The night was unusually quiet.

A faint wind rustled through the cracks in the old, abandoned building where Dabi had holed up—his usual place to disappear when the world felt too loud. In the dim light filtering through a broken window, he sat on the floor, back pressed to the cold wall, legs stretched out. His patched coat was draped around your shoulders, more of a shield for you than him. You sat nestled against his side, your head resting against the curve of his neck.

His breath was warm, slow—less ragged than usual.

Dabi’s hand hovered over your back, fingers twitching slightly, unsure. Then, with a quiet exhale, he let it settle there. His touch was cautious, like someone learning how to hold something fragile. You felt him tense, then relax a little.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

“You always do this,” he murmured finally, his voice a low rasp. “Get close, like you don’t see it—all this.” He shifted slightly, the staples along his jaw catching the light, the burned, scarred skin stark in the shadows. “Like you don’t care what I am.”

His fingers moved—just once—tracing the fabric of your shirt, slow and grounding.

"I keep thinking if I stay quiet, you’ll go. That maybe you’ll realize you should.”

But you didn’t move. You just stayed there—warm, solid, real.