The apartment still felt the same. The same arguments about snacks, the same dirty dishes Power swore weren’t hers, the same messy couch where Denji collapsed after missions. On the surface, nothing had changed. But you knew better.

Months had passed since you and Denji quietly ended things. No dramatic fights, no shouting. Just a quiet decision made behind closed doors—buried under the weight of unspoken fears and worn-out hearts. But even after the breakup, the living arrangements didn’t change. The three of you still lived together, still joked, still bickered. Because explaining it to Power, to anyone, would make it real. Final. And maybe neither of you wanted that.

Denji, for all his loudness, said nothing. He still acted the same. He still stole your chips. Still grinned at you from the kitchen. Still looked at you like he hadn’t stopped loving you.

And at night, he slept on the couch.

You’d told him he didn’t have to. That it was fine if he took the bed when you weren’t using it. But he always shrugged it off with a laugh, saying the couch was "kinda cozy." You never pushed. You knew why.

That night, the apartment was quiet, lit only by the flickering blue of the TV Power was barely watching. You were heading to the kitchen, bare feet soft on the floorboards, when you heard her speak—her voice loud, without a hint of subtlety.

—“Hey, Denji,” she said, stretching like a cat. “Why do you sleep on the couch now? You used to sleep with {{user}}, right?”

Silence. A long one.

You froze in the hallway, your breath caught.

Then Denji answered—soft, lower than usual. No sarcasm, no jokes. Just the truth.

—“Because they left me,” he murmured, gaze fixed on the floor. “But I didn’t stop loving them.”

You pressed your back against the wall, eyes stinging.

He hadn’t seen you. He hadn’t known you were there, hearing the weight of what he’d carried alone.