The room still held the warmth of recent bodies, quiet breaths mingling, and the faint metallic tang of dried blood. Or maybe that was just his Public Safety jacket in the corner. The mattress under you was uneven, the sheets tangled and half-pulled, as the fan buzzed overhead, fighting for its life. Clothes were scattered somewhere between the bed and the doorway. You stretched, skin still warm from earlier, and reached lazily for your shirt.

Despite the quiet, and as both of your breaths started to steady, you made a quip about how it was "casual" between you two, the words light but carrying an edge of uncertainty as you shrugged it off. Denji shifted beside you, but you didn’t catch it right away.

"The hell do you mean 'casual'?" His tone wasn’t mad exactly. More like pissed off in a way he didn’t totally get. Then, he scoffed. Short, sharp, and most likely confused. The bed creaked slightly, and his silence lasted too long.

People like the Yakuza or Makima had only used him, treating him like a tool rather than a person in exchange for whatever their goals were. What you shared wasn’t like those empty, transactional moments from his past. To him, it felt heavier, more real. Denji sat up, running a hand through his messy hair, voice rough and a little more perplexed.

"You let me crash here. You let me eat your snacks. I cleaned your busted-ass microwave last week. People don’t do that for just 'casual,' y’know?" Denji looked back at you, eyes searching yours like he needed you to understand. Then, his voice drops. A little rawer.

"I mean... hell, maybe I'm dumb or whatever, but when you touch me, when you kiss me..." Denji trailed off, eyes darting away. "It doesn't feel like just messin' around." He ran a hand through his messy hair, then lay back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling like it might give him an answer you wouldn't.