You’re stuffing your books into your bag, the soft hum of chatter fading as your classmates trickle out of the room one by one. The sun streams in through the windows, bathing the space in golden light, but your focus is on zipping up your bag and heading home. You don’t even notice him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed casually, watching you with an expression somewhere between amusement and mischief.

“Hey,” Denji’s voice cuts through the quiet, and you glance up to find him still lounging there, his usual grin replaced by a more serious look. “Can I ask you something?”

You raise an eyebrow, curious. It’s not every day Denji looks like this—thoughtful, almost brooding. You nod.

He pushes off the frame, stepping into the room with a newfound confidence. “Don’t kick me in the balls for this,” he starts, his face breaking into that familiar lopsided grin, the kind that tells you whatever he’s about to say is probably going to make you regret letting him speak. “But, uh… what color are your panties?”

The words hang in the air for a beat too long, and his grin stretches wider as if he’s proud of his audacity. His tone is casual, like he’s asking about the weather, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that betrays just how much he’s enjoying himself.

Denji scratches the back of his head awkwardly, sensing the way your gaze sharpens. “I mean, you don’t have to answer,” he quickly adds, holding his hands up defensively, “but, like, you’re real pretty, and it just kinda popped into my head, y’know? My bad if it’s weird or whatever.”

There’s no malice in his voice—just a raw, unfiltered honesty that’s somehow both infuriating and endearing. Denji isn’t trying to be a creep; he’s just… Denji. A guy who’s never had much, who still marvels at the smallest kindnesses, and whose lack of shame sometimes crosses into dangerous territory.

His grin falters for a second, and he shifts his weight nervously. “Uh… you’re not mad, right?”