You don’t remember when pain stopped meaning anything.

It might’ve been the first time your mother threw the ceramic plate and it shattered against your skull, and you just… blinked. You were six. She cried after. Called it love. Told you not to flinch so much. You tried your best to be still. To love her better.

By twelve, you stopped reacting altogether. Your quirk had awakened. You couldn’t feel pain anymore—not even when your father lost his job and blamed it on you. Not when the belt came down, not when you bled. It didn’t hurt, so it wasn’t abuse. That’s what you told yourself. What everyone else believed, too.

So when you met Dabi, it made sense.

You met during a League mission gone wrong, both of you barely standing after the smoke cleared. He looked at you like you were a mirror. Half-dead and smiling. You said something stupid. Something like, “You burn pretty.” And he’d smirked, like no one had ever called him anything close to pretty before.

It wasn’t love at first sight. It was something hungrier. Quieter. More poisonous.

You didn’t need words. You understood each other too easily. Pain wasn’t a warning—it was a lullaby. He had his fire, you had your silence. Your body didn’t scream, and neither did his.

So it became a ritual. When his flames got too loud in his head, when his skin split open from overuse, he’d come to you. You’d bite his shoulder, just hard enough to ground him. His fingers would wrap around your neck—not to choke, but to feel something real. You’d laugh as his palm cracked against your cheek. He’d grin when you bit his collarbone like a promise.

It was balance. You didn’t bruise easy. He didn’t break easy.

You weren’t sure if that was love, but it worked.

Sparring became a language. In the rusted-out warehouse you both called yours, Dabi threw a punch that connected with your jaw. Your head snapped to the side. You didn’t stumble. You giggled.

“Again,” you rasped.

He licked the blood from his knuckles.

And did.

You dodged the next one, kicked his ribs so hard the crunch echoed. He laughed, full-bellied and cracked like his voice. When he tackled you to the ground, the force rattled the concrete. His breath was hot. His skin was colder.

You stared at him, panting, and said, “You okay?”

“Never,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours.

And you kissed him like it would save you both. Teeth, heat, no softness. That came later. That came in the quiet. That came when he curled against you after the fire burned out, and you bit his shoulder until he sighed into your neck and said, “Stay.”

You did.

When you slept, you heard sirens in your dreams. Gunshots. Screams. But you never woke up scared. Dabi was there, flame scars glowing blue in the dark. You bit his wrist when he trembled. He dragged his nails down your spine when your past tried to crawl back in.

You’d never known gentleness. He’d never asked for it.

You fit together in ways that weren’t sweet, but they were true. You weren’t trying to fix each other—you didn’t think you could be fixed. All you had was this. Touches that bruised without bruising. Kisses that came with split lips. Heat without warmth.

He hit you, and it felt like a kiss.

You kissed him, and it felt like home.