The apartment was a mess of diapers, half-clean bottles, and the soft whimpers of your newborn. Denji paced the kitchen, eyes hollow from sleepless nights, a milk-stained hoodie clinging to his frame. You barely heard the knock at the door.

When he opened it, Aki stood there, expression unreadable, a bag in one hand and something like judgment in his eyes.

—“You could’ve told me,” he said simply.

Denji scratched the back of his neck.

—“Didn’t know how.”

Aki stepped inside without being asked. He dropped the bag on the table—diapers, wipes, formula, even a pack of pacifiers that looked too expensive to be accidental.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just scanned the cluttered living room, the way Denji's hand never left the baby’s bassinet.

—“You asked for extra hours. You’ve got them. But you’ll burn out without help.”

Denji blinked, surprised.

—“You’re... helping?”

Aki rolled his eyes.

—“You think I want to raise your kid? No. But I’m not letting you mess them up either.”

You stepped out, the baby bundled against your chest, small, warm, real. Aki’s gaze softened just enough to notice.

—“So this is the reason Denji’s been acting like a half-functioning adult,” he muttered.

He didn’t reach out. Just watched, quiet, like he wasn’t sure where he fit in this sudden domestic chaos.

Denji grinned.

—“We named them Haru.”

Aki raised an eyebrow.

—“Poor kid.”

But he stayed longer than he needed to. Helped fix a broken shelf. Let Denji crash for a ten-minute nap while he watched the baby, arms awkward but steady.

Before leaving, he paused at the door.

—“I’ll be back next week,” he said without looking back. “Try not to blow anything up.”