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Dabi freezes as he notices a shadow move around the corner, rage bubbling inside of him. But he also feels something different, something new.
Fear.
Fear that you're in danger, that you're being targeted, that you're hurt. He's not used to it, not accustomed to the way something in his heart does a squeeze at the thought that someone's here, someone's where you are, and it's not him. And if it were him half a year ago, he'd scoff, he'd turn around and march out of your apartment, march right out of your life.
He'd assume you've simply betrayed him and he'd build walls higher than sky-high, he'd reinforce yet another lock to his heart.
But now, now he has faith—a fickle thing, really. Faith is nothing but hope in disguise, an excuse for most to garner some form of reassurance. And Dabi does not hope, nor does he have faith, and under no circumstances does he ever need reassurance, but you've got to him.
You make him have faith in you, and he hates it, but he hates not having it more.
Which is why he's going to incinerate the unwise intruder who dared step foot into your apartment. He quietly takes a few steps forward, rounding the corner with his hand held up, ready for his flames to burst any second.
Without warning, the figure jumps at him, lunging from a corner, a lamp in hand ready to swing at his head. His palm erupts in flames, and he's this close to striking, but he notices something all too quickly.
It's you.
And as quickly as his flames come, they go. Unfortunately for Dabi, your reflexes aren't as quick, and the lamp comes into contact with his shoulder as he swerves to the side.
"Ow, what the fuck? What's wrong with you," he growls. Standing in shock that the person before you is in fact not a killer, and is indeed your very much missed boyfriend, you gasp happily.
"Dabi! You're back," you grin. Instantly, you latch onto his arm, looking into his eyes with an excited gleam in yours. He scoffs.
"You just attacked me," he grumbles, rubbing his shoulders. "'M leaving again." Pouting, your arms wrap around his midsection. You pretend you don't feel the bandages through his shirt, pretend to rub his back with your palm. He and you both know you're feeling him up to see how far the bandages go, but neither of you says anything.
"Stop being a dick."
"You hit me with a lamp," he hisses. His arm snakes around your waist though, and the familiar contrast of blazing skin and cool staples makes you relax against his chest. You place a delicate kiss, one that falls right in between healthy and charred skin. You never fail to do this, and he never fails to notice.
"You almost melted my face," you counter.
"Well, I stopped on time. I thought your dumbass was a killer."
"Well, I thought your dumbass was a killer too, you're not supposed to be back for—wait a second! Aww, baby, you got worried," you coo, smooshing his cheeks together. Growling, he shoves you off.
Truth be told, he was worried. He was so worried. Dabi's never been this worried over something in a long time—and under the rage, the pure unadulterated anger that came with the thought that someone was trying to hurt you, there was a helplessness he wasn't used to. Dabi stuck to the shadows and he stayed alone, but you were his exception.
"No, I didn't," he mutters. Turning, he walks to the bathroom with you following pursuit, watching as you grab a washcloth and a bucket without him saying anything. "Thought someone found me is all," he shrugs.
"Sure," you tease, watching as he strips himself of his shirt. There are faint traces of blood under the bandages, his skin is tender and irritated, and his staples look a little swollen. He notices the way your face drops.
"It's not as bad as it looks, doll," he offers a tight smile. But you sigh, cupping his cheeks, bringing his face closer to yours. He presses his forehead to yours instantly, like a force of habit.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" And he knows half a year ago he'd lie through his teeth, but today he simply closes his eyes, gripping your waist tightly and nodding slowly.
"Yeah." He lets you kiss his cheek, and his nose, and his lips, and he lets you fill the bucket with cold water, dipping the rag in to press to his scalded skin, carefully trying to soothe it as best as you could.
"You should know better than to let yourself get this overheated," you chide. Despite the grimace he gives in pain, he also gives you a signature smirk.
"Looks like you're worried too." This time, you scoff.
"As if. I'm not worried about you. Don't even know you, what's your name again?" you grin, a playful glint in your eye that eases his mind fully for the first time in days.
"You were screaming it—"
"Finish that sentence and you're back in the streets." Dabi smiles, and it's real, soft, genuine. He cups your cheeks this time, bringing your attention back to his eyes once more.
"You wouldn't get cold with me out in the streets?"
"Nah, I got a new blanket. It's fuzzy," you grin.
"You'll kick it off like always, you fucking idiot." And he kisses you, cutting you off mid-sentence as you go to retort, ignoring the searing ache of his wounds, focusing on the softness of your lips instead.
He kisses you to tell you that he loves you, and you kiss him back to promise that you know.
