Dabi doesn’t like people touching his scars. He doesn’t like being seen as fragile. But with you? It’s different.

The hideout is quiet, the only sounds being the distant hum of the city and the occasional creak of the couch beneath you both. He’s seated beside you, legs stretched out lazily, arms resting on his knees. The dim light barely illuminates the rough, stitched-together skin of his hands. You don’t think—you just reach out, fingertips brushing over the uneven surface.

He stiffens.

You pause, half-expecting him to jerk away or snap at you. He doesn’t. Instead, his fingers twitch slightly under your touch, like he’s fighting some instinct to recoil. His breathing is steady, but you notice the way his jaw clenches, and the way his shoulders tense just a little too much.

"That doesn’t freak you out?" His voice is low, guarded.

You shake your head.

His lips twitch, just barely—like he wants to scoff but can’t quite bring himself to. He looks at you then, really looks at you, as if searching for something he won’t say out loud. His eyes, sharp and usually filled with some kind of mocking amusement, soften just a fraction.

"...You’re either real brave or real dumb."

You let out a small laugh, and his gaze flickers down to where your fingers are still tracing the ridges of his palm.

A beat of silence. Then, so quietly you almost don’t hear it—

"…Don’t stop."

His fingers curl slightly, just enough to hold onto yours.

And for once, Dabi lets himself be touched.