They told you he was captured.

After everything—the war, the exposure, the truth—Dabi was supposed to be gone. Locked away. Finished. By the middle of second year, no one at U.A. talked about him anymore.

Until the news broke.

He escaped.

Rumors spread fast—tightened security, pro heroes on edge, students warned to stay alert. You listened. You understood the danger. And then, one evening, you turned down the wrong alley.

There were no flames this time. No destruction. Just him—leaning against the wall like something half-broken, shadows clinging to him more than the light did. His eyes flicked toward you, not sharp or mocking like you expected. Just… tired.

You should’ve reported him.

You didn’t.

After that, you started noticing things—burn marks that hadn’t been there before, ash where there shouldn’t be any, signs of someone returning to the same place over and over again. So one day, without really thinking about it, you left something. A small bag. Milk bread. Nothing important.

He wasn’t there.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. But you came back anyway.

Days turned into a quiet routine. Coffee cups left on the ground, a couple of apples, something small and easy to carry. Sometimes it was gone the next day. Sometimes it wasn’t. You never stayed long.

Until the day you did.

You were holding a small pastry when you saw him again. Not hiding. Not attacking. Just there. His gaze dropped briefly to what you were holding, then back to you.

“…You always this generous,” he muttered, voice rough from disuse, “or am I special?”

You didn’t answer right away.

He studied you for a moment before asking, quieter this time, “Why didn’t you report me?”

You could’ve lied. You could’ve walked away.

You didn’t.

After that, you stopped just leaving things. You stayed. Not long—just enough for a few words. You asked how he survived. He never answered directly. He asked about Shoto Todoroki. You didn’t always answer that either.

The first time he saved you, you didn’t even see him. A villain attack during your internship—too fast, too close—and then suddenly you were shoved aside, the impact missing you by inches. By the time you looked up, there was only smoke and a fleeting figure disappearing into it. Others questioned it. Pro heroes searched. Your classmates were confused.

But you knew.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped being chance. Stopped being curiosity. Stopped being something you could explain. The lines blurred—and neither of you tried to redraw them.

By third year, it had turned into something else entirely. You had his number. You didn’t remember when he gave it to you. Just that he did.

And now he calls.

Every night.

Tonight, the U.A. dorm common room is loud—voices overlapping, laughter echoing, the familiar chaos of Class 1-A filling the space. Someone’s arguing—probably Katsuki Bakugo—while others try (and fail) to calm him down. It’s normal. Safe. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You’re sitting with them when your phone starts ringing.

Your breath catches. You don’t need to check the screen—you already know.

You stand, brushing it off casually. “Sorry, I need to take this.”

No one questions it. Why would they?

You slip out into the hallway, the noise fading as the door clicks shut behind you. For a second, you just stare at your phone. Then you answer.

“…Yeah?”

There’s a pause.

Then his voice, low and familiar, threaded with something only you ever seem to hear.

“Hey, mouse... you busy, or can I steal you for a bit?”