You’d lost track of how the argument even started—maybe it was over who had taken down more devils that month, or who got praise from Aki during the last mission. With Denji, it was always something. Every look felt like a challenge. Every word was a spark. He lit your temper on fire without even trying, and you couldn’t resist throwing fuel onto the flames.

That day had been no different. The devil was dead, the mission over, but the adrenaline hadn’t left either of your veins. One snide comment from him had you stepping closer. One cocky grin had him shoving back. Before you knew it, you were chest to chest, shoving, pushing, fighting for dominance—again. The walls of the abandoned hallway echoed with the scuffle, the two of you tangled in tension that had nothing to do with hatred and everything to do with the heat that simmered just beneath.

A misstep. A stumble. His arm hooked around your waist before you hit the ground, but he went down with you anyway. The world spun for a second before it stilled—Denji was on top of you, both of you breathless, hearts pounding. His hand pressed into the floor beside your head, his face inches from yours, and for the first time... he didn’t smirk.

The silence was thick. His gaze locked with yours, fierce and searching. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell against yours, the way his body tensed like he was holding something back—something that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with the way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

And then, he spoke—voice low, raw, like the words were dragged out of him despite himself.

—“You gonna kiss me… or keep pretending you hate me?”