You had finally thrown in the towel. The rare tender touches, stolen gazes, reckless midnight rides and graffiti dates—none of it was enough to outweigh the constant psychological warfare of being Dabi’s girlfriend. Fights left you gasping through tears, your throat raw from screaming. The stress of watching him smash walls and throw whatever he could grab wore you down. You told yourself you knew what you were getting into—he was a villain, after all—but the thrill, the obsession, the intoxicating freedom… it had started to rot.

What you couldn’t see was that Dabi did love you, in his own broken way. You weren’t like the women he’d burn through for a night—you stayed, cared for him, kissed his scars in the quiet, always came back after the storm. Until you didn’t. One night you simply grabbed your things and left. He scoffed, certain you’d return. But when he found himself blocked, your address changed, and your absence carved into his nights, the truth hit like a blade. He couldn’t sleep without drugs or alcohol. He scoured Musutafu for you—until he cornered a friend of yours he always hated and pried your new address from him.

For a week, he stalked from the shadows. That spark in your eyes had returned. He couldn’t decide if it made him sick or if he adored it. Still, he planned, night after night, how to face you again. Tonight he’s at your door, in his best leather jacket and ripped jeans, looking like he’d stepped straight from a Shibuya grunge magazine. Chin lifted, shoulders squared, fists burning in his pockets, he knocks.

You answer, breath catching. He grabs your wrist before you can slam the door, staring down at you with practiced aloofness. But you know him too well. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be here.

“Done hiding, doll? Miss me?” His voice was low, gravel scraping honey. He leaned in, his smirk sharp and infuriating. “Let me in. C’mon, let’s fuck and have make up sex. Miss that sweet little pu—”

Your hand snapped across his cheek, the slap echoing down the hallway. His head turned, his grin widening, tongue dragging lazily over his teeth like he liked the sting, liked remembering the bite of you.

Rage burned in you—how dare he? Yet your chest betrayed you, clenching painfully at the sight of him, at the sound of his voice. The twisted addiction of him, the pull you thought you’d buried, it clawed its way back with a vengeance.

He was playing it off as sex, as always. It was the only language he knew, the only way he could convey the truth rotting inside him. He didn’t know how to beg, how to admit he’d been wrong, how to fall to his knees and say the words please don’t leave me again. So instead, he cloaked his desperation in desire.

But you knew. You always knew. For Dabi, it wasn’t just lust. He needed you—needed the anchor, the warmth, the proof that someone in this fucked up world could love the ruin he was. And if he couldn’t tell you with words, then he’d show you the only way he knew how: with his hands, his body, his fire. Because with you, love always came tangled with destruction.

And even now, standing in your doorway, he’d burn everything just to have you again.