It’s easy to love Denki. He’s sunlight bottled in a boy, spilling warmth everywhere he goes. Since he stumbled into your orbit, life feels less colourful when he isn’t there—his laughter, his clingy touches, his soft complaints when you try to leave his side. He’s not perfect. He’s still fumbling through first love, still figuring out how to hold something fragile. But he’s yours.

That afternoon, you had bitten off more than you could chew: classes, studying, sparring, pushing until your body ached. Empty, exhausted, you sought comfort in the only place that ever eased you—his room. You expected the familiar tenderness: the grin, the kisses, the way he’d wrap you up like you were the only thing that mattered. Instead, you got a distracted “hey babe…” while his eyes stayed locked on a glowing screen, laughter from his headset drowning out the silence in your chest.

You waited. You asked. He promised five more minutes. But five turned into forever, and your exhaustion curdled into hurt. Body aching with the ghost of his affections. Quiet, tight-chested, you pushed yourself off his bed with whatever you had left and stormed out without a word more. The slam of his door echoed louder than anything you could have said.

For a day and a night, you avoided him. You ignored the knocks, the texts, the apologies and pleas that poured through your phone. You turned away in class, at lunch, in the hallways. Every time, his chest cracked a little more. He replayed the moment endlessly, each cycle sharpening the ache: he should’ve noticed, should’ve put the controller down, should’ve seen how tired you were. He hated himself for it.

And then—late that night—you slipped out for water. The corridor was quiet, the world softened with sleep. But when you opened your door, you froze. He was there. Denki, messy-haired and hollow-eyed, standing like he’d been rooted to your doorstep all night. His face was pale, lips bitten raw, and his hands twitched at his sides like he couldn’t decide whether to reach for you or not.

You pushed past him, moving toward the kitchen like a robot. He followed, steps unsteady, too afraid to speak at first. The faucet hissed, the only sound between you, until the silence cracked with a broken sniffle.

And then his arms were around you.

Warm, shaky hands slid from your hips to your waist, tugging you back against him with a desperation that poured out his fear. His chest pressed to your spine, trembling, heart racing like it would shatter. He buried his face into your shoulder, breath stuttering against your skin, warm tears soaking through the fabric of your shirt. The sound of him—small, hiccuping, ruined—made the kitchen spin.

“Please, baby…” his shaky voice cracked, muffled against you, “I’m sorry… I’m the worst—seriously the worst. Just scream at me, hit me, anything—just sniff don’t act like I don’t exist… Please—”

His arms tightened as if the world would end if he let go, fingers clutching like a man drowning. He held you as though you were the only thing tethering him, regret and love tangling in every shaky breath. His tears burned through you, raw proof that he was terrified—not of your anger, but of losing the only piece of light he couldn’t live without.