The city was quiet—too quiet. You’d always liked the in-between hours, when the streets were nearly empty and the lights in the windows were either off or flickering. It made things easier. Easier to move unseen, easier to pretend the world wasn’t as cruel as it was. You gripped the straps of the duffel bag slung over your shoulder as Dabi climbed over the crumbled ledge of a shattered window ahead of you, landing inside the long-abandoned building with a quiet thud. He turned, extended a hand, and smirked.

“You coming, Bonnie?” he teased, palm outstretched. “Or am I doing this romantic crime spree alone?”

You snorted but took his hand anyway, stepping through the broken window frame and into what once might’ve been a factory. Or maybe an office building. It was hard to tell now—most of the signs had been worn away or torn down. Graffiti covered the walls, tagging gangs long gone and curses no one remembered the meaning of. Broken glass glittered like stars on the floor.

It was perfect.

“Well,” you said, dropping the bag onto a dust-caked table, “I figured if we’re gonna do this like a real date, we should at least commit to the bit.”

Dabi arched a scarred brow as he leaned lazily against a support beam. “Define ‘real date.’ Because I don’t think breaking and entering with a wanted felon is exactly what they write about in those romance novels you like.”

You ignored the jab and pulled out your makeshift supplies one by one: a slightly moldy but still intact blanket (stolen from an alley thrift bin), two dented metal cups, a bottle of suspiciously strong black-market vodka wrapped in newspaper, a few melted candles from some cult you’d robbed a while back, and a pack of cheap instant noodles.

“I call it ambiance,” you said proudly.

Dabi actually chuckled. It was rare—deep, gravelly, and somehow warmer than it had any right to be. “You’re a damn idiot,” he said, but the fondness in his voice gave him away. “Romantic as hell.”

He helped you spread out the blanket in what looked like an old breakroom. There was still a busted vending machine nearby, its glass long since kicked out, and some forgotten furniture you could drag over to serve as makeshift walls. You flicked open your lighter, lit a few candles, and placed them carefully on the machine to cast just enough of a flickering glow over the space.

Dabi sat down beside you, leaning back on one arm as he took the bottle and poured two uneven shots into the dented cups. “To villainy and poor taste,” he said, raising his.

You clinked your cup to his. “To shitty dates and good company.”

The vodka burned all the way down, but it didn’t matter. You sat there in the dim candlelight, legs tangled up, the sound of the distant city bleeding in through the cracked walls. He was warm beside you—dangerously so, like always—but he never scorched you. His thigh pressed against yours, comfortable and close. You could feel the heat of his body even through your layers.

After a while, he reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled cigarette. You gave him a look.

“What?” he asked, grinning. “It’s a date, right? Gotta ruin my lungs for the full romantic effect.”

He lit it with a flick of his finger—bright blue fire licking to life before vanishing again. You leaned your head on his shoulder, and to your surprise, he didn’t shrug you off. Instead, he exhaled a cloud of smoke and reached around to pull you closer, the sharp tips of his fingers brushing the edge of your jaw.

“You know,” he muttered after a long pause, “you don’t have to do all this crap. I’m not the kind of guy who needs candlelight and warm fuzzies.”

You looked up at him, head tilted. “Yeah, well. I do. Maybe I just wanted to pretend we weren’t monsters for a night.”

“You’re not a monster,” he said finally, voice lower now. “You’re just stuck with one.”

You leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth, the stitches rough under your lips. “Then I guess we’re both lucky I’ve got a type.”

Dabi let out a short laugh and pulled you into his lap. “You’re such a freak,” he muttered against your neck.