You were done for the night at your clinic. Patient files were neatly stacked on the desk, supplies were restocked.

Done until the creak of the door. “Clinic’s closed.” You said dryly, barely glancing up as you organized your desk.

“Good thing I’m not here for a check-up.”

He said, stepping in. It was him, Dabi. This wasn’t the first time he’d shown up. It started months ago—small injuries, excuses about needing a place to lie low.

Now, he came without much reason. He always found his way to your clinic at night.