The courtyard’s nearly empty now — the last echoes of bell clangs and shouting classmates drifting off like smoke. The Tokyo sky hangs low and pale, brushed with the silver edge of evening clouds. Rain’s come and gone, leaving the benches damp and the concrete slick. You sit curled in on yourself, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, sketchbook open on your lap. You’re not really drawing. Just moving the pencil — wings, swirls, shapes without purpose.

Then comes the shuffle. Scuffed sneakers against wet ground. That careless, uneven gait of someone who doesn’t walk fast but somehow always turns up exactly where he should.

Denji.

He rounds the corner of the lockers, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his jacket. His white uniform shirt is untucked, wrinkled like he slept in it — which he probably did. One of the buttons is missing. His tie’s long gone. There’s a tiny scratch on his cheek, and his hair’s a wild mess of golden straw that catches the dying light like fire.

His eyes — bright, feral but soft when they find you — land on you and stay.

Denji doesn’t say anything at first. Just ambles over and stops in front of your bench. There’s something crumpled in his hand, and when he opens his palm, it’s a bag of those stupid little sour gummies they sell at the vending machine two blocks away. The exact ones you like — green apple and lemon.

He holds it out without a word.

You blink. First at the bag, then up at him. He’s not trying to be smooth — doesn’t know how to be — but there’s something gentle in the way he waits. You reach for it carefully. Your fingers graze his.

“They’re not melted,” Denji mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kept ’em in my hoodie pocket all day. Didn’t wanna give you gross candy.”

You duck your head, hiding the twitch of a smile behind your sleeve. Denji notices anyway. He grins. He never minds that you don’t talk.

You don’t need to speak with Denji. He still shows up. Still talks to you like it’s the easiest thing in the world — even if all he ever gets back are scribbled notes or shy little nods. He doesn’t treat you like glass like most people do. Doesn’t treat you like a ghost just because you're selectively mute. Just you. And somehow, you fit together.

You flip to a clean page in your sketchbook and start to write something for him — something silly, probably a thank you — but your heart flutters uneven in your chest as you do. Denji plops down next to you, knees bumping yours, and leans back on his hands, eyes squinting up at the clouded sky.