You think he's too stupid, a boy built out of bad luck and stitched-together dreams. The kind of boy who promises things without thinking, just to have something to hope for.

But you were proven wrong— there he is. 

Looking down at you laying down in the sand. Pieces of seaweed stuck to your thighs, your sunburned cheeks staring right back at him, and squinted eyes holding confusion as he stood over you. Pochita nudging your body slightly, his tongue sticking out, and a high-pitched bark like he’s happy to see you.

“Beach girl!” Denji’s voice is weaker than yesterday, hoarse and wobbly at the edges. He blatantly stares, hair clinging to your face, the waves glimmering behind you like a halo, and his brain officially malfunctions.

 You’re still in that damn bikini. 

It's like the universe has blessed him twice.

He doesn’t even try to pretend not to stare.  “Damn, you look even hotter than I remembered,” he blurts out, completely shameless, his cheeks burning but not caring.

There’s a certain twinkle in his eyes, like he's seeing you for the first time all over again. But he’s a mess— bruises blooming down his arms like rotting fruit, scratches criss-crossing his skin, dried blood painting his shins. His shirt is barely hanging on, stained and ripped.

He looks as if life chewed him up and spat him back out. But the fact that he’s here at all — that he remembered — makes something flicker in your ribcage. You don’t know if it’s hope or stupidity.

You think to yourself you’ll regret what you're feeling later.

You sit up slowly, brushing sand off your thighs. “And you look like shit.”

Denji collapses in the sand beside you. “Yeah, but I’m alive, so I’m countin’ it as a win!” He lays down and Pochita pounces on him almost immediately and his laugh invades your ears. 

“I’ll be back.” You scramble to your feet and head towards your boat before Denji can react to your words. 

The ocean is still keeping to itself. And a worrying feeling pools at the base of your stomach. 

The boat feels familiar as you step inside, the smell of saltwater and old wood wrapping around you. You rush to find the first aid kit you assembled with supplies you’ve read about, putting on your gloves as you leave. When you return, Denji’s still there, waiting. 

Jogging up to the chaotic pair, you kneel in front of him, the first aid kit clutched in your hands, fingers trembling slightly. You can feel the weight of his stare, but you keep your focus on the kit, fumbling with it in an attempt to hide the strange fluttering inside your chest. 

You’re not sure what it is.

But you sit beside him anyway, pulling his leg into your lap. He’s warm—too warm— and for a second, you hesitate. Even through the gloves, the touch feels too close. Too risky.

Your curse has nowhere to go, watching silently through your own eyes, restricted by the cloth on your hands.

Denji doesn’t seem to notice. “Y’know,” he starts, voice unusually soft. “Nobody’s ever patched me up before.”

You pause, hands hovering over a particularly nasty cut on his shin. “What about Pochita?” You both glance at the orange little devil, who sat wagging his string like tail with a tiny triangle adoring the end.

“Pochita’s a doctor in spirit, but he’s got a chainsaw for a face. Kinda hard to do that kinda stuff.”

You huff, shaking your head as you wipe blood away with seawater. Denji hisses, but doesn’t pull away.

“Are you always this reckless?” You ask, frowning as you catch a glimpse at a fresh scrape cutting across his knuckles.

“Only when I wanna impress a girl,” he says, and the wink he throws your way at the end is so painfully, stupidly sincere you almost feel embarrassed for him which leads you to press slightly harder at his wound.

Denji yelps. “You’re mean…” 

You meet his eyes and are met with a puppy-like pout. You bite back a grin and tend to his wounds once again.

The silence between you and Denji stretches out as you finish patching up his wounds, the soft hum of the ocean and the occasional rustle of Pochita moving around the sand filling the void. 

You are the one avoiding Denji’s gaze, you feel the tension.

You’re almost done wrapping his leg when Denji speaks again, quieter this time, like he doesn't want to startle your focus. “You’re different, you know that?”

You pause, your fingers frozen in place over the gauze. You can feel the heat rising on the back of your neck. You lock eyes momentarily and Denji’s gaze is gentle, almost curious, but there’s something else there too—a hint of something deeper that makes you uneasy. And although your mind begs for you to keep to yourself, your curiosity wins.

“Different how?” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady, not daring to look at him again.

He shrugs, then winces slightly at the movement. “I dunno. You actually care, I guess. You don’t find me weird.”

You bite your lip, the words lodged in your throat.

Care. It’s so hard to let someone in. Everyone flinches at your touch. When you carry death on your mere fingertips it's a challenge to find someone who’ll stay. 

Your hand trembles slightly, and you finish the bandaging quickly, more out of a desire to fill the space with action than because you’re in any real hurry. 

‘You’re all good. Now let's go.” You stand abruptly, picking up the first aid kit. Denji looks puzzled but stands with you nonetheless.

“Go where?’

“Fish for dinner.”

Denji’s face lights up at the mention of food, his usual enthusiasm flooding back. "Fish? Hell yeah, let’s do it!" He flashes you a smile before stretching out, trying to shake off the dizzyness from the earlier injuries. 

You exhale, knowing this is gonna be a long day. Looking over at the sun, it's still shining brightly. You still have a couple of hours before its sundown. 

You lead him down to the beach, the boat rocking gently at the shore as you both move toward it. 

Climbing aboard, you look for your fishing supplies. Extending your hand, Denji takes the fishing rod from you, like he’s holding a weapon in a battle he’s convinced he'll win.  “I’ll catch so many fish, you won’t even know what hit you!”

“Just don’t get us tangled up,” You say, shaking your head. “Fishing’s not about showing off, Denji. It's patience.” You look at him, your tone quiet, but there’s an edge of playfulness in it. “Something I’m guessing you don’t have much of.” 

Denji, completely unfazed, grins again. “Hey, I can be patient if it means getting good food.” 

You glance at him skeptically, but he’s already casting the line into the water with a dramatic swoosh, the reel whining and it's a sound that your ears learned to despise. 

A second later, there’s a loud snag—and you barely have time to blink before the fishing rod jerks out of Denji’s hand, splashing into the water. 

You stare at the empty air where the rod used to be, your jaw dropped. "I—what did you?"

"Uh, I think I made a little mistake," Denji mumbles, watching the rod disappear into the sea. "It’s fine, though! I got it!"

Without missing a beat, Denji dives straight into the water, fully clothed. Pochita hopped after him like a hyperactive puppy. The two of them thrash around, splashing water in every direction.

“Denji!” you shout, trying to maintain some semblance of composure as you watch him dive after the line, flailing wildly, his limbs tangled in seaweed.

“I got this, I got this!” Denji’s voice comes from beneath the water, muffled but determined.

Denji surfaces just in time to get smacked in the face with the green tangle, sputtering as he spits it out.

“Why is there seaweed everywhere?!” he exclaims, brushing it off, his face dripping with seawater. “I thought we were fishing, not... fighting sea monsters!”

You shake your head. “I think you’re the sea monster.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a damn good one,” Denji grins, then suddenly dives under the water again, his body a blur of motion. You let out a frustrated sigh, but you can’t quite bring yourself to be mad—he’s so ridiculous it’s impossible to stay angry.

You look up, realizing just how far out he’s swum already. “Denji, get back here! I swear to God—"

But before you can finish, Denji emerges from the water, holding up the fishing rod with a triumphant grin. “Told ya I could do it!” he says, beaming, even though his clothes are all wet and his hair is full of seaweed. 

You blink, stunned. “How the hell did you—?”

Denji waves the rod around dramatically. “Easy. Just had to, uh, wrestle with it a little.”

You didn't let Denji fish after that. 

Keeping him close by sat on a beach chair on the deck. Watching intently with an old pair of binoculars he had found buried in a pile of messy stuff. You managed by yourself, scoring a handful of fish in differing sizes. You kept a pile of wood around and stuck it in a small spot where you usually cooked food.

"So, what exactly are you doing with those?" You asked, pointing at the binoculars. “The stars?” You focus on cooking the fish, watching the flames flicker beneath the crispy fish. 

He squints through the lenses for a second, then drops them with a grin, eyes turning toward you. “Nah, they’re for spying on mermaids. Not for looking at stars. Stars are overrated.”

You glance at him, as you try to suppress the muscles trying to quirk your lips upwards. “Mermaids? You sure about that?”

"What, don’t tell me you’re not one." He looks you over, like he's piecing together some crazy theory that somehow makes sense in his head. “You’re all ocean and seaweed, like some kinda... uh, sea princess or whatever. Bet you’ve got fins under that bikini."

You try to hold back the laugh threatening to escape, but it's no use. It bubbles out of you, light and genuine.

Denji freezes, eyes wide. He stares at you, blinking as if he’s trying to process what just happened. For a second, the world seems to pause, his gaze softening in a way you don’t quite understand.

‘I just made a cute girl laugh!’ He thinks.

You suddenly feel a blush creep up your neck, out of embarrassment. You rapidly look away, averting any eyes that might follow your movement. The heat on your cheeks only seems to make things worse, and you focus on the fish in front of you as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.

Denji’s wandering eyes make their way over to you, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “So, you do have fins under there, huh?” He teases, clearly pleased with himself for causing such a reaction.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but the corners of your lips twitch. “You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, trying to keep your tone steady. 

Denji's eyes widen for a split second, grabbing Pochita and cuddling him up against his chest.

‘Is this what it feels to be normal?’ His heart thumping a little too fast in his chest. It’s a weird feeling, this soft kind of happiness, like maybe he’s actually doing something right for once. It feels unfamiliar, but it’s... not bad. It’s what he’s yearned for all along. A bit of sunshine, peeking through his darkness.

You finally pull the crispy tender fish off the makeshift grill, placing it on a ceramic plate that looks handmade, covered in weird doodles. You pass it to Denji and he starts devouring his food almost instantaneously, like it's the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

“You’re gonna choke if you eat that fast.” You tell him, and you can’t hide your smile like you used to before. Denji tries to reply with a mouth full of food and it just comes out like a muffled groan.

The evening stretches on, and the two of you finish your meal in a comfortable silence. The crackling fire and the waves crashing in the distance are the only sounds.

Then you realize your curse has been silent this whole time, not begging for your attention.

You shake the thought away, and are surprised when Denji becomes awfully quiet, you didn't think he was the type for a quiet moment, but somehow, with you, it doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as it usually does.

When the fire finally dies down, you notice how starry the sky truly is. You can hear Denji shift next to you, standing up and stretching.

“Well, guess I should head back,” he says, his voice a little less confident than usual. “My boss is probably looking for me…”

“Yeah, I guess I should get some rest too,” you reply, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Denji blinks at you, surprised. “Really? You sure?”

You give him a look, the one that says everything without needing to. “What, you think I’d leave you wandering around in the dark?”

Denji only flashes his smile in your direction. 

The walk back to the shed is mostly silent. Denji’s footsteps sync in with your own, but there’s an unspoken distance between you that neither of you address. The feeling that both of you experience is foreign. 

When you reach his shed, Denji stops, his hand reaching for the door handle but hesitating before he touches it. He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel his presence, the way it presses against the distance between you. 

“Y’know, this is the nicest day I’ve had in... probably ever.” he says, a certain softness lingering in his tone.  “I dunno if you think I’m annoying or whatever, but... I kinda like hanging out with you.”

You blink at him, the words catching you off guard. For a moment, everything around you stills. Your chest tightens, and you can feel the weight of everything you’ve been trying to push down. 

The walls you’ve built for years crumbling, just because of nobody like Denji.

Someone you met a day ago. 

You nod, but the gesture feels too small for everything that’s swirling inside of you.  “Guess you’re not the worst company in the world.” And there it is again, that bite that never leaves you. A reminder that this isn’t your environment. The push and pull of the ocean is. 

Denji chuckles, but it’s quieter, almost as if the weight of your words has settled in him too. “I’ll take what I can get.”

He turns toward the door, but before he steps inside, he pauses again. For a moment, it’s just the two of you—standing there, in the silence, under the stars.

The world feels like it’s pulling apart, and yet, this moment, this quiet, seems to stretch between you both, a thin thread you don’t want to break. 

“Goodnight, Denji,” you say, your voice a little more fragile than you meant it to be.

He looks back, his smile softer now, more distant. “Night, beach girl.”

You turn on your heel slowly, eyes glued to the ground beneath you in an attempt to calm the emotions inside you. 

But you didn’t make it far. 

The path back to your boat was quiet, the sound of waves crashing against the shore like a lullaby. 

But halfway there, your lungs seized. A sudden, choking grip, like fingers made of saltwater closing around your throat. 

For the first time today, the ocean called for you.

Tugging on you like a doll, invisible strings laced through bone and skin.

You spun around, dizzy, heart hammering. The shed was just a dark smudge in the distance, Denji somewhere inside—or so you thought. But the tug didn’t stop. It pulls you harder. 

Back. Back toward him.

Your stomach curls with a sick kind of fear, the kind you only felt when the water was too dark and you couldn’t see the bottom. Something was wrong. You could feel it in your ribs, that ache that always came before tragedy.

So you ran.

By the time you stumbled up the dirt path, his door was hanging open. Denji wasn’t there.

And Pochita was gone too.

Your hands shook as you stepped outside, scanning the empty road until—there. In the distance, a car rattled down the path, its rusty frame rocking with each bump. Through the dirty back window, you caught a flash of blonde hair, a slouching boy pressed against the glass.

He wasn't hurt, just sitting at the back of the car.

Barefoot, skin stinging from sharp rocks and gravel beneath your feet, but none of it mattered. You chase the car on foot, barely keeping it in sight as it drives through the dark, every breath coming out like seawater in your lungs. The Ocean Devil’s grip didn’t ease. If anything, it grew sharper the closer you got, until the car rolled to a stop outside a rusty warehouse near the edge of town.It looks abandoned, like something out of a horror film.

You saw him, Denji. With Pochita in hand, walking inside the worn down warehouse. With the same man from last night. The long trench coat and glasses were enough to recognize him. You hid behind old wooden pallets, trying to eavesdrop into their conversation.

Something about debt.

His devil.

And obedience.

Denji didn't even say anything back. Just listened.

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to call out to him. Just once. Just his name. You didn't get the chance.

Because before Denji could take another step, a figure lunged from the shadows. A shape like a man, but wrong—skin stretched too tight, mouth too wide, lifeless eyes. Its hand plunges through Denji’s back like putty, a rusted knife in his grip. 

You clamped a hand over your mouth to stop the scream. Denji staggered forward, choking, Pochita yelping in his arms. The creature yanks the weapon free with a sickening schlunk, and Denji crumples to his knees. Then a huge devil, finally showing itself from the dark shadows. It was huge, grimy, rotten in all possible ways. Its body full of foreign faces, of people you’ll never meet. People foolish enough to fall for the devil’s tricks. 

The Zombie Devil, it introduced itself.

You bolt from your hiding spot, crashing into the open like an idiot, arms reaching for him. 

“Denji!”

The sound of your voice made him twist around, eyes glassy with shock. “What are you—”

But you were already there, hands on his shoulders, trying to drag him back, trying to do something, even though there was nothing you could do. Your gloves begin to soak in his blood. Your whole body shook trying to think of a way for you both to get out of here alive. 

“We have to go,” you begged, voice cracking. “Denji, get up.”

But more figures were crawling out of the dark, their bodies slack-jawed and drooling, hands dragging rusted weapons. Dozens of them, swarming like wasps, their wet breath filling the air. You shoved Denji behind you before taking off your gloves, arms out wide, trembling fingers sparking with that cursed feeling, the Drowning Touch lurking just beneath your skin.

Suddenly, your head throbbed. And for the first time since you were little, the Ocean Devil whispered from nowhere and seemingly everywhere all at once. 

He’s going to die. You both are.

The Ocean always had to appear when you least wanted it to. “Shut up,” you hissed under your breath. “Shut up.”

A zombie lunged. You grab its wrist. And it froze, body locking up, lips twitching as the drowning set in—the faux water flooding its throat, lungs filling until its chest caved inward. It dropped to the floor, convulsing violently.

But there were too many. As you both tried to run toward the exit another grabbed you from behind, nails scraping down your arms, and your Drowning Touch couldn’t save you this time. You hit the floor hard, the rough concrete biting into your knees, Denji reaching for you—only for a boot to slam down on his wrist, pinning him like an insect.

You screamed his name again. His blood smeared across the floor, mixing with yours, the two of you dragged apart by hungry hands. Pochita barked and thrashed, trying to bite anyone close enough, but they kicked him away, hard enough that you heard the yelp echo in your skull.

Denji’s thoughts spiraled—he wasn’t even scared for himself, not really. Just you.

The only good thing to ever happen to him.

The only person who ever talked to him like he was human, not a tool.

He didn’t even know what you were to him yet—a friend? A girl he liked? —but none of that mattered because you were here, and now you were going to die because of him.

‘It’s not like I was asking to be freaking king of the world! Just dreaming of a normal life was enough to keep me going. But I don't even get to have that much?!”

He wanted to be normal. He wanted a normal life.

He wanted to eat fish with you again, to sit beside you on the sand until the sun went down.  

He wanted to hear you laugh again — that laugh he’d only heard once, small and shy, like it had been buried for years.

He didn’t want this to be the last time.

The first blade caught your leg, slicing muscle, your scream barely human. Denji fought, elbows and knees and teeth, until someone slammed a pipe across his face, teeth snapping like glass. One after the other, blows fell, until the both of you were limp. Not dead yet—no, they wanted to make you suffer first.

Blood ran from your mouth, staining your lips like the seafoam that used to adorn your body. The seafoam you used to despise when it was time to get out of the water. 

The creatures dragged you both like garbage. Threw you into the dumpster like rotting meat.

Lid slamming shut.

—

“Pochita!”

Denji’s body jerks awake, reaching out for his buddy. His hand shoots out instinctively, searching for his devil friend. Taking heavy breaths as his heart thumps like crazy in his chest, his beats are erratic and burning against his ribcage. For a split second, Denji feels Pochita’s familiar warmth course through his whole body. The warmth emitted when they used to huddle up together in that moldy shed, just to escape the sting of the freezing air.

“I’m in one piece…”

When he looks down, his hand meets only the smooth skin of his chest, and his eyes are met by something foreign—a black cord, pulsating faintly with the rhythm of his heart. It’s thick, almost alive, and it leads straight into his chest.

The memory hits him like a wave—Pochita’s tail, still embedded in him, now a permanent part of him. Engraved into the center of his chest. 

“You did it, huh? Took  my body like I asked?”

“Just so you know, I’ve always loved listening to you talk about your dreams, Denji. Here’s a new contract for you! This time you're getting my heart, in exchange show me your dreams and learn more about the ocean… That’s all I ask of you.”

The conversation is fleeting in Denji’s mind, like a dream that slips through his fingers as soon as he blinks again. The gifted heart squeezes at the thought, a tightening sensation beneath the skin, blood and bones, which Pochita took the care to heal again. 

Nothing in his body hurt.

At least not physically.

But… What about you?

The last image his mind projected was a gruesome one, the zombie-like creatures cutting, biting and beating your body until the little light in your eyes disappeared. Blood oozed from your broken skull and your face twisted in pain. 

When he looks beside him he expects to find a sight that would surely traumatize him —a lifeless body, mangled beyond recognition, your skin bruised and cold, still drenched in the blood of your final moments together.

But instead, his eyes fall on the soft, familiar seafoam, shimmering in the pale light of the moon. 

For a moment, Denji just stares at it, breath caught in his throat.

The seafoam is calm, gentle and fading. Not what he wanted to see. But at least you don't look to be dead either. He reaches out, fingers brushing against the foam, and it disappears with a soft whisper, as though it was never there in the first place. 

“Y/N?” he calls, voice rough and uncertain, hoping his words would summon you from the depths. His breath catches in the cold air. “You there?”

The silence answers, stretching too long, too heavy. 

Denji’s fingers curl into his own fist, grinding his teeth and furrowing his brows. The atmosphere is quiet around him, it was normal for your presence to be like a fleeting whisper. But now, the silence plants a seed in his stomach, one of uncertainty.

“Y/N,” he tries again, softer this time, like a prayer. His throat aches when he says your name, like something lodged deep in his chest doesn’t want to let it out.

The seafoam is gone now — melted back into the earth like it never existed at all. But Denji’s not that stupid. He saw it. Touched it.

And somehow, he knows.

It’s not logic, not something he can explain — it’s that new heart of his, the one Pochita gave him. It pulses steady under his ribs, but it doesn’t feel like it only belongs to him anymore. There’s something else stitched into it, some invisible thread pulling at the edges, tugging him toward the sea. 

Towards you.

“You’re okay,” he mutters to himself. “You gotta be okay.”

It’s stupid, right? After what he saw—your body ripped apart, blood everywhere, bones bent wrong—no one could live through that. But Denji knows better than anyone that death doesn’t always stick. Not when devils are involved.

Not when the ocean itself seems to breathe for you. 

He takes a shaky step forward, and he suddenly hears the eerie creak of something still inside. The sound scrapes against his ears, too loud in the heavy quiet, like chalk grinding against a board.

Denji freezes, breath hitching, eyes darting toward the shadows. The air tastes wrong, thick and sour, like rot left too long in the sun. 

And then, from the dark, a wet, ragged breath rattles out.

The Zombie Devil. 

Appearing again like a thorn at his side, its bulk shifts into view, a twisted mold of flesh and teeth and pulsing veins, stitched together from the bodies its consumed. “Hm? What’s goin’ on here? You’re still alive after you and your friend got cut to ribbons.”

“Repulsive freak!” The multiple voices inside the creature yell at the same time.

“I hate devil hunters because of how persistent you are! Go ahead and eat him! Let’s see him bounce back from being devoured!”

The horde lunges.

Denji doesn’t think. Doesn’t scream. His hand flies to his chest, fingers curling around that thick cord, still warm against his skin. Like it’s waiting for him.

He pulls.

Skin splits. Flesh tears.

There’s no time to register pain — only the roar of chainsaws exploding from his body, metal screaming louder than any devil could. Blood sprays out in messy arcs, splattering the horde as they stumble back. 

He laughs.

It’s not a normal laugh — it’s raw, choking on blood, twisted through the mechanical shriek of his chainsaws. The teeth of the blades catch the dim light, glinting like shark fins cutting through water .The Zombie Devil screeches from somewhere behind the carnage, but Denji doesn’t care. The only thing that matters is cutting through. Once the big boss got defeated the rest of his minions stood by without any motive.

“You guys went full devil… Right down to your twisted greedy little hearts. And I'm out here tonight cus’ you said you had a job for me. I’m on the clock!” Denji revs his engine.

“So I should kill you devils DEAD!”

He wouldn’t stop until there was nothing left to kill.

You stare at him for a long moment — at his wide eyes, the flicker of worry mixed with confusion. You noticed for the first time he’s wearing an eyepatch. He has shark-like teeth and tattered clothes. You look at his side, a creature. A devil. 

As you make eye contact the chainsaw sticking out of his forehead revs its engine. As if taunting, a warning. You don’t say anything at first, the devil seems harmless. 

The boy doesn't forget the fact that you're half-naked in front of him. He blatantly stares. A blush creeping up his neck to his face, his fingers twitch against your skin and he doesn't flinch at the feeling everyone else fears— that drowning touch that turns warmth to panic. Your curse sits at bay at what his next move might be. 

But he doesn't react. 

You almost laugh. Almost cry. You think, for just a second, that maybe this boy doesn't know the first thing about drowning. 

But you do.

He's still holding your arm, his own hands trembling just a little, like he's not used to carrying anything fragile. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he squeezes too hard.

You realize then, he's not scared of you. Not the way the majority of people are.

Most people, when they touch your skin, pull back like they've been burned. That drowning sensation, cold and suffocating, usually works faster than any warning you could give. It crawls up their fingers like water rising in a sinking car, filling their lungs, pressing invisible hands against their throat and chest until they can’t breathe. 

Even when you wear gloves, people feel it. They know, deep down, that you're not something they should hold onto.

But this boy, his hands don’t flinch. His grip is firm, like his only goal is to keep you right here, right now, alive and real. He only feels a slight weight on his chest, he's been through much worse. His eyes trail your figure, your face and the water glimmers with the sun hitting it, your boobs, and small swim shorts you're wearing. He’s flustered beyond belief. Like he’s never been around a girl before.

“Uh… are you okay?” His voice cracks halfway through the question, like his brains too overwhelmed to function properly.

You almost want to tease him. Almost. 

“I was okay before you pulled me out.”

He frowns, confused. “But– you were underwater. For, like… a long time.”

“And?”

“People can’t breathe underwater?” He replies doubtful of his response. 

“I know.”

He blinks again. His brain short-circuits for a beat. “So you— were trying to—?”

You don't answer. It’s obvious enough.

You sit up and yank your hand away from him. The sea is calling you back, you can feel it tugging at your ribs, a tide inside your chest and you reluctantly stand up. Admiring the sea as much as you despised it. 

“Uh.. so—” He stops. “I'm Denji. By the way.”

You turn to stare at him. 

“And you… you’re like… really pretty.” He blurts out, then immediate regret plagues his face as you raise a brow at him. "Wait, shit— I didn’t mean it like— I mean, I did, but not— aw, crap."

You blink at him, saltwater still burning in your nose. "You’re bad at this," you mumble.

Denji stops and stares at you, eyes wide — then he just laughs, loud and stupid and a little too bright for someone who just yanked a half-drowned girl out of the ocean. It’s an ugly laugh, the kind that makes Pochita bark from his spot on the sand.

"Yeah," Denji grins, all crooked teeth and boyish charm. "I’m real bad at this."

You should’ve left by now. Slip back into the water, let the waves take you somewhere quieter, somewhere safer. But instead you stand here, dripping saltwater into the sand, watching this awkward boy try to figure you out. 

Denji squats next to you, arms draped over his knees, his smile settling into something smaller, softer. “So… what's your name?”

You hesitate. It's been a long ass time since anyone asked.

“Y/N.” 

“That's a pretty name too.” Then quieter, almost shy. “It fits.”

You lower your gaze towards him. “Fits what?”

He shrugs, fingers digging into the wet sand. You think he’s just trying to impress you. “Dunno. Just fits.”

Silence hangs over the both of you. The sun’s sinking low, painting the sky in bruised purples and bleeding oranges, and Denji doesn't seem in a rush to leave. Neither are you.

For once you decide to start the conversation. “So, that devil– is it your pet?”

Denji looks over at Pochita, who’s busy half-buried in the sand like a weird little chainsaw potato. The devil wags his tail, tongue lolling out like a happy dog.

“Pochita?” Denji says, scratching the back of his neck. “Kinda. He’s my buddy. We fight devils together n’ stuff.” There's a certain softness in the way he says it, like it’s a word he doesn’t get to use often. “But we’re kinda workin’ right now.”

“Working?” You glance between them. A boy and his devil. That’s not a story with a happy ending. You knew from experience. 

“Yeah.” Denji pushes a hand through his messy hair, sending water droplets flying. “I was supposed to kill a devil somewhere around here. But then I saw you, and—” He trails off, eyeing you up and down, like he’s still trying to figure out if you’re real or some weird hallucination cooked up by too much sun and not enough food.

Your fingers twitch at your side. The water tugs at your ankles, gentle at first, then a little stronger. Calling you back, like a lover left waiting too long. The ocean’s greedy obsession, manipulating you back in. 

“Good luck with that.” You turn on your heel, walking back toward the shoreline. “Hope it works out for you.”

“Wait— wait, what’re you—”

But you’re already stepping into the water, and Denji scrambles to his feet, sand clinging to his knees. “Hey! Hold up—”

The water is right there, kissing your feet. Like a siren luring in its next victim, but you've always been the only one getting drowned. The ocean was never sick of you. 

You take a step forward—only for Denji to crash into you from behind, his arms clumsily looping around your waist. The two of you hit the sand hard, a mess of limbs and seaweed and sputtering curses. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you bark, twisting underneath him, but Denji’s grip doesn’t loosen. It’s not exactly strong — he’s more scrawny than solid — but there’s a frantic, stubborn weight behind it.

“What’s wrong with me?!” he fires back, eyes wide and wild. “What’s wrong with you?! You were about to drown yourself again!”

“Oh, you just wander around saving suicidal girls for fun? Is that your new hobby!?”

“I guess so!” he shouts, still pinning you down. “I already saved you, so now you’re my freakin’ problem!”

You’re breathless, heart slamming against your ribs as you wrestle the boy on top of you. "I didn’t ask you to save me!"

"Yeah, well, tough shit!" Denji shouts back, his grip stubborn even as you thrash. It's starting to suffocate you. 

"Let me go," you hiss, voice shaking harder than you mean to. 

He had to. He had to let you go or things would go south.

But Denji doesn’t. His grip tightens — not hurting, just there, stubborn and warm and human in a way you almost forgot people could be.The closeness is something you haven't experienced in a long time, it's unfamiliar and threatening. 

And that’s the problem.

Pochita stands beside you both, watching, his little saw whirring once — scared for his friend. You wished your devil were like that. 

The second his fingers dig into your wrist again, you feel it — the shift, the pull, the curse awakening under your skin like a tide drawn to the moon. Your heartbeat stumbles, and the air around you both grows damp, heavy, like the beach itself just took a breath.

The sand beneath your body darkens, water welling up through the grains as if the earth itself is crying with you. You feel it harder than ever before. 

The mark of the Ocean Devil, carved into your soul, now punishing anyone foolish enough to care about you— anyone who's dumb enough to get close to you. And today it was Denji. 

"Shit," you whisper, trying to yank your arm back, but it’s too late — Denji’s already soaked to the skin, droplets running down his arms, clinging to his hair. Not water. Not sweat.

You.

The water is coming from you, leaking through your skin like your body forgot how to stay solid. And Denji, oblivious to what’s happening, just stares at you — confusion flickering into concern.

“Why are you—” His voice dissipates when his breath catches, lungs hitching like he just inhaled a gallon of seawater. His grip slips for just a second, his eyes going wide. “W-What the–?”

 “Let go!” You shout, panic lacing into your tone. “I’m serious—”

But Denji’s too stubborn, too confused. You didn't know the boy you just met would be so desperate in keeping you alive. His next words come out slurred, like he's talking through waterlogged lungs. “What– why does it feel like—”

Drowning.

Pochita growls sharply — high-pitched and urgent — and you realize he knows. The little devil, wise beyond his size, recognizes the curse for what it is. "Denji, you have to let go," you beg, voice cracking. “Please.”

But Denji just shakes his head, coughing, still holding on even as his breathing stutters. "Not—leaving—you—" His words break apart like waves on rocks. 

‘I ain't lettin’ some pretty girl die when I just met her’ He thinks to himself. 

Denji’s grip slips — not because he wants to let go, but because his body is failing him. His lungs are screaming for air, his hands trembling, but he still tries to reach for you again.

And that thought alone makes fat tears escape your eyes. You cry frantically, desperately trying to get away from the one person who isn't scared of you. Kicking and screaming for something to happen. 

And then you feel it.

The sand around you both turns slick, water pooling under your bodies until you’re half-sunken, as if the ocean itself is trying to reclaim you. Your fingers dig into the sand, trembling, trying to hold yourself here, in this moment, instead of being dragged back into the dark. 

Because this was the one time you didn't want to drown. 

And still after all you've caused— Denji is still fighting for his life, 

"Shit—why does it feel like my lungs are gonna explode? She’s just—she’s just there, she ain’t drowning—so why the hell am I?!"

"Why?" you choke out, tears mixing with seawater on your face. "Why are you like this?"

Denji, still phantom drowning as the water level rises, he’s  lost the ability to speak and yet he holds a crooked grin.

As his eyes roll into the back of his head and his body weakens, you take this chance to harshly push his body off you. Getting rid of any physical contact with his body.

The curse calms down, only the heaving thumping of your chest is heard. The ocean watches almost mockingly, it could've drowned both of you but it didn't. And you can't piece together a valid reason as to why it didn't.

The tide lowers once again and Denji’s unconsciously body lays on the wet sand. Pochita jogs up to him, gently prodding Denji with his chainsaw. He barks once. Then again. And then the devil turns his attention towards you. Growling and revving his chainsaw in your direction. 

You calmly walk over to Denji, slowly lowering your ear up to his chest. 

He's still breathing.

“He’s alive…” You reach up , almost caress his cheek, and pull back instinctively. “I’m sorry.” You didn't want things to go this way. You never wanted to hurt people, it just happens. 

Your hands shake from the previous events and you still feel the saltwater on your tongue. It's miniscule. A small reminder. 

The thought of saving him never crossed your mind. You could've left him for dead right there in the wet sand, where you almost killed him. But you didn't.

That weird orange devil— Pochita—, waddled along beside you, occasionally growling like he was about to chew your ankle off. Pochita paws nervously patter on the sand, your gloved hands dragging Denji’s limp body across the sand, his wet hair sticking onto his forehead. His skin was cold, but his heart was still beating. That was the important thing. 

You had to drag him all the way back to your boat, muscles burning. Pochita didn't stop pestering you, but he didn't bite you either. You weren’t an enemy but you weren't exactly trusted.

“Not gonna hurt him.” You muttered, out of breath. “Relax.”’

The boat rocks gently against the dock, it's not huge but comfortable. 

And it means something to you.

You haul Denji onboard and spend the last of your energies trying to get him through into your room. His clothes are soaked and you take his shirt off to hang it to dry. He’s sleeping peacefully on your bed, covered by your patchwork thing that you call a blanket, made by scraps of cloth you managed to find by the city. 

You sit at the tiny stove, water heating slowly for tea. The whole boat creaks like it’s breathing around you, familiar and alive. You know every sound it makes. The sigh of the hull. The hush of water brushing against its side. And now—the quiet snore from the boy in your bed.

Denji stares awake. A groan. A stretch. The confused, open-mouthed look of someone who expected to be somewhere much worse. His stomach growls— loud and he looks embarrassed. But even more so about waking up in your bed, his face turns a deep shade of red.

“Wait—this—this is your room?! I’m—I’m in your bed?!” He realizes he’s shirtless and his brain short circuits. Your room’s walls are beige, old art plagues them. It looks cozy, more than anything he’s ever owned. A large bookcase that he can’t read. He mentally curses himself for being illiterate.

“A real girl?!”

“Real enough.” You don’t look over to him. Just cutting a few pieces of bread and fruit. It wasn't much but it might satiate his hunger for now.

“D-Does that mean…we—” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking, but it makes you turn to glance at him.

“I almost killed you. I didn't want to leave you outside.” You hate to admit. Walking over to him, and handing him the plate. And that when his memories refresh his mind. Denji takes the plate from your hands, fingers brushing yours for half a second. You pull back without thinking, retreating to the opposite side of the room. Even though you’re gloved, you are still scared.

He scarfs down the bread first, barely chewing. “This is, like, the best bread I ever had.”He completely ignores your statement from before. Like he doesn't care about that at all.

“It’s stale.”

“Still counts,” he says, crumbs already sticking to his face. It’s endearing. You bite back a smile. 

“Uh…” Denji pauses between the big bites he takes. As if he hasn't eaten in days. His body is pretty lanky. “What exactly are you? When I went after you I felt like I was drowning, that's definitely not normal.” He says with his mouth full of food. 

You freeze at the question because you didn't even know yourself. Did your curse make you less human? 

“Are you a devil?” He asks, but then his face contorts into thought. “I doubt it… you're too hot to be one…”

“No– I–” You get cut off mid sentence when you hear Denji cough roughly. You go over to him contemplating if you should pat him on the back.  When his hand uncovers his mouth it's full of blood and you can't help but feel guilty. You exhale shakily,scrambling to find a wet rag.

Denji mutters a few curses. “It’s so embarrassing to bleed out in front of a girl…” 

Once you find it you take his hand in yours, softly wiping at the red substance, staining your  cloth. It's the first time you don't hesitate to touch him. The silence between you two is thick, and you can’t help but look at him more closely now that you’ve let yourself. His face is flushed—embarrassed, maybe, but you can’t help but notice it. You remember the eyepatch he's wearing, it's black and looks cheaply made.

“So, did you lose your eye?” you ask softly, your voice almost drowned by the low hum of the boat. “Or do you wear that for fun?”

It's awkward for you to ask it. The question hangs in the air for a bit. “I sold it.” He says it so casually, but you notice the bitterness too. “It's better than starving, y’know.”

You don’t say anything, your fingers still gripping the rag, now stained with blood. An awkward weight invades your chest—a heaviness that wasn’t there before. You decide not to ask further. But the worry in your eyes is present. You feel bad for this boy.

You look up to stare at him. His eyes are a warm shade of brown. Your hand comes up to the corners of his mouth, wiping the blood that remained. You try to ignore how close you are—how close you’ve gotten in the past few minutes.

He watches you intently, like this is the first time feeling cared for. Feeling something over than pain and suffering. 

You pull your hand back, just a little too quickly, and turn away, almost as if to escape the sudden vulnerability of the moment. Your heart’s beating a little faster now. You don’t like how exposed you feel. 

“You should go home, I'll walk you.”

He looks confused and before he can protest you walk out towards the deck of your boat to find his shirt. Touching it. It's dry enough, you think. And when you walk back in, Denji stands at your room window, looking outside. 

“Here.” You shuck it towards him and he pulls the shirt over his head. 

There’s an awkward pause before he finally speaks up.

"Hey," he mutters, clearing his throat. "Thanks... for all this.”

You glance at him, your heart in your throat. “It’s fine. I didn’t want you to die out there,” you say, it comes out softer than you intended to .

He shrugs, looking away. "Yeah... Well, you don't have to worry about me. I'm used to... not having it easy."

As he walks out the door, his attitude shifts a bit. Realizing a girl is gonna walk him home, into his home. You reach for a jacket, and follow him outside. 

“I never had a girl come over before! It’s kinda gross, though, so like, don’t freak out if there’s… stuff.” He warns, shoving his hands in his pockets. Pochita trails behind him happily. 

Denji walks in front of you, his posture stiff, trying to hide the nervousness creeping in. He glances over his shoulder with a sheepish grin.

“Don’t judge, okay?” He says, his voice almost defensive. His hands dig deeper into his pockets, his tone light but strained, like he wants to make this sound like no big deal.

You stay quiet for a beat, thinking about a response. It shows how lonely he is, he doesn't look at you when mentioning these things to you. 

“Don’t worry, I've probably seen worse.” You say lightly, trying to ease the moment. 

When you got there, you looked around to find where he exactly lived. But when you saw him enter a shed, Denji opened the door with a grand gesture, it was filled with crap. Tools, tires, a thin dirty stained mattress at the center. A wooden table that has seen better days. It's dark and barely has any space for one.

“Ta-daaa” 

Denji’s voice is a little too bright, as if trying to make the whole situation seem more lighthearted than it actually is. You grimace a bit at the smell, it's humid and moldy. Denji throws himself on the mattress and Pochita cuddles up against him.

Denji’s smiles contentedly, like a wish has just come true. Little did you know one did. “Pochita, I finally have a girl over…” He whispers towards the orange devil and it just sticks out his tongue in response.

“So, this is your… place?” You ask quietly. You’re not sure if you want to hear the answer, but you can’t help but make sure.

Denji kicks aside a few cans and old newspapers, moving toward the corner with a slight, almost embarrassed shuffle. “It’s not much, but… it works.” 

That tugs at your heartstrings and Denji pats the spot on the mattress next to him, and you move over cautiously, not wanting to get too close.  His attempts at making light of everything only make it more evident how much this place—this life—bothers him. Pochita seems less wary of you, finally accepting your presence although he knows you reek of the Ocean devil. 

You sit down, the mattress creaking beneath you. It’s not a real bed, not really. But it’s his, and it’s the only thing he has.

Before you can say something a rough knock on the door startles you both. A dark figure visible by the tiny window near the door. A tall man with a hat, glasses and white beard, in a long trench coat looking like he belongs to the yakuza. 

Denji groans, pulling the skin on his face with irritation. “I got another job for you, Denji. Meet me in five minutes. You still owe me 38 million yen!” The man carried a gruff voice, demanding.

“You should go…” Denji laments, putting on his own jacket, grabbing Pochita by his handle. Ready to risk his life once again. The mattress shifts under you when Denji stands up, and for some reason, that emptiness—the weight of him leaving—feels heavier than it should.

You sit there, not expecting him to owe so much. He’s already halfway out the door before you realize you don’t want him to go. Not like this, not to whatever job they keep throwing him into. 

“Wait,” You blurt out. It sounds strange coming from your mouth, foreign to your own ears. You never tell people to stay, there was never anyone worth asking.

Denji turns towards you, hand on the back of his neck, his fingers catching in his hair like he doesn’t know how to respond to someone actually giving a shit.

“Uh, I can’t,” he says, with that crooked, apologetic smile. “If I don’t go, they’ll—”

You know what comes next. You know the kind of debts that can never really be paid off. The kind that steals everything. Right down to the air in your lungs is something you pay.

“I know.” You stand up too, brushing dust off your knees, even though there’s no point. You fidget with your nails, “Um–” You start again, immediately regret it. Anxiety coursing through your body. But it was too late now. “I’m– uh, gonna be at the beach tomorrow…”

Denji blinks at you, like you just said something in a language he doesn’t speak. “Okay…?”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, swallowing hard. Why is it so hard to say? It’s just words, just air leaving your throat — but it feels like cracking your ribs open and showing him the soft, bleeding part inside.

“You could… come by again. If you want.” You sound like you’re trying to pass it off as casual, but your voice trips over itself, and your hands awkwardly knot into the hem of your shirt. “You don’t have to.”

Denji’s mouth hangs open slightly, like his brain is buffering. He finds the way to trip over your words cute, like he actually has an effect on you.

 You can see the gears turning in real time — nobody invites him to things. Nobody asks him to show up. Nobody wants him, in general. He’s a stray dog, a burden to others. 

But in your own awkward, socially inept way, you do want him. And that makes his heart beat a bit faster.

“Yeah!” he says, way too loud, his face going pink almost instantly. “Totally! I mean, yeah, I’ll come.”

It’s so painfully awkward, you almost wish the ocean wasn't so far away so it could swallow you like it has countless times before. But at the same time, you can’t help but feel a little relieved that he also wants to see you again.

“Cool.” You mumble, backing up a step like you might bolt if you stay any longer. “See you, then.”

Denji gives you a thumbs-up, the same sloppy, too-big grin plastered on his face. “See ya, beach girl.”

The nickname makes you cringe a little — but you don’t hate it. Not completely.

credits to @kiyaedits for the very very cute dividers! :)