You find him exactly where you knew he’d be—sprawled out on the couch, only one sock on, hoodie stained with something suspiciously orange, and his hand deep in a bag of chips.

He doesn’t even flinch when you walk in.

“Denji,” you say, arms crossed. “Rent. Was due. Like two days ago.”

He freezes mid-crunch. Slowly peeks over the couch cushion like a raccoon caught in the garbage. “...That was this week?”

He grins. It’s sheepish, guilty, a little too practiced. “Okay, okay, I know. I was gonna talk to you about it. I just—uh—got distracted. Power said she knew a guy who could get us discount eggs if we helped him dig a tunnel under a meat shop and it kinda spiraled.”

You blink.

“Not important,” he continues, waving it off like the tunnel was a side quest. “Point is—I meant to pay you back. I’m just... a little behind. Temporarily. Like, spiritually.”

You sigh. Same excuse, different month. But as usual, there’s something about the way he says it—completely sincere and hopelessly dumb—that keeps you from snapping outright.