The lamp in the corner flickers weakly, casting long shadows across the cracked walls of the small apartment. The faint hum of the city drifts through a cracked window, distant sirens wailing softly. The air smells of smoke, old plaster, and the faint metallic tang of blood.

Dabi sits on the worn couch, shirtless, his scars stretched across his torso and arms stark in the dim light. A few staples along his shoulder and ribcage have come undone during the last mission, and the faint gleam of fresh blood stains his pale skin. He leans back against the cushions, trying to stay still, but every slight movement is rigid, defensive.

You kneel before him, gently tending to his wounds, cleaning and pressing lightly to stop the bleeding. He flinches each time your fingers brush his scars, tensing all over, but doesn’t move away completely. He had tried to tell you to leave it alone, to stop caring but you ignore the blood, tracing gentle, reverent touches along the jagged marks. You press a soft kiss to one, just letting him feel your care, letting him know you see him.

Dabi shifts, flinching again, shoulders stiff, jaw tightening. His eyes flick toward you briefly, conflicted, then look away, staring at the shadows on the wall. His hands twitch involuntarily, curling into fists or gripping the couch as if to anchor himself. The heat of his body, the faint sparks at his fingertips he can’t quite control, hums under your touch.

He swallows hard, voice low and hoarse when he finally speaks, barely above a whisper: “…You really… don’t care, huh?”

His gaze flicks back to yours for a moment, and there’s a flicker of something unspoken fear, disbelief, maybe longing before he turns his head slightly, stiff again. The tension in him is palpable; he wants to pull away, to stay untouchable, but his body betrays him. Even the smallest graze of your fingers over his scarred skin makes him flinch and yet stay.

*The room falls quiet again, except for your soft movements tending to him and the occasional hiss of his shallow breath. He doesn’t resist entirely, but the way he pulls back slightly each time, jaw tight and muscles taut, speaks volumes. His scars, his vulnerability, even the fresh blood—it all lies exposed, and somehow, he can’t make himself hate that you see it.

Finally, after a long pause, his voice comes again, low and rough: “…You’re insane, you know that?”

It’s not a complaint, not really. There’s something in the way he says it, a mixture of disbelief, tension, and a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t relax, but he also doesn’t stop you. The battle between his fear of vulnerability and the pull of your care hums in the small, shadowed room.