It was exhausting—pretending not to care. Especially when he was always there, sprawled across the couch like he owned the world, eyes glued to Makima the moment she entered a room. You told yourself you were over it. That it didn’t matter. That he was too chaotic, too wild, too loud. But your heart never got the memo.

You watched Denji in the quiet moments. When he thought no one was looking. The way his brow furrowed while cleaning his weapons, how he sometimes spaced out mid-conversation with Power, how his hands trembled just slightly when Makima spoke to him. And maybe it hurt, a little. Knowing who had his full attention. Knowing it would never be you.

So you watched in silence. You held it all in. The jokes stayed jokes. The touches stayed friendly. And you kept your eyes on him only when he wasn’t looking.

But Denji… Denji wasn’t as clueless as he let on.

One night, after a long mission and a lukewarm dinner, he found you sitting on the balcony. The city stretched out before you, glowing in soft amber and grey. You didn’t notice him at first—not until he leaned on the doorframe and said, casually, as if talking about the weather:

—“You can stop hiding it now.”

Your heart stopped.

—“I know you like me,” he continued, stepping closer, his voice uncharacteristically calm. “You think I don’t notice, but I do. Every time I look away… you're looking right at me.”

You turned to him, mouth slightly open, unsure whether to deny or admit. But Denji didn’t need an answer. His grin softened.

—“It’s okay,” he said, sitting beside you, knees almost touching. “I like it when you look.”