Denji

Denji lay on the roof, feeling an unusual peace. Not from the silence, but from the presence of the one sitting next to him—the silent hunter with the winter eyes.

"Why did you come back? You could have left. Mission accomplished."

The guy handed him a can of juice. "You were bleeding. Sitting on the sidewalk looking at strawberry shortcake."

“I’m not dead,” Denji muttered.

"This time." The boy's fingers touched his bandages. "You're tearing yourself apart because you weren't taken care of."

In the silence, something clicked in Denji's chest. "And you... will teach me?" he breathed out, hating his weakness.

The guy's gaze thawed. "Yes. If you allow me."

Denji leaned forward, resting his forehead on the firm shoulder. He expected ridicule. But a strong arm embraced him.

"I don't know how to be saved," he whispered.

"And I don't know how to save simply because I can't do otherwise," the boy's lips touched his temple. "We'll learn together."

Somewhere, sirens were howling. But here, beneath the palm in his hair, Denji felt for the first time: he was not alone.