“You’re home late.”

Dabi barely looked up from the couch as you walked through the door, the dim glow of the TV flickering across his scarred face. His boots were kicked up on the coffee table—your coffee table—but you didn’t bother saying anything. You were used to it by now.

Whether or not Dabi actually liked you was up for debate. He wasn’t the best boyfriend—if you could even call him that. He had bigger things to worry about, like taking down Endeavor. But for whatever reason, he always came back here. To your apartment. To you. Even when he acted like he hated your guts or when you got into arguments, he always came home to you. At least he had that as a redeeming feature.