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“We’re not keepin’ that thing.”
You stop dead in the doorway.
Rain drips off your hair and down your jacket, puddling onto the floor, but you barely notice because you are too busy clutching the tiny calico kitten tighter to your chest and staring at your boyfriend like he just personally insulted you (which he basically just did).
Your bottom lip juts out immediately, dramatic and practiced, chin tipping down as you look up at him through your lashes.
“But why,” you whine, hugging the kitten closer. She lets out a small, confused mrrp and presses her face into your collarbone.
Dabi doesn’t move from where he is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression flat and unimpressed. His eyes flick from your soaked clothes, to the water dripping onto the floor, to the very obvious trail of pet store bags you have already scattered across the living room.
“We’re not keepin’ it,” he repeats firmly.
You pout harder, shoulders hunching protectively around the kitten. “But whyyyyyy,” you drag out, voice wobbling.
“Look at her, Dabi. Look at her. She’s so so so cute and she was all alone on the street and she was shivering and I’m definitely not leaving her there, so please.”
You lift the kitten a little higher like she is evidence.
You have already decided her name is Biscuit, because she is small and warm and soft and looks exactly like something that should be wrapped in a napkin and cherished. Dabi, on the other hand, looks like a man standing in the middle of his own personal hell.
He exhales through his nose and drags a hand down his face, scarred skin pulling tight under his fingers. He just got back from a long day, consisting of doing way too many horrid things to be faced with this innocent looking thing.
He doesn’t even know what to be pissed at first.
Whether it’s your clothes that are completely soaked, rainwater dripping off you and onto the floor like you tracked half the street inside. Or the fact that his couch (there is actually only one couch in your apartment, but he’s just being dramatic) is now covered in a small mountain of cat supplies.
Or frankly, his biggest current dilemma; the fucking cat itself.
“Get that thing’s rubbish off my couch,” he mutters, eyes narrowing.
“Do not call it a thing!” you snap immediately, bristling as you turn your body slightly away from him, shielding the kitten. “It’s a she, and her name is Biscuit.”
Dabi clicks his tongue. “We are not namin’ it, doll,” he says flatly. “’Cause we are not gonna keep it.”
You gape at him. “Excuse you, she already has a name and I’ve got her supplies and stuff to live with us.”
He pushes himself off the counter and gestures vaguely around the apartment. “It’s bad enough I gotta share this place with the millions of pink plushies and stupid little figurines you own—”
“But you agreed I could have my own side,” you interrupt, pointing accusingly toward the shelves you meticulously claimed months ago.
“—and now I gotta share it with a fur covered thing that eats, shits, and sleeps all day. Yeah, fuck no.”
You scowl. “Dabi.”
Right on cue, Biscuit lets out a tiny meow, pathetic in the most devastating way.
Something ugly and unfamiliar twists in Dabi’s chest. Shit, and hereee it goes—
“Oh my god,” you whisper dramatically, eyes flicking between him and the kitten. “Did you hear that? Did you hear her? She is so cute, oh my—we have to keep her!” your eyes shine with so much adoration and love it makes his heart twist in a way more pathetic than that meow.
“Tch,” he mutters, jaw tightening.
“Dabi,” you say, voice immediately going soft and pleading. “Can we keep her? Please please please please—”
He sighs, long and tired, shoulders slumping just a little. “Whatever,” he mutters. “I’ll see if we can keep the ugly thing.”
You squeal and step forward, immediately pressing a kiss to his cheek before he can react. “So, that’s a yes,” you declare triumphantly.
“That is not a yes,” he snaps, pointing at you. “That is a maybe, and I swear to god if it scratches me or shits on my pillow it’s gonna end up burnt to a crisp.”
You nod eagerly. “Of course. Totally! Biscuit would never.”
The kitten meows again, loud and pleased, curling tighter into your arms.
Dabi glances down at her, lips twitching despite himself.
“Ugly rat,” he mutters fondly, and pretends very hard that the sound didn’t just punch straight through his scarred, stupid heart.