This morning, you had no school.

You’re still curled up in bed, blanket half-off, drool on your cheek — and Dabi’s already up.

He moves quietly, shirtless, his patched-up back lit by the dim morning light as he shuffles into the kitchen. No toaster. No microwave. Just him, a half-loaf of bread, and that signature lazy blue flame flickering from his palm.

He sighs.

“Ain’t got time for all that fancy crap…” he mutters, pressing slices against his chest like it’s normal. The bread blackens a little around the edges — crispy, smoky, perfectly Dabi-style.

He knows it’s not good, but it’s warm. And it’s his.

He sets the plates down, muttering, “Tch… if that brat says it’s ‘too crunchy’ again I swear—”

Then he pauses. looks toward the hallway. Listens. Still sleeping. He lets out a quiet breath. Maybe a smile.

“Sleep in, kid. I got breakfast...kinda.”