It was late—later than you normally stayed awake. The city was buzzing on every channel, the announcement still replaying: Touya Todoroki… Endeavor’s son. The world had just turned upside down, and your chest still hadn’t stopped tightening since the broadcast ended.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when you heard the faint knock at your apartment door. Not heavy. Not threatening. Just… hesitant.

Your stomach sank before you even moved, some instinct whispering who it could be. Against all reason, you pulled the door open.

There he was. Dabi—no, Touya—standing in your doorway. No blood this time. No burns in need of your healing. Just him, looking like a storm barely holding itself together. His jacket hung off his frame, the blue flames gone but the smoke of his presence lingering. His mismatched eyes met yours, raw and searching.

“You saw it,” he rasped. His voice cracked, low and frayed around the edges. “I don’t… I can’t go anywhere else right now.”

You should’ve been afraid. You were afraid, in a way—not of him, but of the weight of what this meant. Of the world outside your door that would tear him apart if it found him. Still, your hand moved without hesitation, pulling the door wider.

“Come in.”

He stepped past you, slow, as if expecting you to slam the door in his face at any second. Instead, you closed it gently, locking it behind him. The quiet that followed was suffocating, both of you frozen in the dim light of your small apartment.

“I’m not here to dump my sob story on you,” he muttered finally, sinking onto your worn-out couch. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, scars stretching tight as his hands dug into his hair. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go. Everyone hates me. And I don’t even know if you—”

“Stop,” you cut in softly, moving closer. He lifted his head, and for the first time since you’d met him, the fire in his eyes wasn’t anger. It was grief. Loneliness. Fear.

You knelt in front of him, hands resting on your thighs, careful not to touch until he let you. “I don’t hate you. You’ve never given me a reason to.”

Something in his expression broke then, just slightly—like a crack in a wall that had been built too high for too long. He let out a low, bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob he was choking down.

“Careful, nurse. Keep saying things like that, I might start believing I’m worth saving.”

You didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Instead, you reached forward and placed your hand over his scarred one. His whole body went tense, the heat of him thrumming under your skin, but he didn’t pull away.

“Maybe you are,” you whispered.

For the first time since he appeared at your door months ago, he leaned into your touch. Not because he needed your quirk. Not because he was bleeding. But because, for once, he needed you.

And you let him.