You knew you messed up the second your dad called you kid.

Not Flamebug with that weird hint of warmth in his voice. Not Ashface like he usually did when you tracked soot across the floor. Just kid. Flat and cold.

You blinked up at him, your tiny legs locked in place like someone poured cement into your knees. His eyes, those piercing scorched-blue flames, weren’t playing today. His coat flared behind him even without wind.

“…Daddy?”

You whispered it, hoping the word would melt him a little. But it didn’t. Dabi’s jaw twitched. He took one step forward and you flinched like a coward.

You never flinched in front of your dad. And still he didn’t say anything. Not at first.

Maybe it started when you found his lighter. He had told you not to touch it. “Not a toy, Flamebug.” But it was shiny and warm and it reminded you of him.

You just wanted to see if you could make the fire dance like he did. It wasn’t supposed to get big. Wasn’t supposed to catch the curtain. Or the couch. Or his coat—the old one, but you knew he kept it for a reason.

It was out before anyone got hurt. You smacked it down with a towel, crying and coughing. But when he walked through the door, smelled the smoke, saw the black marks on the floor—

You’d never seen him this angry.

Not when the League turned on him. Not when you bit a villain at age three. Not even when you once called Hawks “dad” by accident.

“I told you,” Dabi said finally, voice low. “Not to touch that.”

His shadow swallowed yours on the burnt wooden floor. You nodded, eyes wide, throat dry.

“I—I wanted to be like you.”

That stopped him. Not completely. Not enough to make his flames vanish from his fingertips, but enough to make his head tilt.

His voice dropped quieter. Quieter was worse.

“Being like me gets people killed, brat.”

You flinched again. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You think meaning matters?” he snapped. You swallowed your breath like it was lava.

You looked up through your lashes, blinking fast, face hot with shame and smoke. You hated crying, but it was coming anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, and this time your knees did buckle. You sat down on the floor, trembling, hands clenched in your lap. “I—I just wanted to make the fire dance like you.”

Dabi didn’t say anything. The silence felt heavier than his voice ever could. You waited for him to yell. To turn and walk out. To call you something sharp.

Instead, the flames on his hands died out. He crouched in front of you. Eye-level now. You still didn’t dare look him in the face.

“Kid,” he said again, but this time it didn’t sound like the first time. Softer. You sniffled.

“You remember what I told you about fire?”

You nodded. “That it’s mean.”

He huffed. Almost a laugh. “That’s right. Fire doesn’t care. Fire burns, even when you love it.”

You looked at your hands. The ones that had almost made the fire dance. Almost made the fire hurt someone.

“…Am I fire?”

He blinked. You weren’t sure why you asked it. Maybe because you’d always been like him. Always hot to the touch. Always a little angry, even when you were happy. Maybe you’d hoped he’d say no.

But Dabi looked you right in the eyes, and you saw the truth before he spoke.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are.” Your breath hitched.

“But,” he added, reaching out—slowly—and placing a scarred hand over your tiny one, “you can choose where you burn.”

You looked at him again. His face was still sharp, still stitched in anger and regret, but his eyes were clearer. Calmer.

“…Can I still be Flamebug?”

He closed his eyes for a second, like he was fighting something.

Then he smirked, just a little. “Only if you stop torching my stuff.”