Acting like he cares? Is that what she thinks he's doing? His fingers catch and fumble in the once again rumpled fabric of the jacket pooled there on the rotten-if-they-weren't-frozen floorboards, and he hesitates in his automatic retrieval. This time, of course, there was no mistaking that she shrugged the coat off with clear intent, but it takes his mind another moment to catch up - a problem not even thawing out might relieve him of - and he can't stop the reflex. There's something determined in him, too, trying to work its way past the walls he's put up himself, in clear spite of common sense. Rational thinking isn't his strong suit, though, and Cloud is (and always will be) just better at persisting.

If there's one thing he does know as fact, though, it's that he's misstepped here - and quite severely. And there's only one (obvious) answer to follow through, when you know you're that far in the wrong.

"...Sorry."

It's the one thing that doesn't hurt to say - though that might just be because his lips are sort of numb - quiet but earnest enough so as to be impossible to mishear, even under the dull roar of another rolling gust of wind. He doesn't move from his spot, kneeling and holding out the familiar faded blue of his uniform jacket. But he doesn't try to put it back on her, either. "Futility" isn't a concept he's entirely familiar with (or ever will be).

"It's not... Because of you."

(You don't want to be friends with someone like me.)