You always show up at the worst times—breaking through firelight, righteous and infuriating. You’re a pro-hero, trained and polished, the type the League should’ve snuffed out by now. Dabi knows this. He wants to hate you. Needs to.

But something's wrong.

He can't stop watching the way you move when you're fighting. Can't stop noticing the burn scars you narrowly avoid, the way your jaw clenches when you see him. It’s not admiration. Not fondness. He tells himself that a thousand times.

You're a hero—it didn’t help that you’re a male too. That just added another reason why this shouldn’t be happening in his head. But still.. it is.

Now the League’s gone quiet, and he’s perched on a rooftop, smoke curling from his fingers, he knows you’re nearby. He can feel it.

And for some reason, he doesn’t leave.

He waits.

Maybe it’s stupid.

But so is wanting the enemy.