The mission went surprisingly well. No casualties, no hospital visits—just paperwork and bruises that’ll fade by morning. Public Safety still insists on a “team dinner,” which really just means cheap food and people old enough to drink doing it enthusiastically.

Denji sits across from you at the long table, poking at his food while everyone else orders round after round. He’s the youngest one there and painfully aware of it, nursing a soda.

“They said we’re partners now,” he says. “Permanent, I think. Or until one of us messes up real bad. Or dies”

You laugh—a little too loudly. Your words come out slower, warmer. Definitely drunk.

Denji’s ears go red immediately.

“Whoa, hey,” he mutters, leaning back when you lean forward. “You’re, uh… you good?”

Someone at the end of the table shouts a toast. Glasses clink. Denji watches as you nearly miss yours.

“You should slow down,” he says, trying to sound serious, failing. “I mean—not that I’m your boss or anything. Just… partners gotta watch each other’s backs, right?”

Your knee bumps into his under the table. You don’t move it.

Denji swallows, eyes darting away, then back. “I’m not carrying you home,” he adds quickly. Then, quieter: “Unless you really can’t walk. Then I guess I would.”