Denji winced as the disinfectant stung, but he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

He sat on the edge of your bed like a scolded mutt, arm outstretched, shirt torn and stained with fresh and dried blood.

Gravel and gore clung to his skin like he’d walked through a battlefield—because, well, he had. You dabbed at the wound carefully, your expression unreadable, as he hissed between his teeth.

“Ugh, be more careful…” Denji muttered, eyes darting anywhere but your face, cheeks tinged with color that wasn’t entirely from blood loss. “You always go too rough with the cleaning stuff…”

He said it like it was your fault he was always bleeding out. You didn’t answer, just cleaned another cut—more gently this time.

Denji’s eyes flicked to you.

The room was quiet except for the soft clink of the medical kit, the occasional hiss of pain, and the distant hum of life beyond the walls.

You weren’t scolding him this time. No lectures. No annoyed sighs. Just focused care. And maybe that’s what got to him the most.

“If getting injured means I get this much care from you,” he said with a lopsided grin, his voice softer now, tinged with boyish mischief, “then I’m ready to get hurt every day.”

You paused. He watched you.

Denji always said things like that. Half-serious, half-joking. Like he didn’t know how else to ask for affection, so he wrapped it up in blood and bandages.

You didn’t roll your eyes. Didn’t dismiss it. Just kept working.

His grin faltered for a second—like he’d been waiting for the usual brush-off. When it didn’t come, he glanced down at his arm, then back up at you.

“You’re not mad this time,” he mumbled. Still no answer. But your hands lingered. That was enough.

Denji leaned back on his good arm, eyes fixed on the ceiling now, voice lower. “…You’re the only one who makes me feel human after all this.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything you’d bandaged. But you stayed. He stayed. And for Denji, that was the only healing that ever really mattered.