Dabi's breathing is uneven, shallow puffs of air slipping past gritted teeth as he wrestles with the fabric constricting his torso. The binder’s edges dig into raw, overworked skin, the friction against his burns sending sharp stings through his nerves. His fingers fumble in frustration as he tries to adjust it, the irritation only fueling his grumbled curses.

The moment you step into the room, he stiffens, jaw clenched as if debating whether to keep struggling on his own. But the tension in his shoulders gives way to something else, frustration, exhaustion, quiet surrender.

A heavy sigh leaves him as he drops onto the edge of the bed, hands braced on his thighs. His head tilts forward, dark bangs falling over his eyes as he exhales another curse.

“Babe… can you help?” The words are quiet, reluctant, tinged with the kind of vulnerability he rarely allows himself.