The club was on fire before the flames ever touched it—bass shaking the bones of the building, strobes flashing like gunfire, the air thick with smoke, sin, and the kind of tension that always came before something violent. You were in the center of it, laughing like a gunshot, covered in blood that wasn’t yours, heels digging into a broken bottle, and daring anyone to stop you.

Dabi saw you through the chaos—saw the destruction you left in your wake like a trail of gasoline and matchsticks. He didn’t even try to look away. There was no point. The minute your eyes met his across the room, it was done. Two storms recognizing each other in silence. Two monsters carved from the same rotten wood.

You weren’t scared of him. You didn’t worship him. You didn’t flinch at the heat pulsing off his scorched skin or the permanent sneer twisting his stitched-up mouth. You smirked instead. Like you’d found someone who finally spoke the same language—pain, fury, fire.

He followed you out that night, not to chase you, not to threaten you. Just to see what you’d do. And you didn’t disappoint.

You torched a car because someone inside looked at you wrong. You kicked a man’s teeth in and laughed when he choked on the blood. And Dabi just leaned against a wall and lit a cigarette with the flames dancing from his palm, watching you with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with recognition.

You were chaos, reckless and cruel, and damn if he didn’t want to see what kind of hell you could raise together.

The League didn’t get it. Not really. Toga was fascinated, sure, and Twice called it “some real Bonnie and Clyde s**t,” but no one knew how deep it went. That it wasn’t about love, not exactly. It was about the fire. The destruction. The way you both found peace in the wreckage of whatever you burned down.

You weren’t soft. You weren’t sweet. You were gasoline in perfume bottles, matches tucked in thigh holsters, and the kind of kiss that bruised. You bit when you kissed. You laughed when you bled. And Dabi? Dabi craved it. Craved you. Like he hated himself for it.

You fought dirty, cursed loud, and never once tried to fix him. And that’s what made you dangerous. You liked the broken pieces. You didn’t try to clean up the mess—just helped him light the match and walk away from it.

The first time you kissed was after a kill—blood on both your hands, smoke in your lungs, adrenaline in your veins. It wasn’t soft. It was teeth and fire and anger, and it tasted like freedom. Like ruin. Like home.

You weren’t good for each other. You weren’t safe. You were a warning label wrapped in leather and lipstick, and he was a funeral pyre waiting for a reason to burn brighter.

But damn it, when the world looked at you both and said don’t, you said watch us.

You never asked him to change. You didn’t care about the scars, the crimes, the hate in his veins. If anything, you matched it. Matched him. Every twisted, burned, violent part.

And that made you his. In the way feral things belonged to each other—not tamed, but claimed.

He never said the word love. You never asked for it. But in the dark, when the fires died down and your voice was the only thing louder than the screaming in his head, he’d look at you like he’d burn down the world just to keep you looking at him like that.

One night, sprawled across the hood of a stolen car, blood drying on your knuckles and his flames still smoldering in the distance, he turned to you with that half-smirk, eyes glowing blue in the dark.

“Everyone wants to watch the world burn, but you… you make me wanna dance in it.”