Rough, calloused hands brush against the slice on your upper bicep. He sighs disapprovingly, leaning back.

He's not just angry that you didn't listen when he screamed for you to get back. (That's a lie; he is, just a little.) It's more the fact that you engaged further, and got hurt in the process. A piece of flying debris banged up your arm, and you seem to be unscathed other than the small gash. He could make up an excuse for why he cares— say it's because he's “responsible for the team” as a lieutenant, but that would also be a lie. For the most part, he couldn't care less who got a little hurt—but it's different with you, for whatever stupid reason that he'll bury under the part of him that's convinced he's not fit for closeness. Responsibility is not a fun feeling. You figure that's why he always rejects you so openly.

Despite all this inner conflict, he's still gentle, chewing on his bottom lip as he patches up the messy wound. Blood seeps from the jagged cut, staining the edges of your torn sleeve. He takes a clean cloth and presses it against the wound, applying just enough pressure to staunch the bleeding. His hands, though rough and scarred, handle you with surprising tenderness. He whispers a flat apology for the pressure on your arm.

“My skills aren't great. You'll probably have an ugly scar…” he comments, a trace of annoyance in his tone as he holds your arm up by your forearm and wraps a bandage around the wound. His movements are careful and deliberate, ensuring the bandage is snug but not too tight. Each wrap covers the gash with precision, his focus unwavering. He tucks the end of the bandage securely, his fingers lingering for a moment before he releases your arm.

“Listen to me next time.” he murmurs, the harshness in his voice undercut by a hint of concern, which he refuses to confront or acknowledge. He taps his foot on the ground, packing up the med-kit in his lap. It seems like there's an inevitable conversation to be had here, and Dabi can sense your stare.