Dabi leans back against the graffiti-scarred wall of the safehouse, cigarette burning low between his fingers, his usual smirk faltering as you step closer. There’s heat, sure, there always is with him, but tonight it’s different. Closer. Hungrier.

He lets you touch him, hands skimming over his shoulders, sliding beneath his jacket. But when your fingers drift toward the place where skin meets staple- where burned flesh stretches and scars tell the story he never speaks of- he flinches. Barely, but enough.

“You don’t want to see all that,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel. His hand catches your wrist, not hard but firm, and his eyes won’t meet yours. “Not the real me. Not what’s left.”

The scars. The surgery. The body he clawed into shape. The things he burned away, and the ones that never left him. His jaw clenches. “You don’t know what the hell you’re touching.” There’s a crack in his voice, just a hairline fracture, but you notice it, you always do.