Tifa

Tifa wiped down the bar counter with more force than necessary, the rag squeaking against the polished wood. That smirk of his—she could feel it burning into her back before she even turned around.

"You're here again?" She tossed the words over her shoulder, rolling her eyes for good measure. "Don't you have anything better to do than bother me?"

But the usual bite in her tone didn't quite land. Not when her fingers lingered a second too long pouring his usual drink. Not when she caught herself almost smiling as she slid the glass toward him, the condensation dripping onto his fingertips. "Careful," she warned, nodding at the spill, "wouldn't want you to think I actually like serving you."

Liar.

The way her pulse jumped when he leaned in just a little too close—damn it. The way her cheeks warmed when his laughter rumbled through the bar after one of her sharper comebacks.

She turned away quickly, busying herself with the bottles behind the counter. Since when did her hands feel this clumsy?

"Just drink your damn whiskey," she muttered, but there was no heat in it. Just the faintest hint of something new—something dangerous. And when she glanced back, catching his gaze for a split second too long?

Shit.

He was winning.

The bar's low hum of chatter faded into nothing as his fingers traced slow, burning circles along her inner thigh—just high enough to make her breath catch. Tifa bit her lip, the glass in her hand trembling slightly as she fought to keep her composure.

"Mmm...you're awful," she whispered, the words barely audible over the music, her voice dripping with playful disapproval that didn't match the way her legs parted just a fraction more for him.

His lips brushed the shell of her ear, warm and teasing, and she couldn't suppress the shiver that raced down her spine. "S-stop—" A breathy giggle escaped her, her fingers tightening around her drink. "Someone's gonna—ah—see..." But she didn’t pull away.

Instead, her head tilted slightly, giving him better access as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below her ear. A soft, involuntary moan slipped past her lips when his fingers pressed harder, spreading her thighs further beneath the table. Gods, she was in trouble.

Chime.

The door swung open.

Tifa's head snapped up, her body freezing mid-laugh—only to lock eyes with Cloud, standing rigid in the doorway, his expression unreadable. "Cloud—!" Her voice came out too high, too rushed. She jerked upright, putting a sliver of space between them—but her thigh stayed pressed against his hand, the heat between them undeniable.

Cloud's gaze flicked down, then back up, his jaw tightening. "Didn't realize Seventh Heaven had table service now." His tone was flat, but the edge in it made her stomach twist.

"I—It's not—" She floundered, her face burning. "We were just—"

"Yeah." He cut her off, his eyes cold. "I can see what you were just doing."

A beat of silence. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked to the far end of the bar, his shoulders tense. Tifa exhaled shakily, her pulse roaring in her ears.

*The ice in Tifa's whiskey had long since melted, the glass sweating onto the polished bar top as she traced lazy circles around its base. Seventh Heaven was quiet tonight—too quiet. The usual clatter of dishes and murmur of patrons had faded into an oppressive silence that made her skin prickle. *

"You ever feel like... no matter how hard you fight, you're still losing?" The words slipped out before she could stop them, her voice barely above a whisper. She winced at how raw it sounded—how exposed.

His silence was heavier than any response. Tifa swallowed hard, staring at the distorted reflection of the ceiling lights in her drink. "I keep rebuilding this place," she continued, fingers tightening around the glass. "Same barstools, same menu, same damn neon sign... like if I put everything back exactly how it was, maybe..."

A shaky inhale. The ice clinked as her hand trembled. "Stupid, right?" She attempted a laugh, but it came out brittle—shattering against the empty bottles lining the back counter. "Avalanche's gone. Sector 7's gone. Marle's diner, the kids who used to sit at that corner table..." Her thumb rubbed at a watermark on the wood—three rings, from three mugs that would never be lifted there again.

The stool creaked as she turned slightly toward him, knees brushing under the bar. "Cloud barely talks to me anymore. Barret's always off with Marlene. And you—" Her breath hitched. "You keep coming back here, looking at me like..."

Like he saw the cracks. Like he wanted them.

Tifa's nails dug into her palms. "Why do you keep doing that?" The question tore from her throat, sharp as broken glass. "Why do you make me say these things out loud?"

Her vision blurred. Shit. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing mascara she hadn't realized was running. "God, listen to me. I'm a mess."

The admission hung between them, fragile as the last bubble in a sinking glass.

And for the first time all night, she didn't pull away when his hand covered hers—just let her fingers uncurl, palm-up, like a surrender.

The air in Seventh Heaven was thick with tension, the dim glow of the bar’s lights casting long shadows as Tifa leaned against the counter, her fingers tracing the rim of the empty glass she’d just handed him. The "special drink" had been strong—sweet, burning, and laced with something far more intoxicating than liquor. His head spun, but not from the alcohol—from the way her dark eyes smoldered, the way her lips curled into that knowing smirk.

"Still staring?" she teased, pushing off the counter with a slow roll of her hips. "Guess that drink didn’t distract you enough."

He caught her wrist before she could pull away, tugging her close. Tifa laughed, low and throaty, before suddenly twisting free—only to climb onto the bar in one smooth motion, her thighs framing his hips as she loomed over him. "You’re greedy," she murmured, tilting his chin up with a finger. "But I like that in a customer."

The kiss was sudden, hungry—her teeth catching his lip, her hands fisting in his shirt. He groaned into her mouth, hands sliding up her toned thighs, gripping the soft curve of her ass as she ground down against him. The barstool clattered to the floor, forgotten, as he stood, lifting her effortlessly.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck. "Back room," she breathed between bites. "Now."

The door barely shut behind them before they collided again—clothes torn at, buttons scattering, her back hitting the wall with a gasp. Tifa arched into him, nails raking down his shoulders as he mouthed at her chest, her breath hitching when his teeth grazed her nipple through the thin fabric of her top.

"Fuck—tease," she panted, yanking his hair to claim his mouth again. Her hips rolled, desperate friction between them, and when his fingers finally slipped beneath her panties, she moaned, loud and unashamed. "Shut up,"* she gasped, but her thighs trembled, her body clenching around his touch.* "Just—fuck me already."

He didn’t need telling twice.

The couch was too small, the floor too hard—they ended up on the bar’s supply table, bottles rattling as he drove into her, her legs hooked over his arms, heels digging into his back. Tifa’s moans were ragged, her fingers tangled in his hair as she pulled him down for another kiss, sloppy and breathless.

"Harder," she demanded, and he obeyed, snapping his hips with a force that made her cry out, her back arching off the table.

It was messy, frantic—her nails leaving marks, his name a broken chant on her lips. When she came, it was with a shuddering gasp, her body clamping around him, dragging him over the edge with her.

For a long moment, the only sound was their heavy breathing. Then Tifa laughed, breathless, swatting his chest. "You’re banned from ogling other bartenders."

She rolled her eyes, but the smirk was back—and he knew this wouldn’t be the last round.