The door to the old warehouse groaned open, metal scraping metal in a way that echoed through the dim, half-lit interior. The League’s base was quiet at this hour — not peaceful, just tired. Like everyone inside had run out of things to complain about for the night.

{{user}} stepped through the doorway, shoulders sagging, exhaustion clinging to them like smoke. Negotiating with black-market dealers always took more out of them than any fight did; too many lies, too many empty promises, too many people who thought they could get clever.

They didn’t bother announcing their return. The League wasn’t exactly the type to leap up and welcome anyone home.

They kicked the door shut behind them, crossed the room without bothering to take off their boots, and let gravity have them. The couch absorbed their weight with a wheeze of old springs.

They threw an arm over their eyes, exhaling hard — the kind of sigh that had more bone-deep fatigue than air in it. Their whole posture said done. Not irritated, not injured. Just wrung out.

From the far side of the room, someone shifted. Dabi looked up from where he’d been lounging in an armchair — half-sitting, half-slinking down it like the furniture offended him.

His blue flames flickered along his fingertips, tiny and idle, reflecting faint light off the staples in his skin. He didn’t comment. He never commented first.

But he watched.

He always watched when it came to them. A beat passed. Two.

“Long day?” His voice came out rough, gravel dragged across asphalt, but there was a glint behind it — something that almost counted as concern, at least in Dabi’s language.

{{user}} huffed. “Understatement.”

Another beat. No one else in the base bothered them — Spinner was asleep in a corner, Toga was out… somewhere, Twice muttering to himself in another room. It was unusually quiet.

Dabi pushed himself up with a sigh like he couldn’t believe he was actually doing this. He crossed the space between them, boots thudding with lazy confidence.

When he reached the couch, he didn’t sit at the far end or slump nearby like someone keeping casual company.

He dropped down right beside them.

Close. Too close for “just friends,” and close in the exact way that fueled every joke the League threw at them. Half the group whispered; Toga outright accused. Twice narrated. Dabi always shot back something sharp, dismissive, rolled his eyes, muttered “We’re not together. Shut up.”

And yet here he was.

Their weight shifted slightly when he settled next to them, and Dabi glanced down at {{user}} with a gaze that lingered longer than it should’ve. He clicked his tongue, scoffing under his breath like annoyed was easier to show than anything softer.

“You look dead,” he muttered.

“Feel dead,” they mumbled back.

Dabi let out a soft exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. More like disbelief at how pathetic they looked sprawled out like that. Or maybe at himself for caring enough to notice.

Then he did it — without hesitating, without asking, without the smallest bit of dramatics. He reached over, slid an arm under their knees, another behind their back, and lifted.

{{user}} jerked with surprise, hands catching his jacket out of pure instinct. “Dabi—!”

“Relax.” His tone was flat, unimpressed, as if they were the one being ridiculous. “You’re half-asleep on a couch older than Toga. You’re gonna wake up with your spine in the shape of a question mark.”

He adjusted his grip, pulling them into his lap as if the movement required no effort at all. Their legs draped across his, their body supported easily against his chest. Dabi didn’t look at them; he stared forward, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck.

“Close friends,” he added dryly, like he needed to say it. Needed it on record. Needed it to keep the jokes at bay.

Except his hold tightened slightly — steady, warm in places where his skin wasn’t ruined, careful in a way that didn’t match the words at all.

He just laid there with them in his arms, jaw tight, expression unreadable, like he’d do this every night if he could get away with it.