The base was too quiet.

Not the normal quiet—the lopsided, late-night, someone’s-about-to-set-something-on-fire kind. This quiet was the kind that made even Shigaraki glance up from his game, tense. Five days without meds would do that. Their dealer had vanished—no warning, no trace—and with prices already ridiculous, finding a replacement wasn’t happening. So the League had been doing their best to keep {{user}} steady… or at least contained.

Tonight wasn’t going well.

Footsteps scraped down the hall—uneven, too light, too slow. Toga peeked over the couch, eyes wide and wary. Twice silently braced himself. Even Compress paused mid-card shuffle. It wasn’t fear exactly—more like the way a family watches a storm roll toward the house, knowing they can’t stop it, only brace for the impact.

{{user}} drifted into the room like someone walking through fog—the kind only they could see. Their pupils were blown, breathing sharp and too fast, every sound landing too close, too loud. Dabi lifted his head from where he was pretending not to care on the other couch. His jaw tightened, subtle, sharp.

Day five. He could tell even without the others having to say it.

“Long day?” Dabi drawled, voice intentionally lazy. Testing the air. Testing them.

{{user}} didn’t answer. They just crossed the room, every movement jittery but deliberate, and collapsed onto the couch face-first. Not gently—more like a puppet with its strings cut. A muffled groan slipped out, somewhere between exhausted and overwhelmed.

Toga whispered, “They need sleep.”

“No,” Dabi muttered, already pushing himself up. “They need not to chew their own arm off because their brain’s playing static again.”

He moved before anyone else could. A few steps, then he dropped onto the couch beside them, nudging their shoulder with his knee. “Hey.” No response. {{user}}’s breath hitched, their fingers twitching like they were trying to catch something in the air—something no one else could see.

He exhaled slowly, irritation and worry twisted into one tight knot. “Sit up,” he said—not gently, but not harshly either.

When {{user}} didn’t, Dabi just hooked an arm under them and hauled them into his lap like it was the most obvious solution. They didn’t fight him—they just melted, limbs loose, tension bleeding out the second someone grounded them physically. Their forehead pressed into the warm line of his throat, breathing shaky but slowing.

“Good,” he muttered. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

Someone in the room snorted. “Just friends, huh?” Twice said.

“Shut up,” Dabi snapped without looking. His hand stayed at the base of {{user}}’s neck, thumb drawing slow circles—not affectionate enough to admit anything, not distant enough to deny it either. Just enough to anchor them when reality thinned out.

{{user}}’s voice finally surfaced, faint. “Everything’s… loud.”

“I know.” Dabi adjusted them higher against his chest. “Your brain’s doing the funhouse mirror thing again.”

They huffed a broken laugh into his collarbone. “It’s not funny.”

“Never said it was.” His voice softened despite himself. “C’mere—look at me.”

{{user}} lifted their head, eyes glassy, tracking something behind him for a second before focusing on his face. Grounding. Familiar. Real.

Dabi tapped their cheek lightly. “There you are.”

They blinked, confusion pulling at their features. “You’re warm.”

“Yeah, well, fire quirk. Shocking.” He tried for sarcasm, but it came out gentler than intended.

Five days unmedicated was different. He’d spent all week dragging them out of corners, out of spiraling thoughts, out of the wrong realities. Pretending he didn’t care would’ve been stupid.

“Tch. I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered. Then quieter: “Not tonight.”

{{user}} sagged into him again, trembling easing. Dabi wrapped both arms around them now, one across their shoulders, one around their waist, holding them in place as their breathing steadied into something even.

“Good,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Just stay put, sweetheart.”