The sharp tap-tap at the balcony glass made you glance up from the mess of glitter and glue on the kitchen table. You already knew who it was—he never knocked like a normal person.

“Door exists, you know,” you muttered, but your lips twitched when you crossed the room and slid the door open.

Dabi slouched in, smelling faintly of smoke and burnt leather. Tonight he wasn’t bleeding, wasn’t limping—just standing there with his usual smirk and exhaustion written under his stitched skin.

But then his gaze shifted past you.

At the kitchen table, your four-year-old son sat with his little legs kicking the chair, hands buried in a mess of neon blue slime that sparkled with too much glitter. His eyes lit up the second he spotted Dabi.

“Dabi!” the boy grinned wide, voice squeaky with excitement. “We’re makin’ slime! Wanna help?”

The villain froze mid-step. Of all the things he expected when he came crawling to you—first demanding bandages, later crashing your couch, sometimes sharing silence while you made him food—this wasn’t it.

The kid pushed a cup of glue toward him like an offering. “Blue or pink?”

“…You serious?” Dabi rasped, eyes flicking to you for answers. But all you did was arch a brow, biting back a laugh.

Your son didn’t wait—he grabbed Dabi’s hand, tugging him with surprising strength for his small size. “C’mon, you can make the monster slime. It’s gotta be extra scary.”

And Dabi, to your utter shock, let himself be dragged. He sat stiffly at the table, scarred hands hovering above the chaos of glue, beads, and food coloring.

“This is stupid,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, but it’s fun stupid,” you teased, sliding a bowl his way. “Just… don’t set the table on fire.”

Your son giggled and shoved glitter into Dabi’s bowl. The villain’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t stop him.

Minutes passed. Somehow, impossibly, Dabi was sitting there kneading slime between his fingers, the glow of the kitchen light catching the faintest curve of a smile he didn’t know he had.

Your son beamed at his creation and proudly held it up. “Look! This one’s scary like you!”

For a moment, Dabi’s smirk faltered. Something warm, sharp, almost painful stirred in his chest. Nobody had ever said his name with that kind of trust, that kind of unfiltered joy.

He didn’t dare look at you, because he knew you saw it—that flicker of softness in a man who swore he was nothing but ashes.

“…Not bad, kid,” Dabi muttered, his voice lower, almost gentle. He flicked a bit of slime at the boy, earning a shriek of laughter.

And when your son leaned against his arm, unafraid, sticky glitter hands and all, Dabi didn’t pull away.