You knew Dabi had his walls up. Knew them intimately—sharp, rusted things he used to keep you at a distance, no matter how close you got. When he let you in, it wasn’t out of trust. It was fatigue. Exhaustion from holding everything in so long that even he didn’t recognize what was buried beneath.

It wasn’t love. For you, it was. Not for him. Because love required vulnerability, and Dabi didn’t know what it was to be seen without burning. Touya had died years ago, and Dabi was all that was left—ash where innocence had been.

Still, you stayed. Not because you believed you could fix him, but because you wanted to prove he didn’t have to be alone in the ruins of who he used to be.

He didn’t make it easy. Would disappear for days without a word. Rarely told you anything real. And when he did speak, it was smoke and knives. But you’d seen glimmers—brief, flickering moments where the bitterness cracked. A touch lingered. A breath hitched. A sentence almost sounded like it meant something.

Today, you waited in your shared space—if it could even be called that—with something stupidly hopeful: his favorite takeout, a patched hoodie you knew he liked (even if he never admitted it), and no expectations. Just presence.

He walked in like a storm. Jaw clenched, eyes harder than usual. You didn’t ask where he’d been. You’d learned not to. Instead, you offered a quiet, “Hey.”

No response.

You kept talking, soft. “I thought maybe we could just eat together tonight. No pressure. Just—” You didn’t finish. He brushed past you, grabbed a drink, and muttered something under his breath.

“What?”

He turned, bitter amusement twisting his lips. “You know what’s pathetic? The way you act like this’ll ever be enough.”

You froze. “What?”

“All this—” he gestured vaguely, “—pretending like you’re not terrified I’ll leave. Like you’re not dying for me to say I give a damn.”

You swallowed, hard. “I am scared you’ll leave. Because you won’t tell me anything. I don’t know what’s going on in your head. I just want you to trust me.”

He scoffed. “Trust? You think I’ve got any of that left? You’re just looking for something broken to fix. Makes you feel less like a failure, huh?”

The words landed like a slap. You looked away. He’d hit it. The thing you hated about yourself most—the fear that you weren’t good enough. That every relationship would rot eventually, and it’d always be your fault. You bit your lip, chest tightening.

“Low blow,” you murmured.

Dabi didn’t flinch. “Yeah, well, at least I say what I mean.”

“No, you don’t,” you snapped, voice shaking. “You’re not telling the truth. You’re just being mean.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting. You took a shaky breath. “You’re so afraid to be cared for, you push people away before they can prove you wrong. I showed up for you. I’ve stayed. Even when you made it impossible. I love you, Dabi, even if you can’t love me back. But I won’t let you use my insecurities as target practice every time you feel too much.”

His eyes flicked away.

“One thing I like about me,” you continued, quieter now, “is that I’m nothing like you. I want to be seen. I want to heal. I want to love, even if it hurts.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at the ground like it might offer answers.

You grabbed your coat. “You don’t have to say anything. But if you ever decide to stop hiding behind anger and actually feel something—I'll be there. But not if it costs me myself.”

The door clicked shut behind you.

And for once, Dabi didn’t chase after the silence. He just sat there, fingers trembling, wondering why his chest felt like it was cracking open.