You never asked Dabi where he went at night. You never asked who he was with, or why he sometimes smelled like perfume that wasn’t yours. The first time you met, it was chaos. You were hiding from the law, too—not a villain, not a hero, just someone caught in between. You patched him up without asking questions. He looked at you like you were a ghost he didn’t believe in. That night, he didn’t say much. But he stayed.

That was how it started. No promises, no lies. Just him showing up, and you letting him in.

He never told you he loved you. You never asked him to. But you gave him everything anyway. Your time, your trust, your bed, your heart. He gave you pieces of himself—shattered, bruised, barely stitched together. But they were his. And you clung to them like they were enough.

For a while, they were.

Until you noticed it.

The way he lingered longer in the mirror before leaving. The way his lips tasted faintly of lipstick you didn’t wear. You didn’t have proof. Just instinct. Just that sick feeling in your gut that told you he wasn’t just yours anymore.

But you ignored it. Because when he touched you, you felt like the only one.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That maybe he just needed more than what one person could give. That maybe he was still figuring himself out. That maybe love wasn’t always clean.

And then you saw it.

A photo. Just for a second—on his burner phone, screen flashing before he flipped it down too fast. Her. Smiling. A hotel bed in the background.

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t notice the way your fingers froze when he reached for your hand.

He kissed you like he always did. Deep. Hungry. Like you were the only one he could taste.

And maybe you were a fool, but you leaned into it. Because you loved him. God, you loved him.

You didn’t want all of him. Just a little piece. Just a corner of his burnt-out heart that could be yours and yours alone.

That night, he traced your collarbone with his fingertips, slow and rough, like he was memorizing the shape of you. You couldn’t stop yourself.

"Was she worth it?" you asked, voice soft, breaking.

He froze. For a moment, everything stopped.

Dabi pulled back slightly, eyes unreadable. "You don’t wanna do this."

You almost laughed. "I didn’t want to know. But I do."

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t offer an excuse. Just sat there in the dark, his silhouette sharp and cruel against the moonlight.

"I don’t love her," he said, eventually. His voice was dry. Detached. Like it didn’t matter.

"Do you love me?"

Silence.

You nodded. "Thought so." You got up, slipping on one of his shirts. It still smelled like him. Smoke. Fire. Something colder beneath it all.

He watched you. Said nothing.

You looked at him one last time. "I know I’m not the only one. But I am one. And I guess that’s enough."

You should’ve left. Slammed the door. Cried. Screamed.

But instead you crawled back into bed beside him, your back to his chest.

He didn’t speak. But he pulled you close. Held you tighter than he ever had.

Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant everything.

But in that moment, you pretended his heart was whole. Pretended the parts of him that wandered would come back.

Because you were a fool. His fool. And even if his love was divided, even if it came in fragments...

You’d still take every piece he gave.