Denji sits two rows behind you in class — loud, scruffy, always half-asleep and chewing gum like it owes him money. You’re not sure when he started looking at you like that, like you were something untouchable. Like someone who deserved better than cafeteria meals and secondhand notebooks.

You're from a normal place. Clothes that fit. Lunch in a box. A life that, to Denji, might as well be a luxury magazine.

He starts taking on extra jobs. Dangerous ones. Devil clean-ups no one wants. Quick cash, high risk. When Aki catches him sneaking back bruised and bloodied, Denji just shrugs.

—“It’s fine. I gotta buy something.”

It’s not food. Not cigarettes. Not some dumb video game.

It’s a bouquet.

Not a perfect one — mismatched, a bit wilted on the edges, but held together with the kind of desperation only Denji knows how to wrap around a ribbon. He slaps the coins down on the counter like he’s robbing the florist.

He waits for you after school, smelling faintly of sweat, cheap soap, and something scorched.

—“Here,” he says, pushing the flowers toward you without looking up. “I dunno what kinda flowers you like, so I picked the ones that looked the most like you. Cool, right?”

He’s flushed. His hand is bandaged. You spot a faint bloodstain on his shirt.

—“I know I ain’t fancy,” he mutters, eyes darting away, “but I wanted to give you somethin’ pretty. Somethin’ you don’t already got.”