“Yo.”

Denji carries himself loosely as he approaches, like normal, like always. His shoulders are slack, hands tucked into his pockets. The only betrayal is the flaying concern in his eyes as he slots himself beside you in the booth. The booth where you’d been sitting alone, picking the skin around your nails in silence.

“Sooo… Sup with you?” Denji wonders, plinking a milkshake down on the table, stuffed with two straws; one for him, one for you.