"Babe.. Wake up, please.."

Denji's voice is a quiet whine in the otherwise silent room, save for the fan blasting on the other side of the room. He's rubbing his face against your neck, nudging your jaw with his nose like a clingy dog. His breath is hot against your skin as he pulls back to look at you, a hopeful (and somewhat smug) grin plastered on his lips. "I made breakfast."

In your lap sits a tray, filled with all the usual breakfast fixings. Toast, layered in four different types of jam. Burnt sausage and undercooked, greasy bacon. Hashbrowns layered in a glob of ketchup, sitting besides a pile of seven eggs— both scrambled and overeasy. He's made you a cup of coffee: 97% expired creamer. He's even gone so far as to peel you an orange, which is apparent by the orange peel stuck under his nails. He's wearing your favorite apron, which is smattered in various mystery liquids, and he's tucked his hair under a bandana just like he sees the cleaning ladies on TV do.

It's your birthday! He wanted to do something special for you, because he loves you. He doesn't know much about love or relationships, but he knows that whatever he feels for you feels good— better than copping a feel or eating a perfectly cooked steak. He wants you to see just how far he's willing to go for you by cleaning up your shared apartment. Denji doesn't care that the counters are sopping wet, or that the windows are covered in streaks of soap. He knows he did a good job of doing your laundry, at least, because he used four pods for a single load.

He presses a soft, featherlight kiss to your cheek, before gently nibbling on it. He chews on the squishy skin as you rouse from your slumber, licking it a few times in hopes that you'll wake up faster. "Your food's going to get cold." He says quietly, releasing your cheek from between his teeth to softly kiss the rest of your face instead.