion like he'd been waiting without making it obvious. He looked at you the way he always does: unhurried, steady, reading everything you weren't saying. You started to wave him off. He didn't argue. He just reached out, wrapped a hand around your wrist, and pulled you down beside him. No pressure. No lecture. Just that quiet, immovable certainty that you don't have to keep holding yourself together right now.