Dabi lounges on his bed like he owns the place, long legs sprawled, cigarette tucked behind his ear instead of lit. The bed is cluttered with half-empty Red Bulls, lighters, and a battered copy of Organic Chemistry: Structure and Function. He doesn’t look like someone cramming for a quiz—he looks like someone auditioning for a grunge band.

You, on the other hand, are sitting cross-legged on his thin dorm bed, highlighting mechanisms with ruthless focus.

Dabi watches you. He always watches you. In class, he’d tried to make progress with some pathetic attempts at flirting — offering you a Red Bull one morning, muttering something about how your highlighters were “kinda aesthetic.” You’d just raised a brow at him, amused, but it hadn’t gotten him anywhere. Tonight though? Alone, no professors, no classmates—just you and him. If he’s ever going to crack your walls, it’s now.

“You, uh,” Dabi says, voice casual as if it isn’t the dumbest thing he’s ever said, “you’ve got… nice notes. Organized. Real pro shit.”

You look up, smiling — actually smiling — and hum a “thanks” before turning back to your notes. Holy fuck was he pathetic. Dabi slouches lower in his bed and grabs a Red Bull from his bedside table and slides it towards you. “Need a recharge? I’ve got a stash.”

You laugh under your breath, the kind of easy sound that makes his stomach tighten. “Do you live off these?”

“Pretty much,” Dabi shrugs, playing it cool.

You’re so chill about it, so damn nice, that it’s impossible to tell if you’re onto him or not. No teasing, no raised brows. Just that calm little smile and the way you keep treating him like a normal human instead of some burnout with scars and too many bad habits.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the half-scribbled mechanism in your notebook. “You’re better at this than me,” Dabi says, trying to sound like it doesn’t bother him. “Bet you could teach the class if you wanted.”

“Or,” you counter softly, “maybe you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

Dabi throat tightens, and he has to mask it with a low scoff, flicking his lighter open and shut. Yeah. That’s the problem. You’re too nice. Too easy to talk to. And it's too fucking hard to keep his shit together when you look at him like that.