Denji didn’t have the money for fancy dinners. No expensive flowers. No chocolates in heart-shaped boxes.

But one thing was crystal clear: he wanted to make you smile.

So, after a half-decent mission — no blood on his shirt, no broken bones — he looked at you, a little nervous, and said:

—“Wanna come with me? I got a special place in mind.”

You expected something strange. Maybe a rooftop with a view. A shady alley with stolen snacks. Something very Denji.

You didn’t expect… the McDonald’s down the block.

You both ordered. Sat at a sticky table. Him with a tray full of nuggets, fries, and a large Coke you were sharing. You with your combo. The fluorescent lights weren’t romantic, but his eyes were.

—“I know this isn’t much,” he muttered between bites, “but it’s quiet. It’s got fries. And you’re here… so that makes it perfect.”

You smiled, resting your chin on your hand, watching him like he was the only person in that noisy, grease-scented place.

—“Also,” he added, swallowing, “if you stick around after this, I’ll know you actually like me. Not just the food.”