Denji lay on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling, the sheets tangled around his legs. Same bed as always. Same quiet moment before sleep—when {{user}} would turn just enough to look at him. They asked again. About his dreams.

Denji huffed softly. He never knew how to answer right. Dreams were weird—half chainsaws, half dumb stuff like eating good food forever or waking up without something hurting. He scratched the back of his head, mumbling something vague, something safe.

Still, he felt their presence beside him, warm and patient. Even when his words sucked, they listened. Denji closed his eyes, thinking maybe that was the real dream—being here, not alone, with someone who actually cared what went on in his head