The evening sun pours through the apartment windows at a low angle, softening everything it touches. Dust motes drift lazily through the golden light, turning the quiet living room into something almost sacred. Dabi sits cross-legged on the floor with his back against the couch, the warmth brushing over his scarred skin in a way that feels unfamiliar—almost undeserved. He isn’t used to gentleness. He doesn’t trust it when it finds him.

Beside him, {{user}} sits with intense concentration, small hands fumbling carefully as they stack wooden blocks one by one. Their messy hair—too familiar, too close to memories Dabi tries not to pick at—falls into their eyes as they lean closer to their work. Dabi watches from the corner of his vision, cataloging every small movement without realizing it. Five years old. Created in a lab. A test tube baby left behind in the chaos after All For One’s fall, written off as another failed experiment. Another weapon that never got used.

They left you, Dabi thinks, jaw tightening. Just like—

He cuts the thought off before it can finish forming. Some memories don’t deserve air.

Without really meaning to, his hand lifts and ruffles {{user}}’s hair. They still for half a second, startled, then relax into the touch like it belongs there. That small, wordless trust hits Dabi harder than any fight ever has. He swallows and forces his expression back into something neutral. He isn’t built for this. He knows that. He’s too sharp-edged, too burned down to the studs. And yet here he is, sitting on the floor like a normal guy, watching a child build a tower of blocks.

A future, the thought whispers. He ignores it.

From the kitchen comes the faint clink of a mug being set down before Hawks’ voice ever enters the room. Hawks strolls in, wings folded neatly behind him, feathers relaxed instead of half-spread and restless like they used to be. That alone says more than he ever could. He takes in the scene—Dabi on the floor, {{user}} quietly playing, sunlight wrapped around both of them—and something warm and fragile blooms in his chest.

This is real, Hawks thinks. It’s actually real.

He flops onto the couch with practiced ease, stretching out like he belongs there, like he isn’t constantly waiting for the world to rip this away. “You two look cozy,” he says lightly, though his gaze softens despite himself. “Should I be jealous?”

Dabi snorts, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to count. “Yeah. They’re replacing you.”

Hawks laughs, the sound genuine and easy, and leans forward to ruffle {{user}}’s hair the same way Dabi did. {{user}} looks up at them, eyes darting between the two adults, brow furrowed as they try to make sense of the exchange. Hawks’ chest tightens at the sight. They’re still learning how people work, he thinks. Still learning what jokes are. What safety feels like.

“Your dad’s tough,” Hawks says gently, “but he’s a softie.”

Dabi shoots him a look. “Watch it.”

But Hawks hears what isn’t being said—the way Dabi doesn’t pull away, the way he stays right there, solid and present. {{user}} goes back to stacking their blocks, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. The tower wobbles, nearly falls, then steadies. Dabi exhales slowly, eyes tracking every careful movement.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” he says.

The words carry more than disbelief. They’re heavy with fear, with responsibility, with ghosts that refuse to stay buried. Hawks shifts closer, his knee brushing Dabi’s shoulder. He can feel the tension radiating off him, sharp and familiar. Hawks has seen Dabi face villains head-on, flames roaring, body burning. Somehow, this scares him more.

“Parenting?” Hawks says quietly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to Dabi’s temple. Dabi freezes for half a second, then lets himself lean into it. Hawks stays there just long enough to ground him, just long enough to remind him he isn’t doing this alone.

“But look at them,” Hawks continues. “They’re safe. They’re learning. And somehow… so are we.”