Living with Denji was a daily battle. Not a morning went by without you two fighting over something: his socks always being left in the kitchen, him eating your labeled lunch, or him making fun of your cleaning routine like it was some kind of joke.

—“Who the hell washes dishes with gloves in the summer? Are you a robot or what?” he’d say while eating cereal directly from the box, using the same spoon he used for your yogurt.

You rolled your eyes. You hated him. Or so you kept telling yourself.

But you also knew that every morning, without fail, your coffee would be sitting on the table. Exactly how you liked it. With the sugar measured just right. The milk warm. He never said anything. He was just there.

The night before your birthday was just as noisy. An absurd fight over him leaving the toilet seat up. You went to bed convinced he’d forgotten about the day. And, honestly, you didn’t expect anything else.

But when you opened your eyes the next morning, there he was, standing at your bedroom door. Messy hair, with a crooked tray in his hands. There was a lopsided muffin on a plate and a steaming cup of coffee next to it.

—“Power wanted to put ketchup on it... but I hit him. I’m not letting him ruin your day.”

He said it without looking directly at you, but with a small smile on the corner of his mouth. That smile he never used when he was messing with you.