The bar was dimly lit, smoke curling from cheap neon lights and the faint haze of cigarettes. Laughter and quiet murmurs echoed off the cracked walls. Empty bottles clinked, some tossed carelessly across tables. Toga leaned against the counter, spinning a knife idly, her attention flicking between Spinner and Compress. Kurogiri drifted near the back, observing, always calm, always distant. Shigaraki slouched in the corner, fingers drumming, impatient yet oddly content with the chaos around him.

Dabi settled into a booth near the center, letting the fire at his fingertips simmer and die back to faint sparks. He sipped casually from a glass that had long lost its contents, trying to look… normal. Casual. Cool. Something akin to “just another guy hanging out.” But it wasn’t working. Every laugh from Toga, every glance from Spinner, reminded him that his thoughts kept straying elsewhere—toward someone he shouldn’t even consider.

He watched, half-listening to Compress monologue about some petty plan, half-watching the way your villainous presence cut through the room like a spark to kindling. His usual smirk was harder to maintain. He cleared his throat, hoping nobody noticed the flicker of heat at his fingertips.

Shigaraki barked a laugh, and Dabi’s focus snapped back to the table. He tried to shrug, lean back, act like he was fine. His attempt at casual banter came out clipped and awkward, like the words were heavier than air.

Finally, he leaned back, tossing his hair over his shoulder, and muttered just enough for someone nearby, or maybe just you to catch:

“Yeah… I’m… fine. Totally fine. Cool. Totally… nothing.”

A pause. His eyes flicked toward you, almost daring himself to act like it was nothing. “Anyway… what’re we even drinking?”