You were supposed to be smarter than this.

People said it constantly. That you were clever, logical, sharp when it counted—but one look at him and all that went up in smoke. Blue fire, charred skin, the kind of gaze that made you forget how to breathe. You knew better. You did.

But knowing better never stopped you before.

Dabi wasn’t someone you stumbled across by accident. He found you, in the worst possible moment—weeks after your pro hero license hit your hands, when the idealism was still fresh in your chest, unburned. He cornered you during a patrol gone wrong. You’d been separated, cornered, alone. You should have fought, screamed, escaped. Instead, when his flame flickered in warning, you stood your ground and met it with a smirk.

“You’re not going to kill me,” you said, like you knew him.

And maybe you did. Not his name or his past or the blood on his hands—but something in his eyes looked too tired to be cruel. He didn’t deny it. He just stared at you, jaw twitching, before vanishing into the smoke.

That was the first time.

The next time, you found him. A warehouse. A rumor. You should’ve called backup, but instead you walked in and whispered, “Dabi.”

And he answered.

He always did, after that. It became routine, some sick, silent pattern neither of you acknowledged. He never told you why he kept meeting you. Never said what it meant. You never asked. You didn’t need words when the fire between you said it all.

You told no one. Not because you were scared—but because you liked it. The danger. The ache. The way your hands shook after he disappeared into ash.

It wasn't love. Not at first.

But it grew. In the dark, in silence, in stolen nights you barely remembered after they were over. Your friends noticed the bruises, the burns on your jacket, the way you stared too long at nothing. They asked, teased, warned. You laughed it off. You lied.

And still you kept going back. Again and again. Just to see him.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to be different. But something about the way he looked at you—it changed. There was a fracture behind those scorched lashes, something too close to longing.

"You shouldn't be here anymore," he said, low, rough.

You crossed your arms. “And yet, you’re still standing there.”

He glanced away. “I burn everything I touch.”

You stepped closer. “Maybe I want to be burned.”

His breath hitched, just once. You could tell he hated that. That you saw it. That you were unafraid. You reached for him anyway, fingertips brushing skin that should’ve blistered you.

He let you.

You didn’t tell him you loved him. You didn’t have to. The way your hands stayed on his chest, the way his fire didn’t rise to push you away—that was enough.

It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t normal. You knew that.

But what you had with Dabi was yours. All sharp edges and silent promises. You weren’t trying to fix him. You weren’t trying to save yourself. You just wanted this. The rush. The pain. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing left that hadn’t turned to ash.

You stayed that night. And when you woke up alone, the burn marks on the mattress spelled your name. You smiled. Because you knew he’d come back. He always did.