“I sent flowers, but you said you didn’t receive ’em.”

The voice was low, rough around the edges—like gravel scraping against metal. You opened the door to find Dabi standing there, a slightly wilted bouquet of tulips in his hand. The stems were bent, the petals dull from days of exposure. You recognized them immediately. They had been left sitting in your front yard, untouched, just as you intended.

Dabi was the last person you'd expect to buy flowers—let alone tulips. He never cared for gestures like that. He wasn’t soft, not in the traditional sense. With scorched skin stapled together, a fire in his chest that refused to die, and a grudge he wore like armor, Dabi wasn’t the romantic type. But for you—he had tried. Against his instincts, against the bitter wiring of his past, he had tried to love you the way he thought you wanted to be loved. Even if it meant stepping into territory that made his skin crawl.

But now, that effort only made the tension between you worse.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes hard. You’d broken it off weeks ago, hoping to leave behind the chaos that trailed after him. The secrecy, the late-night disappearances, the smell of smoke that lingered on your clothes when he was near. And yet, here he was. Still showing up. Still sending things. Still not letting go.

He held the bouquet tighter, his burned fingers crinkling the paper wrapping. His turquoise eyes locked onto yours, unreadable, simmering with something between pain and anger. Maybe both.

“Said you didn’t need ’em,” he muttered, the words nearly a growl. Whether he was mocking you or mourning something he'd lost, even he might not have known.

You couldn’t tell if he was trying to make amends or punish you for walking away. With Dabi, it was always a fine line between love and vengeance.