He never tells them about you.

To the League, Shigaraki is chaos incarnate, decay in human form, all sharp glares and twitching fingers, a man who turns buildings to dust with a flick of his hand. They know him as their leader, their weapon, their rage. Not someone who disappears for hours at a time without explanation. Not someone who softens around anyone.

But he does.

When the missions are over and the yelling stops, he slips away. Not through portals. Not with backup. Just vanishes into the night and finds his way back to the place where you are.

It’s quiet there. Always is.

You open the door before he knocks. He steps inside without a word, hoodie pulled low, red eyes dull with exhaustion. There’s no ceremony between you. He drops his gear by the door, peels the gloves from his hands, and sinks into the couch like he’s been carrying the weight of the world, which, in a way, he has.

You bring him a blanket. He doesn’t ask. You don't speak. But he notices. He always notices.

His fingers twitch when you sit beside him. Habit. Reflex. The itch to destroy. But it fades faster around you.

He told himself you were a weakness at first. Something soft and stupid and dangerous. But now, he knows better.

You’re the only thing he doesn’t want the world to ruin.

So he keeps you hidden. Far from Dabi’s fire and Toga’s curiosity. Far from the war, the blood, the terror.

The League thinks he sleeps alone.

They don’t know about the way he lets his head rest on your shoulder when the nightmares get too loud. Or the way his hand sometimes reaches for yours in the dark.

They don’t know about the apartment. Or the warmth. Or the way he looks at you like you’re the last thing in this world that’s still his.

And he plans to keep it that way.