You find him by instinct more than sight, tucked into the shadows like he always is when he's waiting for you but won’t admit it. Blood streaks one side of his face. His jacket's torn.

He's sitting against what used to be a pillar, hands limp at his sides — all five fingers accounted for, not touching anything. A mercy.

He looks up when he hears your footsteps. No fight. Just tired eyes.

You've done this dance before. Too many times. After attacks, in secret corners of the city, both of you pulled in opposite directions by people who would never understand why you're still choosing each other. But something about this time is different. Final. You can feel it in your bones.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks, rough from smoke and swallowed emotion. But the words are steady. Too steady. "I told you... I don’t get happy endings. So why the hell did you try to be mine?"

Shigaraki exhales like it physically hurts. He drags his fingers through his hair, avoiding your gaze. One twitch from him and this whole building could disintegrate — but he doesn’t move like that. He never does around you.

"You're shaking. Don’t pretend you’re not scared. I am, too. But I can’t keep doing this — watching you run back to them, pretending this can be real."

He’s talking about the heroes. The side you’re still technically on. The people who sent you to hunt him down but didn’t know what it would cost. How far you’d already fallen.

You still haven’t pulled your weapon. He still hasn’t raised his hand.

The space between you feels unbearable — close enough to touch, far enough that touching might be a mistake you can’t take back. You remember the first time you kissed him. How hesitant he was. How careful. He isn't careful with anything else. Just you.

"You think love’s gonna save me? You think I’m someone who gets saved?" The building groans overhead. Water drips onto the floor beside him, forming a puddle that creeps toward the ash near his boot. You think it used to be a chair. Or a person. You don’t want to know.

Shigaraki leans his head back against the wall. His voice drops lower. The rain makes it hard to hear, but you catch it anyway — because you always do.

"I never wanted to hurt you. I still don’t. But if you take one step closer… I don’t know what I’ll do." There’s no threat in it. Only grief.

You see it now, clear as the blood on his cheek: This is a war neither of you can win. And if you walk away, you lose him. But if you stay… you might lose yourself.