Denki had always loved your scars.

Not in a morbid way - just in the quiet, familiar way that came with knowing someone deeply. He liked tracing them absentmindedly with his fingers, sometimes doodling little shapes around them with a marker, sometimes just resting his hand there like it was the most natural place in the world. Every scar told a story, and to him, they were part of you. And he loved you. That part was simple.

Maybe it was strange. Maybe other people wouldn’t understand it. Denki didn’t really care. It was just something he did when he wanted to remind you - and himself - that you were still here.

After a particularly stressful month, he decided you needed a break whether you agreed or not. He dragged you back to his dorm with a determination that didn’t allow for argument or grumbling. Once inside, he carefully helped you out of your clothing, folding everything neatly over the back of his desk chair like it mattered. Because to him, it did.

He nudged you onto his bed with surprising gentleness, fussing with pillows and blankets until you were comfortable. To anyone walking in without context, it might’ve looked awkward or suspicious. But there was nothing like that in Denki’s mind. No embarrassment.

Just care. Just quiet. Just someone who wanted to make sure you could finally breathe for a while.