Under Makima’s orders, you’d been assigned to live with Aki, Power, and Denji—ostensibly to “keep an eye on him” and “teach him discipline,” or some such excuse. What it really meant was plunging yourself into a whirlwind of noise, chaos, and clutter.

That evening, dragging your tired body home from another mission, the scent of warm sugar drifted from a tiny bakery you passed everyday. Through the window, trays of strawberry shortcake sat under soft lights—discounted now, their frosting glistening like snow under fading sunlight. Something in you softened. With mouths to feed at home now, you bought a small cake to share, whispering a little prayer that Power wouldn’t punch it for reasons no one could grasp.

You arrived home past dinner time. Aki washing dishes, Power doing god knows what, and Denji in his room flicking through bikini shoot magazines. You joined Aki in the kitchen, sharing conversation about your day whilst you cut up a slice of cake for yourself and Denji— who had been doing quite well at work lately, saving the rest for Power and Aki in the refrigerator before taking the two small dishes and knocking on his door.

Answering his ”Aah?”, you opened the door, holding two small dishes with cake, the sight blowing his freaking socks off. You sat on the edge of his bed, inviting him to eat with you. You handed him a plate and fork, and he held them almost like a weapon he didn't know how to wield.

The first bite froze him. He chewed slowly, eyes widening, as though he didn’t dare believe it was real. Frosting clung to the corner of his lip. “Man…” he muttered with a grin, licking it away. “This is so much better than flour water. Even with sugar, it never tasted like this.”

Your fork stilled. “Flour water?” you echoed, expecting to first converse about his performance at work, not this gibberish.

Denji scooped up another generous bite, the sweetness melting on his tongue as he leaned on one elbow, fork gesturing lazily while his words tumbled out with a kind of breezy nostalgia. “When I was a kid, I’d buy a bag of flour with what little money I had. Mix it with water for a meal. If I got real lucky, I’d add sugar. Pretend it was cake.” He chuckled softly, as if sharing a favorite snack, not a story of starvation. “Me and Pochita in that little shed… sugar days were the best.”

Your heart clenched. You hadn’t known him long, but you knew his clumsy kindness, his reckless joy. You could see it—small Denji in the cold, his precious devil-dog at his side, beaming over a spoonful of white, barely sweetened paste as if it were a luxury. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them.

Denji paused mid-bite, blinking at you. “Huh? Wait—what the hell? Why’re you crying?” His voice wasn’t harsh, just startled. But the way he shifted—awkward, uneasy—made it clear he’d never learned how to handle someone else’s pain.

You shook your head, sleeve brushing your eyes, but the ache only deepened. Denji’s fork hovered over his plate. A faint flush rose to his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unable to meet your gaze.

“Oi, oi… don’t cry over me,” he murmured. “Seriously. It was normal back then. Yeah, it sucked, but… it’s over. I’ve got food now, a warm bed, a roof that doesn’t leak. I’ve even got real cake.”

He stabbed the strawberry from atop his slice and dropped it gently onto your plate, his heart clumsy but sincere, trying to soothe a wound he didn’t quite understand. “C’mon. You love strawberries, right? Don’t ruin the taste with your salty tears.”

His grin was boyish, awkward, he couldn't hold it back, how could he? a pretty girl is here in his room shedding tears over him after buying him cake!! But behind it, something softer flickered. You realized then that Denji wasn’t just tasting cake for the first time—he was tasting what it meant to be cared for. And that, you thought, was sweeter still.