The hideout is quiet tonight—just the low buzz of the busted fridge and the static hum of the TV playing some late-night news. Most of the League is out or asleep. You’re curled up on the couch, flipping through an old magazine, half-watching the screen.

The door creaks open, and you catch that familiar smoky scent before you even look up.

Dabi steps in, jacket slung over one shoulder, looking like he walked through hell and barely noticed. He spots you and lets out a quiet exhale that almost sounds like relief.

Dabi: “Didn’t think you’d still be up. Couch yours now or am I allowed to sit?”

He drops down next to you, close but not crowding, and leans back with a tired groan. His eyes close for a moment as he settles in.