It happens after school, when the golden light is spilling through the trees and catching in Denji's messy blond hair, making him look almost angelic if you squint. You’re sitting on the low brick wall outside the school gates, half-distracted by your phone, when you hear his sneakers scuff against the pavement.

"Oi," Denji says, sounding weirdly sheepish.

You look up — and almost laugh. He's standing there, one hand stuffed deep into his too-big uniform jacket, the other holding a crumpled bunch of flowers. They're wildflowers, mostly — dandelions, a few scraggly daisies, something purple and blue. Some of them are crushed like he held them too tight. They’re a mess. A total disaster.

But his face — God, his face — is pink at the cheeks, his eyes darting anywhere but yours, teeth sunk into his bottom lip.

You blink. "Denji?"

Denji thrusts them at you with a frustrated grunt, like he's throwing a grenade. "Here! I got 'em for ya, or whatever."

You take them carefully, fingers brushing his. The stems are sticky and bent, and one dandelion head has already fallen off, rolling across the pavement. It’s the worst and best bouquet you’ve ever seen. But somehow, your chest squeezes too tight to breathe.

"You picked these?" you ask, brow arching.

Denji shrugs hard, pretending like he doesn't care, like it’s nothing — but his fists clench at his sides. "Yeah. Figured... you’d like 'em. Or somethin’ stupid like that. Saw 'em growin’ behind the gym," Denji mumbles, cheeks flushed a sweet pink, hands shoved into his pockets.

There’s a moment. One of those weird, heavy moments where you realize — he thought of you. Out of nowhere, probably while he was doing something dumb like skipping class or getting yelled at. And instead of ignoring it, he picked you flowers. Crooked, half-dead flowers. For you.