It had been a couple of months since you and Dabi started whatever this was. You’d met through the League — two villains orbiting the same chaos — and slid into each other’s lives without labels. It wasn’t a relationship built on hand-holding or sweet words. With him it was mostly nights out, bodies pressed together, drinks until dawn. Dabi was cold by default, a smart-mouthed ghost with burned hands and a bad habit of vanishing when things got real. He never talked about his past, but you didn’t need a confession to know it was ugly. Every villain has a graveyard behind them; his just burned brighter.

Tonight was different. Your car idled on the shoulder of a hill outside the city, the skyline spilling neon far below. The air was sharp and quiet. Dabi sat in the passenger seat with you straddling his lap, the two of you hidden from the world. His scarred fingers traced lazy circles against your hip while you rested against his chest. In his other hand, the cigarette you’d been sharing glowed and dimmed, the smell of smoke clinging to the upholstery.

He’d been strangely still on the drive up, head leaned against the window, jaw tight. You knew he got carsick but he never admitted it; just another weakness he’d rather swallow. But now, with the city a smear of light in the distance, he seemed almost relaxed. No heroes. No League. No noise. Just him, you, and the night.

He exhaled a stream of smoke past your ear, a soft huff of a laugh following it. “Hell of a spot,” he muttered, voice rough but quieter than usual. His fingers kept moving on your skin, absent-minded but steady. For once, the silence between you wasn’t sharp. It was almost comfortable.

Two villains, parked in the middle of nowhere, sharing a cigarette and a view. It wasn’t love. But it was something.