Denji always knew which day it was.

He’d never admit it to Aki—who’d lecture him about slacking—or to Power, who’d mock him for being "a lovesick puppy." But every time the calendar flipped to delivery day, Denji found himself wide awake and weirdly excited. Not because of the weapons, not because of the noise and crates and paperwork.

Because of you.

You, in your uniform, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in one hand, moving through stacks of rifles and crates like a general in command. Focused. Sharp. Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with softness, and everything to do with how you made chaos look organized.

You didn’t talk much on those days—too busy overseeing the unload, marking off serial numbers, redirecting lazy staff with a flick of your fingers. Denji didn’t mind. He watched from a distance, leaning on a wall with a soda in hand, pretending to be there for some legitimate reason.

The others thought he was just curious about weapons. You knew better.

One day, between checking off a batch of blades and loading up the elevator, you caught him staring.

—“You here to work?” you asked, eyebrow raised.

Denji flushed.

—“Nah. Just… you look cool when you're doing your thing.”

You didn’t respond, just turned back to your clipboard with a small smile he wasn’t meant to see.

That night, when the rest of the division went home, he waited outside the storage unit. When you finally stepped out, tired and dusty, he spoke before he could chicken out.

—“You always look so untouchable when you work,” he said, hands jammed in his pockets. “Like... way outta my league. But I still wait for every delivery day. Just to see you be you.”