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It’s one of those weeks. The kind that starts out perfectly innocuous but slowly chips away at one’s sanity until there is only a pebble remaining. Nothing cataclysmic, just death by a thousand paper cuts.
Tifa Lockhart rarely loses control and ventures into the self-indulgent blackhole that is rage at such events, but today, she’s thinking she just might.
Monday, she spilled some of her freshly made spaghetti sauce. Wouldn’t have been an issue had it not gone into the crack between the oven and the countertop. She spent the better part of an hour trying to wriggle around a thin knife wrapped in a paper towel that kept ripping. Dinner was very late that night.
Tuesday, she missed her alarm and startled awake in a panic. The produce market was practically picked clean by the time she arrived, disheveled and sweating. Combined with an already barren pantry, it meant the menu at the bar would be very bland that week.
Wednesday, she found a leak in the refrigeration line keeping her newly installed kegs at an icy temperature. The replacement wasn’t in stock so any repair would be delayed significantly. Unless Cloud could help her figure out how to patch it, the beer would be very warm that weekend.
Thursday, Cloud called to say he’d be away on a job longer than expected. And that would’ve been fine, were it any other week. But it wasn’t. She would be left to handle the boozy patrons with their complaints about the kitchen and drinks by herself. The measure of her patience would be tested that weekend and well into next week.
Friday finally arrives and her car decides to go on strike—it’s just the cherry on top. The wrong step that sent the Cactuar fleeing into the sandstorm. She’s done. Out. Not participating in the week any longer.
With a forceful huff, she grabs her PHS and starts typing to Rude.
Hey, I’m sorry. My car died and I can’t make it tonight. Raincheck?
Disappointment floods in when she hits send. It’s only been a couple of weeks since she ran into him unexpectedly, learned about his love for poetry...and kissed him. She’s been looking forward to a date with him all week—not that she’d even have someone to watch the bar or kids now that Cloud is away without warning.
Tifa considers jumping into the sandstorm with the Cactuar.
Instead, she settles for organizing and prep work—tasks to drown her thoughts in. With the kegs out of commission, she restocks the fridge with bottled beer and even cans, anything she can find. She’s emerging from the storage room with one last armful when her phone chirps from the countertop. Thinking she can balance the load a moment longer, she tries to use her elbow to check the notification.
A can sneaks out and plummets to the floor with a crash that catches her off guard. Several others take the same escape route, bringing her to her knees as they scatter and roll beneath cupboards and everywhere.
Tifa shrieks a frustrated noise and slaps the floor with her palm. The sting is satisfying, distracts her from the anger for long enough that she can gather her wits. If the cans want to be on the floor so badly, they can stay there.
Rising to her feet, she swipes her phone and props her elbows on the counter with a sigh. At least the text is from Rude. That makes her lips twitch just a little.
No worries. You okay? Can I bring you anything?
She takes a breath, lets it out. Considers. They’re dating, she can ask for his help...can’t she?
But what can he do? There’s really nothing she can ask for.
I’m fine, it’s just been a week. Thanks for the offer! :) she replies.
There’s a pause and she wonders if he might leave it at that. Maybe she should’ve said something else, something less dismis—her phone buzzes in her hand.
What are you up to now?
Tifa tilts her head as if he can somehow see her curiosity. Stocking the fridge, the cooler went down so I won’t have any taps this weekend. But I’ll make the best of it :)
You open in a couple hours?
Yep, the usual. No time to mope ;)
That winking smiley glares up at her, daring her to stop faking it but she’s in too deep. She kicks her heel up and bounces her toe against the floor impatiently. When a reply doesn’t come, she sets her phone down to start gathering wayward cans. She quickly shoves them into a pocket of the fridge with more force than necessary.
If a patron decides to get particularly lippy, well, she’ll know which beer to serve them.
Her mind drifts back to the text exchange. Why couldn’t she just open up? Tell Rude that she could use a friendly face? She’s still grumbling in annoyance for both the week and her inability to ask for help almost half an hour later when a knock sounds at the door.
Rude knows something is up by the number of smiley faces in Tifa’s texts. It puts him on high alert, sends him out the office door a little early with a plan and a gym bag. It seems as though the new hand wraps he spied at the store the other day would be making an early debut.
He’s seconds away from talking himself out of it by the time he’s standing in front of her door. Worries of coming on too strong, too soon haunt his thoughts. Concern for her outweighs his doubt, sends his knuckles rapping.
Locks disengage and Tifa appears beyond a crack in the door. Her eyes are wide. “Rude! What are you doing here?”
There’s no smile on her lips and she doesn’t open the door any further. Has he miscalculated? Clearing his throat, he offers, “It seemed like you were having a rough day.”
The door creaks, opening a sliver more as she steps back. Her arms cross protectively over a loose white tank and she sighs a glum laugh. “You could say that.”
He tests the waters. “Thought you might need to blow off some steam.”
“Oh?” Her brows raise, she finally takes in his PT gear and the bag in his left hand. “And what did you have in mind?”
Nudging the zipper with one hand, Rude reaches into the bag and pulls out the new wraps. He tosses them her way and she uncrosses her arms to catch them.
Tifa turns the gift over in her hand several times, face unreadable. “This is my favorite color,” she tells him.
“I know.” He conceals a smile, pulls his shades down just an inch to regard her. “You do know how to use those, right?”
She snorts. “If there is one thing I am certain of on a day like today, it’s that I know how to use these.”
“Good, then let’s put them to the test.”
There’s a questioning look on her face. She scuffs her sneaker against the floor. “Now?”
“Unless there’s something else you need to take care of.”
Tifa tosses a quick glance around the bar. “No, I think I’ve had enough of this place for the moment. Come in,” she offers with a nod.
Rude follows her, momentarily distracted by the swish of her hips beneath the cropped top. Leggings look damn good on her.
Her voice surprises him. “Well?”
“Hm?” he asks.
An abrupt stop has him all but barreling into her. He steadies himself, one hand on her bare shoulder.
She glances back. “I asked if you’d like a glass of water to take out to the garage.”
Rude recovers quickly. “That’d be great.”
Two fresh glasses in hand, she leads him out into the garage. Tifa sets the cups on a workbench, opens the roll-up door to let in a little fresh air from the alleyway. He acquaints himself with the room. Dusty, but not a complete mess. Her car is hugging one wall, leaving plenty of open space to the side. It’ll work.
“You sure this is how you want to spend your Friday afternoon?”
Her question pinches something in his chest. Trying not to sound overeager, he coolly tells her, “Can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing.”
“Not drinking with Reno?” she teases.
He fixes her with a mock glare overtop his shades. “Please.”
Tifa laughs and this time, it sounds a little more upbeat. “I haven’t done this with a partner in a while.”
With a tilt of the head toward her punching bag, he says, “It’ll help work out some of the frustration better than using that thing.”
His gym bag hits the workbench with a thud and he sets to wrapping his own hands. Though he’s both a thrillseeker and a gambling man, it’s somehow far more difficult to take risks when his heart is involved. The budding relationship he has with Tifa has felt delicate and he’s been treating it that way.
Maybe it’s time to let things evolve.
Rude sets his glasses on the counter and turns her way. Tifa seems nervous, or something like it, while she wraps her hands. He watches the pinch of her brows, the touch of her teeth against her bottom lip. Fluid, determined movements complete her work and he wonders what she’s thinking about.
Hands properly wrapped, Tifa gathers her hair into a ponytail and tosses Rude a pair of sparring pads. He inspects them, a little surprised, but doesn’t comment. Merely slips them onto his hands and holds them up. He’ll let her guide this. A dip of his chin signals her.
Tifa finds his eyes, holds his gaze. Something sparks to life in the space between them but her first punch hits with all the hesitance of a songbird unsure of its landing. He lifts a brow. Maybe she needs a little help.
“Thought you were having a bad week?” he asks wryly.
Tifa stretches her neck, flexes her hands and shakes them out before making a fist. The next hit is more committed, a seabird seeking solid ground.
“This only works if you let it out, Tifa.”
She sends another punch into the pad, this time with the certainty of a hawk alighting on a treetop. Almost there.
“Tell me what happened,” he encourages.
She blows an errant strand of hair from her face. “You want the full list?”
So it was one of those weeks. “Whatever you need.”
Tifa’s lips twitch, but she holds back whatever she’s thinking. The intensifying thump of her knuckles on the pads is the only sound for a moment. “Let’s see. It started with the kitchen and spaghetti sauce in places it had no business being.”
Rude silently schools his features, avoiding the sort of grin Reno would surely have given her.
She must realize how it sounds and clarifies, “In the crevice between the counter and oven. Impossible to get out. I definitely burned dinner and served it an hour late.”
Thump.
“Then, I missed the market and had to create a skeletal menu for the week. It’s gone over like a lead balloon.”
Thump, thump.
“Freaking cooler broke like I said. I thought Cloud could help me take a look at it but he’s delayed up north. Nearly had a riot on my hands over the lack of decent beer the last two nights.”
Thump!
“The car was just the icing on the cluster fuck cake.”
Thump! Thump!
Rude tries not to grin again at the sound of her cursing that way. It’s adorable.
“I was so looking forward to our date and between the car and Cloud, it just seemed impossible. And then I dropped an armful of beer all over the floor. I suppose I should be thankful they didn’t burst and spray all over.”
The next strike hits like an eagle, talons out and spoiling for a fight.
There we go. He backs up, slips the pads off, and takes up a defensive stance. He waves her forward and she hesitates, thrown off her rhythm by the change. But it’s only a matter of time.
Fire courses through her veins. Each confession, every hit, simultaneously releases and energizes her. But then Rude switches things up. Tifa can see he’s looking to get physical with her and it sends her pulse into a gallop.
“You sure you can handle this?” she jests.
Rude just smirks this hungry smirk. When she advances, his eyes trail her every move. Sweat mists the small of her back both from exertion and the flush that creeps onto her cheeks. She isn’t really thinking about sparring with him anymore.
Rude seems to see the crack in her defenses, presses his advantage by snatching her striking arm by the wrist. She’s stuck in an armbar before she knows it.
Quick thinking and a somersault forward gets her free, has her turning the tables. They face off again, circling one another. A language all its own seems to pass between them; if she focuses hard enough she can practically hear it. Tifa centers herself, controls each breath. She reads his incoming advance as if it’s written on the walls and easily dances out of the way.
Rude smirks again, looking impressed.
The back and forth of strike and parry carries on for too long, grating on her already threadbare nerves. At least with the pads, she could actually land a hit but without Rude is agile, her equal in technique. She instantly longs for the feel of her fists connecting with something solid. Her training goes out the window and she loses her cool for a split second. Tifa launches herself at him.
But Rude seems to have anticipated this move.
There is no fight or flight in his game. He seems to simply fall right into it, letting her crash against him. Her shoulder rams into his stomach, but he’s flexed and ready for impact. Even so, the force of her attack pushes him back along the floor. With a cocky chuckle, he shifts to his left while locking opposite arms with Tifa. She quickly finds herself off balance.
The room spins and she ends up on her back, the floor less than forgiving beneath her. Rude is straddling her hips. They’re both panting and slick with sweat. She thinks he’s never looked more attractive. Heat pools low in her belly.
For a moment, they’re perfectly still, nothing but locked eyes and rigid bodies. And then his mouth is on hers and she’s running her hands up his arms. They’ve never been together like this. It’s new and a little clumsy, spurred by naked desire and pent up energy, but she likes the way it ignites.
When he pins one of her hands to the ground, she gasps. Rude’s lips are on her neck, her ear, the rise of her collarbone. It sends her free hand to his bicep, her nails digging into the hard swell of muscles that are flexed from supporting his weight. He groans at the rough touch and her hips lift of their own accord, driving him to grind into her. She’s suddenly quite aware of how thin the fabric of their workout gear is.
Oh, she wants this. She can’t think of anything she wants more. But there is an open garage door and the kids are due home from school any minute. If she doesn’t get control of this now, they’re liable to make a scene. It takes all of her strength to slow her pace, guiding them back from the edge of the proverbial cliff and into a chaste kiss.
As she looks up, Rude smiles longingly. Understanding is etched across his features and she’s thankful for it. Gracefully, he slides back onto his knees and helps her off her back. When she finally stands, her legs are jelly and she waits a moment for it to pass. Rude strides to the workbench and downs half his glass of water in one gulp.
“Worked up a good sweat,” she says facetiously.
Rude shakes his head at her and takes another long sip. She joins him, hoping the cold water might quell the heat still smouldering in her core. The chilled glass feels lovely as she presses it to her temple and sighs.
Once she’s caught her breath, she turns toward him. “So I didn’t get to ask yet, but how was your week?”
“Not bad.” Rude starts to unwrap his hands as he fills her in. “It wasn’t half as frustrating as yours.”
“Any new pranks from your partner?”
“Apparently, I’m not in his sights this week. He’s decided that goading Elena is much more entertaining for now.”
She can only imagine what that’s been like. “How’s that going?”
“Well, let’s just say that he showed up to a meeting this morning with a fresh black eye.”
Tifa’s hand goes to her lips. “Oh, no.” She tries and fails to hold back a laugh.
“It’s always interesting when those two decide to go head-to-head.”
“You know...the next time you have plans with them, I’d love to tag along.” Discomfited by the sudden confession, she adds, “If you don’t mind, I mean.”
Rude looks her over, eyes narrowed just slightly. “You sure about that? It can be uhh...chaotic.”
Tifa laughs gently. “Sounds like a good time.”
A grin on his face, he takes one of her hands with an affectionate squeeze. She realizes she’s not yet unwrapped them and starts to fidget with the end when he stops her.
“I’ll get it,” he says.
The tenderness with which he unravels layers of wrap surprises her. These hands that are capable of creating such violence are soft for her, and seemingly, her alone. Each brush of his fingers fills her with a newfound affection for him. It brings an unexpected realization.
Rude is the best surprise that has come from all of the changes she’s seen this year.
“What’s the problem with your cooler?” he asks as he unravels the last of her wraps.
She clears her throat to ground her thoughts. “There’s a leak in the line. The shop nearby didn’t have a replacement in stock and I’m not sure exactly how to patch something like that until it can be replaced.”
Rude scans the shelves over the workbench. “I don’t suppose you have any silicone handy? Maybe some rubber gasket and strong tape?”
“Maybe?”
He roots around, snagging a tube from behind old cans of paint and the rest of the supplies from one of the drawers. “This ought to do the trick.”
“You think you can patch it?”
“No promises but I might be able to work something out.”
Tifa bounces on the balls of her feet, brushing a hand across his cheek. “I’d be grateful to have a hand with it, even if it doesn’t pan out. I’ve never tried fixing something like this myself and I didn’t want to make more of a mess of it.”
Rude seems pleased with her response even as he turns to go inside. She closes up the garage and heads in after him. Leaving him to the task of inspecting the cooler, she cleans up around the bar and sets up the kitchen for a long evening ahead. Somewhere between dicing commonly used ingredients and mixing condiments, she looks up to find a captivating sight.
This incredible, kind man is working on a solution to a problem she didn’t even ask him to help her fix. She watches the flex of his muscles as he tightens a gasket on the line and while she can appreciate that, there’s something far more precious here.
The strength to show up for her when she needed it most and didn’t know how to ask.
It may have started out one of those weeks but the week is not over yet and she has a very good feeling about the weekend.