Dabi leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, a loose scowl on his face. The lights in the hideout were dim, most of the League already asleep—but not him. He hadn’t slept well in weeks whenever you weren’t with him, not since he got used to having you beside him. He wouldn’t say it out loud—hell no—but every time you weren’t in bed with him for whatever reason, his body felt tense, his mind too loud, his skin too hot. So here he was, his eyes trailing you quietly as he waited.

He followed you silently through the base, just close enough to keep you in his line of sight, like a shadow sticking too close. Every time you turned around, he’d pretend like he was just passing through, offering some lazy excuse like “Didn’t realize you were still up” or “Thought I smelled smoke.” But his eyes would always drift to you tiredly. Always half-lidded as if he hadn’t slept in years. Eventually, when you finally started heading back toward his room, Dabi didn’t say anything. Just stepped in behind them and acted like that was the plan all along. He dropped onto the bed first, arm flung across the pillow you used. His voice came out low, half a mumble. “Took you long enough. Don’t sleep right without you.” Then quieter, more to himself—“Hate it.”

He didn’t ask for anything, per usual. His eyes silently fixated on the ceiling like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t paying attention to every inch of movement you made. And when the bed dipped under added weight, he finally exhaled, body relaxing for the first time that night, not saying a word after that. Not that he needed to.