Living with Denji and Power was chaotic, to say the least. Every morning, you woke up to Power’s noise, Denji’s snoring, and the occasional cigarette in your milk. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t peaceful. But it was yours.

And despite everything, there was always that one thing. Every morning, when you grabbed a slice of bread, the last one, you’d find it had been left there for you. The last piece of toast, untouched, just waiting for you.

Denji wasn’t a morning person. Hell, he wasn’t even an afternoon person half the time. But there was something about that little gesture—like he was silently saying, I know it’s your favorite, and I’ll leave it for you.

But one day, everything changed. You woke up feeling sick—your body aching, your head spinning. And you could hear Denji’s voice from the kitchen, a little more awake than usual.

—“You alright?” Denji called from the other room, his voice more concerned than you’d ever heard.

You mumbled something in response, barely able to lift your head from the pillow. He appeared in the doorway, looking a little nervous, and with the distinct scent of burnt toast in the air.

—“I’m not good at this... but I made you soup... and, uh, I didn’t mess it up... I think.”

You smiled weakly, unable to keep from laughing at his awkwardness. Denji wasn’t exactly a nurturer, but right now, in that moment, he was doing his best.

He carefully placed the bowl next to you and sat at the edge of the bed, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or leave.

—“I’ll make sure no one steals your last piece of toast, promise.”