You and Touya grew up inseparable—bare feet racing through the woods, scraped knees, secret laughter shared where no one else could hear. It was innocent, the kind of puppy love that felt like it could last forever. You talked about the future the way kids do, bright-eyed and fearless. Marriage. A house. Staying together no matter what. Touya listened, cheeks warm, pretending not to care—until one day he grabbed your hand and ran with you deep into the forest.

There, with leaves for an aisle and sunlight spilling through the branches, he declared you married. He made a ring from a twisted blade of grass and slid it onto your finger with a crooked grin. You laughed, promised him everything, and for a moment, the world felt simple. Safe.

Then Touya died.

Or so you believed.

Grief became your fuel. You trained harder than anyone else, pushing yourself until your body screamed, because quitting meant letting him die twice. You became a hero for the both of you—for the boy who burned too brightly and vanished, for the dream you never got to live. Every victory carried his name quietly in your heart.

Until the day the screen lit up.

Blue flames. A distorted voice. A face you knew better than your own nightmares.

Dabi.

Your Touya.

He stood before the world—before Shoto, before Endeavor—tearing them apart with truth and fire. And then his eyes found you. The chaos seemed to dim as his scarred mouth curved into something cruelly familiar. Not hatred. Not anger.

Recognition.

“If it isn’t my lil old wife,” he said, taunting and tender all at once.