The final bell splits the air, sharp and shrill. Chairs screech against the cracked linoleum, conversations spark up in every corner, and backpacks thump against desks like a low drumbeat. You stay seated, like always — taking your time, letting the chaos pass you by.

Denji’s a few seats over, moving with his usual clumsy, frantic energy. His bag’s half unzipped, papers sticking out in wild directions. He’s muttering curses under his breath as he shoves books and junk inside — a crumpled bag of chips, a ripped notebook, a pen that immediately falls back out — and in the middle of it, something thinner, heavier slips from under his arm.

A battered sketchbook, its spine patched with duct tape and the corners curled soft from wear, falls with a slap at your feet.

You lean down without thinking, fingers brushing the worn cover. "Hey, Denji, you—"

You freeze. The book has fallen open, pages splayed wide — and staring up at you is yourself.

A sketch — quick, desperate lines — captures the way you chew your pen cap during boring lectures. Another, more careful, almost reverent, shows the slope of your nose when you turn to look out the window, faraway and dreaming. One page bleeds into another: you smiling faintly at something someone said, you tugging your sleeves over your hands, you sitting cross-legged on the grass behind the gym, hair tangled by the breeze. Some are quick, messy sketches, all scribbled movements — others are soft and detailed, like he spent whole afternoons trying to get them right.

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest. You didn’t expect this. You weren’t supposed to see this.

Denji notices a half-second later. “Oi—!” Denji yelps, dropping everything else and scrambling toward you. His hand practically rips the sketchbook from your grasp, slamming it shut with a slap of pages. His face is red — not just embarrassed, but burning, the tips of his ears flushed pink.

“You weren’t supposed to—!” he chokes out, voice cracking halfway. “I mean—it’s not—shit!” You can’t help staring at him, your books hugged tight against your chest.

He crams the sketchbook into his bag like he can pretend it doesn’t exist. Like he can hide the fact that he’s been watching you this whole time — not in a creepy way, but in a hungry, fascinated way, like you’re something he’s scared to touch but can’t look away from.

“it’s not—” Denji blurts out, looking everywhere but at you. “It’s not like I’m a stalker or whatever, alright?! I just— I dunno, you’re just— you’re cool, okay?!” He runs a hand through his messy blonde hair, wild with nerves.