The training grounds reeked of sweat, steel, and frustration. Denji lay flat on his back, gasping, while Kishibe stood over him with that unimpressed look like he’d just watched someone lose a fight to a pillow.

—“Get up. You call that a punch? I’ve seen pigeons hit harder.”

Denji groaned.

—“You never talk to them like that,” he muttered, motioning toward you.

You sat on the edge of the bench nearby, towel draped over your shoulders, sipping water. Bruised, sure—but nowhere near as beaten as Denji. Kishibe had gone easier on you. Again.

He didn’t answer Denji. Just walked over to you, crouched a little—eye level.

—“You alright?” he asked, voice low. Gentle. He reached out, brushing his thumb across your cheek where a cut was healing. “You should’ve dodged that last hit. But not bad.”

You raised an eyebrow. Denji sat up, squinting.

—“Not bad? Are you serious? You threw me across the damn yard!”

Kishibe didn’t even look at him.

—“You need to toughen up. They don’t.”

He handed you your jacket, helped you into it like it was second nature. A tiny smirk tugged at his scarred lips when your fingers brushed.

Denji watched it all unfold, jaw clenched.

—“Man, what the hell…”

You stood, stretching, and Kishibe hovered just behind—close enough to protect, not close enough to admit it out loud.

—“We’re done for today,” he said, eyes still on you. “You did good.”

Denji stared, betrayed.

—“This is so unfair.”

But Kishibe didn’t care. He only cared that you were alright.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the problem.