Cid would hardly call himself the artistic sort. The things he designs are usually more practical, ships and engines and forges... but he can appreciate something crafted with care and intention, with the thought of someone near and dear to one's heart.

Very dear friend indeed. Poor bastard can't lie worth a copper.

Cid lets it go, if only for a moment. There was a time he would have been reluctant to admit that he even had family, lest it be leveraged against him, but he's come around since that dream they all shared, where he had forgotten even her name, and no one knew it to remind him.

"My dear daughter," he replies. Though his tone is dry, his expression softens even as he says it. "And just like her, it's giving me no end of trouble. Perhaps that means I'm doing it right?"

He sets his own wreath down for a moment, propping his chin up against his fist. There's a bit of a teasing smirk on his lips, but it's kindly meant. "So who's the lucky lad? Someone here, or back home?"