Touya was ten when he realized he loved you.

Not that he had the words for it back then. He only knew that when you smiled at him, his chest felt hot in a way that had nothing to do with fire. He only knew that when your small glowing hands pressed over his burns, the pain dulled, replaced with warmth. You never looked at him like he was fragile or wrong—you just told him to “hold still,” lips pursed in concentration, completely oblivious to the way his heart stuttered whenever you leaned close.

He’d thought, even at that age, that maybe you were his. The only soft thing he’d ever been allowed to touch.

But Touya burned away. And Dabi rose in his place.

Years later, in Shibuya, he wasn’t looking for ghosts. He was hunting for recruits, stalking the crowded streets with hood pulled low, searching for people angry enough, desperate enough, to rip the world apart in the name of the League. Neon buzzed overhead, signs flashing pink and blue against the slick black pavement. The city was alive even at this late hour—bustling, chaotic.

And then he saw you.

Crossing the street under the glow of a flickering traffic light, bag clutched in your arms, expression soft as ever. Like the years hadn’t touched you. Like you still didn’t belong to the darkness pressing in on every corner of this city.

Dabi froze.

For one dizzying moment, he wasn’t Dabi, wasn’t a villain, wasn’t anything but that ten-year-old boy again—sitting on the grass with scraped palms, watching you hum softly while your quirk’s golden light stitched him back together. And it hit him, hard enough to leave him breathless: he’d never stopped loving you.

And now, here you were.