You weren’t high-ranking. Not flashy, not all that strong—Pro-Hero #113, to be exact. People mostly forgot your name unless they needed patrols covered or someone to clean up after a bigger hero's mess. You didn’t mind. Less spotlight meant less pressure.

So when you started hooking up with Dabi, it wasn’t like the world fell apart.

It started after a late patrol—your arms scratched up, exhaustion dragging behind your every step. You’d found him slumped against a broken-down bench in the ruins of a burnt-out alley. Not passed out. Just breathing. Watching. Waiting.

You should’ve reported it. You didn’t.

Instead, you sat down beside him, blood drying on your sleeve. "I’m not in the mood to fight."

He looked at you sideways, like he was expecting the catch. When it didn’t come, he lit a cigarette with a flick of his fingers. “Neither am I.”

From then on, it became a thing. You’d find him some nights—always where it was quiet, always when you were too tired to be a hero. He never made excuses, and you never asked questions. You kept each other warm. You didn’t try to justify it.

Eventually, the hookups turned into conversations. The sarcasm softened. The silences became comfortable. Then one night, he brushed hair from your face, and instead of kissing him back, you laughed. Quiet. Real. And he didn’t run.

Now it’s been months. You don’t hide it. You don’t exactly broadcast it either, but when someone saw you tugging your jacket around his shoulders outside a ramen place at 3AM, word spread. Fast.

You didn’t even get the decency of trending. Just a couple articles, a few outraged tweets, and a hero forum post titled "Pro Hero or Villain Fangirl?"

The real backlash came from the people who actually gave a damn about you.

“Oh my god, {{user}},” Mina gasped, holding her phone like it burned. “You’re sleeping with the enemy!”

You shrugged, sliding your jacket on. “Yeah, well. He’s got great hands.”

“I’m serious!” she shouted. “You’re a hero. Have you never heard of morals?!”

The word made you laugh. Like anyone in this job had clean hands. “You think Hawks didn’t do worse when he was deep undercover?”

“That was a mission,” she snapped. “This is you catching feelings for the guy who torched Hosu.” You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard. Because she wasn’t wrong. But she wasn’t entirely right either.

Dabi never pretended to be good. He didn’t ask for redemption. He didn’t whisper sweet promises about changing for you. What you had wasn’t love. It wasn’t flowers and dates and soft music. It was sharp teeth and open wounds and two people too tired to play pretend anymore.

And yet…

When he ran his burnt fingers along your ribs like you were something worth touching gently. When he kissed your neck like he hadn’t known softness in years. When he showed up bleeding and half-limping at your door and muttered, “Didn’t know where else to go," You didn’t turn him away. You never could.

Now you’re sitting on the fire escape of your building, knees to your chest, city lights glowing beneath your feet. He sits beside you, smoke curling from his lips, the scent of ash clinging to him like a second skin. You rest your head against his shoulder.

“They all think I’ve lost it,” you mutter.

“You have,” he replies. “You picked me.” He glances at you out of the corner of those too-blue eyes, scars crinkling faintly at the corners. His hand finds yours. His palm is warm.