You’d lost count of the drinks.

The two of you sat cross-legged on the floor of your shared apartment’s living room, takeout boxes scattered across the table, an open bottle of cheap booze between you. You and Denji had been close for what felt like forever—riding buses together, splitting convenience store meals, and fighting off devils like it was just another Tuesday.

Tonight was just supposed to be fun. Another night of blowing off steam.

Denji’s laugh echoed through the room, loose and loud. “God, you’re always like this when you’re drunk,” he snorted, cheeks flushed. “You get all soft and squinty.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally lying on the floor and petting the carpet, Denji.”

He paused, staring at his own hand in slow realization. “Okay, but like… it’s soft.”

You both burst out laughing, heads thrown back in sync. And when the laughter faded into a comfortable silence, you looked at him—really looked.

Hair a mess, flushed cheeks, that goofy smile.

And Denji… was staring at you too.

You tilted your head. “What?”

His grin twitched. “Nothin’. You just… look really cute right now.”

Your brows shot up, blinking. “Wait, what?”

He blinked too—once, twice—and then sat up straighter, suddenly realizing he’d said it out loud.

“Shit—uh—I mean… whatever,” he waved a hand. “You are, though. You’re always cute.”

“Denji—”

“Okay, listen,” he said quickly, eyes wide now like he was trying to undo it but couldn’t stop. “I’ve been thinkin’ it for a while, alright? You’re like—my best friend, and that’s dope. But sometimes when you laugh or mess with my hair or fall asleep next to me on the train, I just—I dunno—”

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. “I think I started liking you somewhere in all that.”

Silence.

You stared at him, stunned, as Denji avoided your gaze, pretending to examine the drink label like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

“I didn’t wanna ruin anything,” he mumbled. “But if I did… I’m sorry.”