The smell of flowers clung to the air, too sweet for someone like him. He hated how much he liked it now—because it was yours. The little shop on the corner should’ve meant nothing to him, just another place with fragile glass windows and pretty things that could burn if he snapped his fingers. But the first time he saw you—hands dusted with pollen, lips curved in that gentle smile as you wrapped a bouquet for some lovestruck idiot—something inside him shifted.

He told himself it was nothing. He’d walk past, maybe watch for a second, then keep moving. Except he didn’t. Every day he found himself drifting by, drawn like a moth to the glow of your little shop, to the way you looked so soft and untainted, like the world hadn’t chewed you up the way it had him.

Sometimes he lingered across the street, cigarette hanging from his lips, smoke curling lazily around his face while his mismatched eyes tracked every move you made. He noticed the way you hummed while arranging bouquets, the way you tucked stray strands of hair behind your ear when you were focused, even the way you frowned when a flower didn’t sit the way you wanted it to. Those small, ordinary things hooked him deeper than he wanted to admit.

And he hated it. Hated how badly he wanted to walk in there, press you against the counter, ruin that innocence with his hands, his mouth, his fire. But instead, he watched. Obsessed. Waiting for the right moment.

Tonight, though, he decided he’d had enough of watching from the shadows. The shop was closing, the warm glow of the lights spilling out onto the empty street as you arranged the last bouquet for display. He pushed the door open, the bell above it chiming softly.

You looked up, startled at first, then relaxed when you saw just another customer. You didn’t know better. Not yet.

Dabi stepped inside, the faint scent of smoke following him. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his patchwork skin catching the light, but his eyes—his sharp, unrelenting eyes—never left yours.

“Got anything for a guy who doesn’t give a damn about flowers?” he asked, voice low and rough, a crooked grin tugging at his scarred face. He leaned against the counter like he owned the place, wingspan of his presence filling the room even without fire.

“Or maybe…” he drawled, eyes narrowing just slightly, “I’ll just take whatever you think looks good. Since I can’t seem to stay away from this place anyway.”

And as he said it, there was no mistaking it—he wasn’t talking about the flowers.