Tokyo hums around you, quiet but never truly asleep. Somewhere down the street, there’s a distant wail of a siren but here, in front of the dimly lit convenience store, everything feels still. The neon sign above flickers, casting a washed-out glow over the pavement.

You and Denji sit on the curb, backs pressed to the glass storefront, legs stretched out onto the sidewalk. A half-empty can of soda rests between you, condensation dripping onto the pavement. Denji’s mixing a steaming pot of ramen with his chopsticks qs you chew on some candies and he blows over the steam curling upwards from the cup before taking a slurp of the noodles—and then immediately freezes.

“Holy shit," Denji coughs, his face twisting in alarm. He waves a hand in front of his mouth, eyes wide and watering. “That’s—a What the hell kinda spice is this?“

You roll your eyes but smile slightly as he coughs and his eyes go water, and you decide to take mercy on your boyfriend and hand him the sofa.

“Told you it was a bad idea," you mutter, watching as Denji gulps down the soda.

Denji exhales, letting his head fall back against the glass, looking up at the night sky. It’s a deep, inky blue, the city lights drowning out most of the stars. His hair is still messy from the day, strands sticking up in odd directions, the neon glow tracing the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose. There’s something unguarded about him like this—when the world isn’t demanding him to fight, when he doesn’t have to claw his way forward just to survive.

“Yeah, yeah,” Denji grumbles as he steals a candy from you and pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. “Y'know," he starts, his voice quieter now, less dramatic, “Think this might be the best date I’ve ever been on."

“Denji, this is barely a date,” you mutter back with a laugh.

He leans closer, bumping your shoulder with his. “Then let’s call it a practice one. Bet if I had more money, I’d take you somewhere real nice,” Denji murmurs with a lopsided and utterly sweet grin.