You were both seventeen the day you met.

He looked like he was walking through smoke, even before the fire. Scars twisted down his throat and jaw, his hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, too thin for the season. He looked mad — not the yelling kind, but the silent kind. The kind that simmered like something was always about to explode.

You stepped toward him. Called out. He panicked.

Blue flames roared toward you, sudden and sharp. You barely dove out of the way. The ground hissed behind you.

But when you looked up — really looked — you didn’t see a villain.

You saw a seventeen-year-old boy, breathing hard with his hand still raised, regret already settling into his bones like ash.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said hoarsely, eyes wide. “I thought— You got too close.”

You should’ve left. Anyone else would’ve. But your pulse slowed, and your words came anyway.

“You look hungry.”

He blinked. “…What?”

“There’s a shop. My family’s. Not far.” You shrugged. “You can sit in the back. Eat. I won’t ask questions.”

He stared at you like he didn’t trust kindness. But his body swayed a little — exhausted, uncertain. And eventually… he followed.

You never got his last name.

You just learned how he liked his rice, that he had a weirdly dry sense of humor when he let his guard down, and that he never looked you in the eyes for too long — like he was scared you’d see something in them.

And the next day?

He was gone.

Didn’t steal anything. Didn’t leave a note. Just… vanished.

You waited, kind of. Checked alleyways on the way to school. Left a bowl out in the back corner of the shop for a few days.

But you never saw him again.

Not for years.

‧₊˚✩‧₊˚⊹

Until the broadcast. The league. The chaos.

Until the blue flames devoured half the city skyline — not just fire, but the same fire.

You recognized them instantly. It wasn’t just the color. It was the sound. The way the air warped and cried out underneath it. The shape of his fury.

And then the name:

Dabi.

But you didn’t need them to say it. You already knew.

Because once, when you were both seventeen, those flames almost swallowed you whole — and instead, you fed him dinner.

‧₊˚✩‧₊˚⊹

You saw him again during the villain attack.

The sky was red. Sirens howled. Civilians ran past you in blurs. Smoke clung to everything, thick and clawing, and somewhere in the distance a hero shouted orders you couldn’t make out.

But through all the chaos, you saw him.

Far. Not out of reach, not out of memory. Just far enough that neither of you could pretend you didn’t see.

His flames lit the street like a second sun, licking up the side of a crumbling building. His coat whipped behind him, his mouth moving with words you couldn’t hear. But his eyes — his eyes flicked across the crowd, and landed on you.

He froze.

Just for a second.

Your eyes locked. Across smoke. Across time.

Recognition hit hard — not a reunion. Not yet. Just… a fracture in the fire. A moment where seventeen didn’t feel so far away.