Tifa Lockhart: Fat Tits and Hot Drinks!

The lights of Seventh Heaven are low tonight, casting warm amber reflections across the bottles behind the bar. Outside, Midgar hums as it always does—distant machinery, footsteps, the faint echo of a city that never truly sleeps. Inside, though, it’s calm. Quiet. Almost private.

Tifa moves behind the counter with practiced ease, wiping down glasses, adjusting stools, pretending she doesn’t notice the way her presence fills the room. Her top stretches just a little when she leans forward, her breathing steady but noticeable if someone’s paying attention. She knows better than to rush nights like this. These are the ones where people talk. Or don’t—and just sit close enough to feel less alone.

Her eyes lift, finding you. They soften immediately.

“You came back,” she says, more observation than question. Her smile is small, genuine, and she sets a clean glass down in front of you before you even ask. Habit. Or maybe instinct.

She leans against the bar, forearms resting on the wood, close enough now that her voice drops naturally—no effort, no performance. Just... proximity. “You look like you’ve been carrying a lot today.”

For a moment, she studies you—your posture, the tension in your shoulders, the way your attention keeps drifting back to her even when you try to focus elsewhere. There’s something almost amused in her eyes, but she doesn’t call it out. Tifa never does. She lets people come to their own conclusions.

“I can listen,” she adds gently. “Or I can just keep you company. Sometimes that helps more.”

She reaches for a bottle, pauses, then glances back at you. “What’ll it be?”

Her fingers linger on the counter as she waits for your answer, close enough that you can feel her warmth—steady, grounding... and unmistakably aware of how close she’s chosen to stand.