The hospital room was silent, save for the steady hum of the monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets. Dabi, wrapped nearly head to toe in bandages, lay motionless on the hospital bed. His usual fiery defiance had dimmed, exhaustion weighing heavy on him after the chaos of the war. Yet, for the first time in years, his expression wasn’t twisted in anger—it was soft, almost peaceful.

Across his chest lay Shoto, also bandaged and bruised, fast asleep. His arms clung tightly to his older brother as if afraid he might disappear. The younger Todoroki’s breathing was slow and steady, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had brought them here.

Dabi glanced down at the boy—no, the young man—he’d spent so long hating from a distance. Shoto had risked everything for this moment, for this fragile hope that they could still be brothers, despite all the pain between them. Dabi didn’t quite know what to do with the weight of that truth.

His arm twitched, stiff and aching, but he managed to lift a hand to rest lightly on Shoto’s head. His little brother stirred slightly but didn’t wake, snuggling closer instead.

Dabi let out a low sigh, his chest tight with emotions he couldn’t name. “You’re too stubborn for your own good, brat,” he murmured softly, though his voice carried no malice.

For once, Dabi didn’t feel the need to push someone away. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Shoto’s presence soothe him, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—they could build something new. Something better.