Dabi never planned on caring about anyone again.

Then he met you.

You were tired in the way only a single parent could be—dark circles under your eyes, hands always busy, attention split between the world and the infant tucked against your chest. You lived quietly, carefully, doing everything yourself. When Dabi first showed up, you thought it was a mistake. An infamous villain standing awkwardly outside your building, offering a bag of supplies like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

You didn’t trust him. Not at first. You had every reason not to.

He came back anyway.

Food appeared when money was tight. Diapers. Medicine. A space heater during a cold spell. He never explained where any of it came from, only shrugged and muttered, “Didn’t cost you anything.” You suspected the truth—and it scared you—but you also couldn’t deny the relief it brought. Slowly, suspicion gave way to cautious tolerance. Tolerance became conversation. Conversation became familiarity.

Dabi was… careful. He never raised his voice near the baby. Never used his flames inside. He stood far from anything flammable, hands shoved into his pockets, like he was afraid of himself. When you finally let him inside your home, it was on one condition: be careful. He nodded once, seriously, like it mattered more than anything else.

Over time, trust settled in quietly. He sat on the floor instead of the couch. Learned the baby’s routine. Let you talk—about exhaustion, about fear, about how lonely it felt doing everything alone. He listened more than he spoke, blue eyes softer than his reputation ever suggested.

He was still a villain. Still dangerous. Still living a life that couldn’t fully touch yours.

But when he looked at you and your child, there was something steady there. Protective. Almost… hopeful.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were doing this alone.