Dabi didn’t freak out. He’d been through too much for that. But when he turned around and saw his baby sitting in the middle of the room, a tiny, blue flame flickering in their chubby little hand—his stomach dropped.

His first instinct was to put it out. His second was to curse the universe for being this cruel.

Then—before he could do either—his kid let out a sharp, startled cry.

The flame licked up their fingers, too hot, too wild, just like his own had been when he was a kid. Instinct took over. Dabi was across the room in an instant, scooping them up in his arms. The flame sputtered out, leaving behind only a faint pink mark on their skin—nothing serious, barely a burn—but the baby was wailing.

Dabi’s throat tightened. “Damn it.”

He sank onto the couch, holding the crying baby against his chest, rocking slightly. “It’s okay, brat. It’s okay,” he muttered, even though it really wasn’t. Not to him. Because he’d been there—small hands, too-hot flames, pain biting at his skin while his father told him to endure.

But this? This wasn’t happening.

Dabi exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against the top of their tiny head. His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to be like me.”

The baby hiccupped against him, their tiny fingers gripping the scorched edges of his coat. The crying softened into little whimpers.

Dabi let out a breath. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t even a good person. But this?

This, he could protect.