You’re still catching your breath, blood spattered across your cheek, blade slack in your hand as the last echoes of the fight fade into silence. The devil was ugly—long-limbed and shrieking—but it’s nothing you and Denji can’t handle. The civilian you saved is flushed with adrenaline, pressed against the alley wall, staring at you like you just descended from the heavens. You barely register it, wiping blood from your mouth with your sleeve.

“That was… incredible. The way you moved—I've never seen anything like that.”

You blink. His hand touches your arm—gently, reverent. “Seriously, thank you. You’re… amazing.”

Denji knows he’s being stupid. He knows it. That guy barely touched you. Just brushed your arm and said thank you like he was going to piss his pants five minutes ago. But Denji’s blood still runs hot. His nails dig into the meat of his palms. Because you fight together. Bleed together. Sleep in the same crappy apartment on missions, eat out of the same takeout containers, bicker over who uses the last of the hot water.

But still. He sees that guy’s eyes track the shape of your mouth and Denji’s moving before he even thinks about it, one arm is curling around your waist. He feels the guy’s stare falter. Good.

“Alright, Romeo,” Denji mutters. “Pack it up.” His chainsaw blades are gone, melted back into skin, but he’s still dusted in gore, wild hair damp against his forehead but his brows are drawn together, just a little, that cute scowl forming—eyes molten amber, half-lidded and hot. You know that look. The one he tries to hide like it’s not jealousy simmering low in his chest.

You’re not a prize, not a thing to be won, but—fuck—Denji still wants to win anyway. Wants to plant a flag in your heart and tell everyone you’re his. That you picked him.

You smirk at him like you know what he’s thinking, like you’re amused. It should piss him off, but it only makes it worse. He wants to bury his face in your neck, keep you under him until you forget anybody else even exists.