The nurse’s office smells like antiseptic and fading lavender. It’is quiet, lit only by the afternoon sun filtering through the frosted windows. You’re curled on the cot, clutching a cold compress to your forehead, not because you’re sick — not really — but because the world felt too loud today. Too many people. Too much attention.

The door clicks open. Footsteps, clumsy and uneven. You peek past the edge of your arm.

It’s Denji. His uniform’s a mess — shirt half-untucked, collar open, tie slung low and loose like he gave up halfway through putting it on. There’s a nasty bruise purpling along his cheekbone, and a thin smear of dried blood where his lip’s split open.

“Oh,” he says, brightening when he sees you. “Didn’t think anyone else’d be skippin’ class in here.”

You open your mouth to say something, but he’s already flopping onto the cot beside you, letting out a loud ugh as he stretches out. His feet hang off the edge. “Got in a fight,” Denji says, like it’s normal. Like its lunch plans.

You look at him, brows furrowing. “Again?”

Denji shrugs. “He was talkin’ shit. I didn’t like it.”

You hand him your spare cold compress. He blinks at it, then at you, like you just handed him a gold bar.

“…Thanks,” Denji mumbles, and holds it to his face. “You always this nice to losers?”

You scoff. “You’re not a loser.”

“Yeah?” he glances sideways at you, watching you a little too closely. “Then why do you sit all the way by the window in class and pretend you don’t notice me?”

He's not wrong but you just don't talk a lot with anybody, it's not like you have anything against the loudmouth blond, you just don't make friends a lot. “I don’t pretend.”

“So you do notice me,” he says, smug now.

You turn your face away, cheeks warm. “You’re loud. It’s hard not to notice you.”

For a few seconds, it’s quiet. You watch him out of the corner of your eye — the way his lashes catch the light, the slope of his nose, the bruised mouth that won’t stop smiling like he’s used to hiding pain behind it. He’s looking up at the ceiling, uncharacteristically quiet.

Then: “I think about you sometimes.”

You blink but Denji keeps his eyes on the ceiling, voice softer now. “I dunno. Just do. You’re kinda… I dunno. Cool. Quiet. But not in a scary way. In a… nice way.”

You don’t answer right away. He turns to look at you, suddenly sheepish. “Shit, was that weird? Forget it. I—"

You reach over and press your cold compress to his face, cutting him off. “You’re bruised,” you mutter and he goes very still and swallows softly.