The bed creaked under Dabi’s weight as he swung his legs over the edge, gray sweatpants sliding low over his hips, boxers just visible above the waistband. He ran a hand through his dark, messy hair, then flicked his middle finger, blue flames curling around it. With a sharp snap, the tip of a cigarette ignited, glowing bright before smoke spiraled lazily upward, catching the dim light of the room.

He leaned back slightly against the wall, one shoulder brushing cold plaster, letting the quiet settle around him. His thoughts drifted in sharp flashes: the heat of his own quirk against your skin, the roughness of his hands, the faint sting that lingered on his knuckles. He didn’t care. It wasn’t about care. It never was. The marks, the pain, the aftermath—it was just… what it was.

Behind him, {{user}} lay in the sheets, bruises darkening across your skin, burn marks seared where his flames had touched. Every subtle shift, every soft inhale reminded him of the fire he had left behind. You didn’t flinch, didn’t beg or whine. That was enough. That was exactly what he liked.

He dragged on the cigarette, sparks flickering along his knuckles, and blew a lazy trail of smoke into the air.

“You ever think about how quiet it gets after a storm?” you asked, voice low but steady.

“Sometimes,” he said flatly, flicking ash to the floor.

“You like storms,” you added, almost conversationally. “Lightning, fire… chaos.”

“Not like it. Just… drawn to it,” he muttered, voice indifferent, not turning to look at you.

You traced a finger along the sheet, letting your hand hover over the bruised curve of your ribs without touching. “Funny,” you said softly. “Some storms don’t even notice the damage they leave behind.”

He exhaled, smoke curling around his jaw, sparks glinting faintly. “Doesn’t matter if they do,” he said simply.

You let the silence stretch, letting the room hold the heat, the ache, the quiet danger. Nothing needed to be said. Nothing could make it safer or softer.

“You always pick fire,” you said finally, voice low, almost teasing.

“And it always leaves a mark,” he replied, dragging on the cigarette again, not looking at you.

You shifted slightly, stretching your leg over the sheets, watching him smoke, blue flame reflecting across his knuckles. The tension wasn’t about care. It wasn’t about connection. It was heat, danger, and sharp edges—the aftermath of what had just happened. And somehow, that was enough.