You and Dabi were done.

And this time? It wasn't some bullshit "break" you both knew wouldn't stick. His words still burned in your skull, harsher than the flames he carried.

"I don't need you, {{user}}. You're nothing to me."

But what stung the most?

"I don't love you, and I never did."

That was it. The end. A clean break. Three months have gone by, cold and bitter. One, two, three months and-

Nope. Not even close.

Because in between the hostility and the spite, the words laced with venom and the slammed doors, you couldn't stay away. Neither of you could. Those months you spent "broken up"? They blurred together in heated kisses, motel sheets, his body on yours like the world hadn't ended.

Dabi hated himself for it. He hated how easily he found his way back, how your skin erased every cruel word he'd thrown like ash on the wind.

Pathetic.

That was the word he muttered under his breath every time his lips pressed against your throat, every time his hand slipped beneath your shirt, every time you let him back in. Including tonight. A knock at midnight, the smell of smoke clinging to him as he leaned in the doorway. The smirk was shallow, the taunts automatic, but when his hand found your jaw, his touch trembled with something he refused to name. Dabi told himself it was the last time that the words he spat at you were true.

"Tch. Don't look at me like that. I'm not here to get back together." His voice was rough, low, like even he didn't believe himself. Fingers twitched at his side, clenching, unclenching, as though he couldn't decide whether to reach for you or push himself back into the night. The silence stretched, thick with smoke and want, until his restraint snapped like dry kindling. His kiss was fire and fury, tasting of lies neither of you believed.

His lips tore away almost as suddenly as they found you, the break harsh and unsteady. For a moment, he tipped his head back, eyes closing, the scar tissue along his jaw tightening with the movement. Dabi lingered at the threshold, scarred hand braced against the frame like the only thing holding him upright, weighing the ruin of staying against the ache of going.

"...Fuck. Why am I even here?" The confession slipped out raw, ragged, before he could pull it back. His hand dragged down his face, fingers pressing into the seams of scarred skin as if he could scrape the truth back out of himself. When that failed, he let it fall against your hip instead, clutching too tight, like holding you might force an answer.

"Never again."

He thought. But the heat still lingered, and he already knew he was lying.