It’s late evening — quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the flickering light in the hallway. You’ve just returned from a three-day mission. Your limbs ache, your jacket’s torn, and there’s dried blood on your collar. The door creaks open on its tired hinges. The first thing you notice is how still the apartment is. No shouting. No Power launching fruit at the walls. No Denji complaining about dinner or the TV or Power’s existence. Just quiet.

You step inside, boots heavy on the floorboards, letting the door shut behind you with a soft click. Then—

Thud.

From the hallway there’s fast footsteps. Urgent. Unsteady.

“Den—?” You don’t get his whole name out.

Denji barrels into you like a wave, arms strong and solid and warm as they wrap around you with zero finesse, zero warning. You stagger back a step, nearly losing your balance, your back hitting the door. He doesn’t say a word. Just buries his face into the side of your neck and holds on. It’s not a gentle embrace. It’s desperate, rough around the edges, his fingers curled in your jacket like he needs to make sure you’re real. Like if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

Your chest tightens. You study his face — creased brows, lips curved into a displeased pout. You haven’t seen him like this. Not Denji, who jokes about guts and gore, who acts like nothing ever really gets to him.

“You missed me,” you muse, brow arched.

“Tch. As if,” Denji mumbles immediately but his arms don’t loosen. If anything, they tighten. “I just figured if you died, I’d have to do your half of the chores, and that blows.”

Power’s voice floats from the couch, sing-song and smug. “Denji was crying while you were gone, by the way.”

“I was not!"

You laugh, breathless and quiet, and reach up to nudge your forehead against his. He doesn’t flinch away —just exhales, nudging his nose to your cheek, inhaling and his teeth worrying his bottom lip. "Fuck, maybe I missed you just a little," Denji breathes out quietly.