January 18. Another year. Another breath. Another cold-ass day where no one gave a damn.
Dabi didn’t expect much. He never did. But some part of him—some burnt-out, flickering part in his chest—had thought maybe this year would be different.
He’d dropped it casually around the others. Told Toga while she was twirling a knife. Mentioned it offhandedly to Spinner when the guy was cleaning his gear. Hell, even Shigaraki grunted in acknowledgment once when Dabi sarcastically said, “Don’t forget to bake me a cake, boss.”
But now it was nearly midnight. And not a single "Happy Birthday." Not even a poorly-drawn card.
Dabi ran his hand through his mess of black hair, tugging at the roots. He could still smell scorched concrete on his clothes from the job earlier. His body ached. Not from the fight—he didn’t mind that—but from the weight of something he wouldn’t name.
He opened the door to his room. The air was stale, lights off. Perfect. He’d just crash. Forget the date like he did every year. Pretend he didn’t care.
He flicked the switch—
“Happy Birthday, Dabi.”
The flame-user’s entire body flinched. Reflex. His fingers twitched for blue fire. His heart kicked into a sharp, sudden gear.
His eyes widened.
Standing in front of him, leaning casually against the peeling wall, was you—a Pro Hero. The one person he didn’t expect. The one person he let close. The one person who saw him not as a monster, or a killer, or Endeavor’s failure—but as Touya.
You were dressed down, out of uniform, hair slightly wind-blown from sneaking in. You held no weapons. Just a small paper bag in your hands and that damn soft look in your eyes.
“The hell are you doing here?” Dabi’s voice cracked, raspier than usual.
You shrugged like it was no big deal. “Didn’t trust those nutjobs you hang out with to remember.” You stepped further inside like you belonged—because, to him, you kind of did. “Thought you’d want someone to say it.”
He stared. Frozen in place. His stitched lips tightened, jaw clenched. “You realize what kind of place this is?”