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The sun was a merciless, white-hot coin in a bleached sky. Day four. Or was it five? Time had blurred into a continuous, gritty smear of survival on this godforsaken rock in the middle of nowhere. Sand, salt, and the one person I’d least want to be shipwrecked with: Dabi.
He was across our pathetic little camp, poking a dying fire with a stick, his silhouette a jagged cutout against the turquoise sea. The tension between us was a living thing, thicker than the humid air. I was the Winged Hero, the Commission’s golden boy. He was a villain, a walking war crime with a stapled smile. We hated each other on principle, and proximity had only refined that hate into something sharp and personal.
“See anything, birdie?” he drawled, not looking at me. His voice was always like gravel rolling in oil.
I flexed my wings, feeling the dull ache of overuse. My feathers were scattered across the island as tools—some fishing, some scanning the horizon, a few tucked in the tree line as sentries. “No ships. No planes. Just more ocean. You’d think with all the chaos we caused, someone would be looking.”
“Maybe they think we killed each other,” he said, a dark chuckle escaping him. “Half-right.”
That was our routine. Bartered insults over scavenged coconuts and raw fish. A constant, low-grade warfare. He’d make a jab about me being a government puppet; I’d retort about his pyromaniacal lack of subtlety. We argued about everything: how to build a shelter, how to ration the fresh water we’d found in a crevice, the ethics of using my feathers to spear crabs. It was exhausting.
That first night, the arguing had been worse. We’d been fighting over who got the more sheltered spot to sleep.
“You’re literally covered in feathers,” Dabi had sneered. “You’re insulated. I’m walking scar tissue. I need the cover.”
“My wings are water-resistant, not waterproof, and they’re cramped in that alcove. You take the sand. Build a character.”
“I’ll build a funeral pyre with your molted fluff,” he’d shot back.
We’d ended up on opposite sides of the small beach, the gulf between us far wider than the actual distance. I didn’t sleep. I listened to the waves and the sound of his breathing, waiting for an attack that never came. Survival, for now, was a temporary truce.
The nightmare didn’t come that first night. It waited. It let the exhaustion sink into my bones, let the constant vigilance fray my nerves to threads. It came on the third night.
I was in the Commission’s training room. Not the nice, public one. The underground one. The walls were soundproofed white. A handler, face a bland mask, held a feather—my primary, my strongest. “Speed, Keigo. Again. Faster. It’s not fast enough.” His voice was calm, devoid of malice, which made it worse. The feather was attached to a sensor. If I didn’t move it at the exact, inhuman speed they demanded, the circuit wouldn’t complete. And if the circuit didn’t complete…
The shock wasn’t electric. It was deeper, a seismic jolt of pure, debilitating pain that locked my joints and turned my vision white. It didn’t come from the feather; it came from the collar around my neck. A “motivational tool.” I was twelve.
“Again.”
I tried. My vision swam. The feather trembled.
ZAP.
My small body hit the white mat, convulsing.
“Your potential is limitless, Keigo. This pain is the price. Don’t make us raise the price.”
Another handler stepped into view, holding a pair of pliers. “The secondary feathers are coming in crooked. We’ll need to correct them.”
I woke up screaming.
The sound was raw, animal, tearing out of my throat before I was even conscious. I bolted upright, gasping, my wings flaring out and smacking against the rock wall of the alcove I’d finally conceded to sleep in. The phantom pain of the shock, the dread of the pliers, was so real I could smell the sterile, antiseptic stench of the room.
I was trembling violently, palms flat on the cool sand, trying to remember where I was. Island. Shipwreck. Dabi.
“Hey. Hey, birdbrain.”
The voice was close. Too close. I flinched hard, scrambling back, a few primary feathers snapping into a defensive position aimed at the voice’s source.
Dabi was crouched a few feet away, his blue eyes reflecting the faint starlight. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t holding a flame. He just looked… awake. And oddly still.
“You were screaming,” he said, his voice lower than usual, stripped of its usual mocking edge. “Sounded like someone was skinning you alive.”
I couldn’t speak. My breath hitched in my chest, coming in short, useless gasps. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to force the tremors to stop. I was humiliated. This was the last thing I wanted him to see.
He didn’t move closer. He just watched me for a long moment, then his gaze dropped to my hands, which were gripping my own arms so tightly my knuckles were white. He’d seen the scars there once, during a fight. Old, precise marks from restraints.
A grim understanding seemed to flicker in his eyes. He looked away, out to the sea. “Bad memories have a way of catching up in the dark,” he muttered, almost to himself. It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t pity. It was just a statement, an acknowledgment from one damaged thing to another.
He didn’t say another word. He just sat there, a silent, dark sentinel, until my breathing evened out and the violent shaking subsided into an occasional shudder. When I finally lay back down, facing the wall, I heard the soft crunch of sand as he returned to his spot across the camp.
The next day, the dynamic had shifted. The air was different. The insults lacked their former venom. We still argued—fiercely—about how to signal a passing plane I thought I’d seen, but it was different. I caught him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, not with hatred, but with a sharp, analytical curiosity. And I found myself noticing things about him: the careful way he moved to avoid stretching his scars, the surprising patience he showed when trying to mend a torn piece of fabric with a bone needle.
We didn’t talk about the nightmare. But it was there, a shared secret in the space between us. And with that secret came a terrifying, dawning realization. This sharp, cynical, brutal man… I didn’t hate him. Not anymore. I was starting to like him. The realization hit me like a physical blow while we were silently sharing a piece of fruit. I liked his dry, morbid humor. I liked the fierce intelligence in his eyes. I was fascinated by the contradiction of him—the capacity for immense destruction paired with the quiet, non-invasive way he’d sat with me in my panic.
I could see a similar war being fought behind his own eyes. He’d snarl, then stop himself. He’d reach for a cruel jab, then let his hand fall. The attraction was a live wire between us, dangerous and undeniable, and we both tiptoed around it, terrified to touch it.
The first panic attack after that realization was almost inevitable. It happened during an argument, of course.
We were debating our next move. “We should try to build a raft,” I insisted, gesturing to the trees. “My feathers can help lash it together. Sitting here waiting is suicide.”
“Your feathers are waterlogged and fraying,” Dabi shot back, leaning against a palm tree. “A raft in these currents? That’s a faster, wetter suicide. We stay put. Conserve energy. Your hero complex is going to get us both killed.”
“My hero complex is the only reason you’re not dehydrated and starving!” I snapped, my temper fraying. The stress, the lack of sleep, the confusing feelings—it was all a pressure cooker in my chest.
“Oh, I’m so grateful, Hawks,” he sneered, pushing off the tree and taking a step toward me. His use of my hero name was a deliberate needle. “The perfect little savior, trained from birth to be everyone’s tool. Tell me, do you ever make a decision they didn’t program into you first?”
It was meant to hurt. It did. But it wasn’t just the insult. It was the way it echoed the voices from my dream—your potential is limitless, Keigo… don’t make us raise the price. The sterile white walls of the training room seemed to superimpose themselves over the lush green of the jungle.
My breath caught. The world started to narrow, the edges of my vision darkening and buzzing. The sounds of the waves and the birds became muffled, drowned out by a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
“I’m not… I’m not a tool,” I managed to gasp out, but the words were thin, weak.
Dabi’s sneer faltered. He saw it. The color draining from my face, the way my wings drooped and began to tremble at the primaries, the blind, unfocused panic in my eyes. I wasn’t arguing anymore. I was drowning on dry land.
I stumbled back, pressing my palms against my temples. “Stop. Just stop talking.”
For a horrifying second, I thought he’d press the advantage, deliver the killing blow with his words. But he didn’t. The anger bled out of his posture, replaced by something else. Something urgent.
“Hawks.” He said my name, not my hero title. His voice was firm, but not harsh. “Look at me.”
I couldn’t. I was locked in, seeing handlers, sensing collars.
He moved then, closing the distance between us. He didn’t touch me. He crouched down so he was in my eyeline, even as I tried to turn away. “Hey. You’re on an island. It’s hot. You can hear the waves. You can smell the salt and the stupid rotting coconut over there. Tell me five things you can see. Right now.”
The command, so concrete and so utterly unexpected from him, pierced the fog. I dragged my eyes to his. The piercings, the scars, the intense blue. “I… I see you. Your… your staples.”
“Good. Four more.”
“The… the green palm leaves. The brown sand. Your black coat. The gray rock.”
“Okay. Now four things you can feel.”
My mind latched onto the task, a lifeline. “The sand under my feet. The sun on my wings. The… the ache in my shoulder. The inside of my mouth is dry.”
“Three things you can hear.”
“Your voice. The waves. Birds.”
He kept going, leading me through the senses, grounding me back into my body, back onto this beach, with him. When he got to “one thing you can taste,” I whispered, “Salt.”
The vise around my chest loosened. The ringing faded. I was still shaky, utterly spent, but I was present. I was here. And he was still crouched in front of me, watching me carefully, his own expression unreadable.
“You back?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, unable to speak, overwhelmed by a shame so profound it felt like a physical weight. A top hero, brought low by words. And saved by a villain.
He let out a long, slow breath and sat back in the sand, not looking at me. “Those Commission bastards really did a number on you, huh?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a confirmation. And in it, I heard an empathy that ran deeper than pity. It was the recognition of one who had also been shaped by cruelty.
That was the breaking point. The pretense of hatred shattered completely after that.
We didn’t speak of it again, but the space between us vanished. We sat closer. We shared food without bartering. We talked, really talked, in the firelight—not about heroes and villains, but about stupid things, hard things, dreams we’d had as kids before the world twisted us. I told him about the sky, the true, simple joy of flight before it became a tactical asset. He told me, in fragmented, bitter pieces, about a home that was always cold.
Touching started accidentally. A brush of hands passing a water shell. His shoulder against mine as we looked at a constellation I was pointing out. Then it became deliberate. My wing, curling slightly around him when the night wind picked up. His hand, resting lightly on my ankle as we slept under the same lean-to, a silent promise that the nightmares wouldn’t get me alone.
The second panic attack came weeks later, triggered by a simple thing. A seagull cried out, a sharp, piercing sound that was eerily similar to the alarm that used to signal the start of a “disciplinary session.” I froze mid-sentence, the world tilting. This one was quieter, more insidious—a sudden, paralyzing silence where I just shut down, staring into nothing.
Dabi didn’t need the grounding exercise this time. He simply reached over, took my hand, and laced his scarred, rough fingers through mine. He held on tightly, an anchor in the static. “I’m here,” he said, his thumb stroking my knuckles. “You’re here. It’s just a bird.” And slowly, feeling the solid, warm reality of his grip, I came back.
We were kissing before we ever spoke the word “date.” It happened after a successful fishing trip, a moment of pure, shared triumph. We were both laughing, soaked and breathless, and he looked at me with a light in his eyes I’d never seen before—not fury, not mockery, just pure, unguarded joy. I reached up, brushed a wet strand of hair from his forehead, and he went still. The laughter died, replaced by a charged silence. He was the one who closed the final distance, his kiss surprisingly soft against mine, a careful press of lips that held a universe of unsaid things.
After that, we were just… together. We built a better shelter. We held hands. He’d trace the lines of my feathers, and I’d trace the edges of his scars, learning a new history written on skin. We bickered still, but it was fond, a familiar dance. He’d call me an “overgrown chicken” and I’d call him a “walking barbecue,” and then we’d kiss, tasting of salt and sunshine.
The day the rescue boat finally appeared on the horizon, we were sitting side-by-side, my head on his shoulder, my red wings a blanket around us both. We watched it approach, a silent agreement passing between us. The outside world, with all its labels of hero and villain, was coming back. But here, on this island, we had found something else. We had found each other in the wreckage. And as I felt his arm tighten around me, I knew that no matter what hell awaited us back home, this—this fragile, fierce, hard-won thing between us—was the one truth I would never let them take from me.The argument starts over nothing—and somehow everything.
It’s the fire.
It’s always the fire.
“You’re going to burn the whole damn island down,” I snap, wings twitching behind me as I pace the sand. The tide is low, the air heavy with salt, and the little driftwood shelter we threw together looks extra fragile in the flickering orange light.
Dabi doesn’t even look at me at first. He just crouches by the flames, blue fire licking between his fingers like it belongs there. Like it’s part of him.
“Relax, bird brain,” he mutters. “I’m controlling it.”
“That’s what you said yesterday,” I shoot back. “And the day before that. You think ‘controlling it’ means letting it get within inches of everything we own?”
“We don’t own anything,” he says flatly, finally glancing up. “We’re stranded.”
I hate how calm he sounds. I hate how right he is.
I run a hand through my hair, feathers rustling with agitation. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” he says, standing now, slow and deliberate. “What I know is you hovering over me every five seconds like I’m about to explode is getting real annoying.”
“Maybe if you didn’t act like a walking disaster—”
“Oh, here we go.” He laughs, sharp and humorless. “The Number Two Hero lecturing me about being a problem. That’s rich.”
My chest tightens.
“That’s not what I—”
“Isn’t it?” he cuts in, stepping closer. “You heroes love that, don’t you? Labeling people. ‘Villain.’ ‘Dangerous.’ ‘Needs to be controlled.’”
Something twists hard in my stomach.
“That’s not—” My voice cracks, and I hate it. I hate that he notices.
“Oh, I get it now,” he continues, eyes narrowing. “You’re not worried about the fire. You’re worried about me.”
“Yeah,” I snap. “I am.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.
His expression shifts—just slightly—but I’m too wound up to read it.
“You think I’m gonna hurt you?” he asks, quieter now.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Because the answer isn’t simple. Because it’s not him I’m afraid of—not really—but fear doesn’t care about logic.
“Forget it,” he mutters, turning away.
“No, don’t—” I take a step forward, frustration boiling over. “You don’t get to just walk away every time something gets real!”
“‘Real’?” he scoffs. “You don’t even know what real is, hero.”
That word hits like a slap.
“Don’t call me that like it’s an insult.”
“It is an insult,” he snaps, whirling back around. “You think you’re so different from the people who made you—”
“Shut up.”
He doesn’t.
“They broke you down and built you back up into their perfect little weapon and you’re still defending them—”
“SHUT UP!”
My voice cracks loud and sharp across the beach—and suddenly everything is wrong.
Too loud.
Too tight.
Too much.
The world tilts.
I can’t—breathe.
My chest locks up like someone shoved a fist inside and squeezed. Air gets stuck halfway in, halfway out, like my lungs forgot how to work.
Not now.
Not in front of him.
I stagger back, wings flaring instinctively, feathers scattering in the sand. My hands shake as I press them to my ribs, like I can force them to move.
In—out—
In—
It won’t come.
“Hey.”
Dabi’s voice cuts through immediately this time.
No confusion. No hesitation.
He’s already moving.
“I’ve got you,” he says, low and steady, like he’s done this before—because he has. Twice. “Don’t fight it.”
I shake my head anyway, panic clawing up my throat. “I—can’t—”
“Yeah, you can,” he interrupts, stepping right into my space. Not crowding—anchoring. “Same as before. Look at me.”
I try to look away.
His hand comes up—not grabbing my face, just hovering near my jaw, a quiet barrier that keeps me from spiraling further.
“Keigo.”
That name again.
Firm this time.
Grounding.
My eyes snap to his.
“There you are,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.”
My vision blurs, but I don’t lose him this time.
“Breathe with me. In—slow.”
He exaggerates the inhale, shoulders rising just enough for me to follow.
It stutters.
Breaks.
“Doesn’t have to be perfect,” he says immediately. “Just try again.”
I do.
It drags in, shaky and uneven—but it’s there.
“Good. Out.”
We fall into a rhythm—messy, uneven, but real.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
His voice doesn’t waver.
Not once.
“You’re not back there,” he adds quietly. “You’re here. Beach, fire, annoying idiot in front of you—”
A weak, broken sound leaves me that might almost be a laugh.
“—yeah, that one,” he mutters. “Stay with me.”
My hands are still trembling when he finally closes the distance properly, one hand settling against my wrist like before, the other hovering near my shoulder—waiting.
“Can I?” he asks, quieter now.
I nod without thinking.
That’s all he needs.
He pulls me in—slow, deliberate—like he’s giving me time to pull away if I want to.
I don’t.
My forehead drops against his shoulder, wings curling in tight around us both on instinct.
This time, he adjusts immediately.
One hand comes up to the back of my head, not pushing—just steady pressure, keeping me grounded. The other rests between my shoulder blades, warm even without the fire.
“Breathe,” he reminds me softly.
I do.
It takes longer this time.
The panic clings harder, like it doesn’t want to let go—but he doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t let go. Just stays there, counting quietly under his breath when mine falters.
Eventually—slowly—the tightness eases.
Air comes easier.
The world settles.
I sag against him when it finally breaks, exhausted.
“…told you,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. Not smug. Just… certain.
I swallow hard, throat rough. “Yeah… yeah, you did.”
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then I realize something.
“…you didn’t even hesitate,” I mumble.
“Didn’t need to,” he replies.
There’s no edge to it.
No sarcasm.
Just fact.
Something warm and dangerous curls in my chest—and it’s not panic this time.
“…we were fighting,” I point out weakly.
“Yeah,” he says. “We do that.”
I huff softly, feathers shifting around us.
“…you’re still a problem,” I add.
“Funny,” he mutters. “Was about to say the same thing.”
There’s a pause.
“…thanks,” I say, quieter this time.
He doesn’t brush it off.
Doesn’t make a joke.
“…yeah,” he answers instead, just as quiet.
And when neither of us pulls away—
when his hand stays at the back of my head, steady and warm—
I don’t move either.
Not yet.For a while, neither of us says anything.
We just… stay like that.
Pressed close, half-kneeling in the sand, the fire crackling softly beside us like it didn’t almost start a war ten minutes ago.
My breathing evens out fully, slow and steady now, but I don’t move.
Don’t want to.
Dabi doesn’t seem in a hurry either.
His hand is still at the back of my head, fingers barely tangled in my hair, not gripping—just there. The other rests between my shoulder blades, warm and grounding, like he’s making sure I don’t disappear on him.
“…you good?” he asks eventually, voice low.
“Yeah,” I mumble against his shoulder. “…I think so.”
“Think so isn’t exactly convincing.”
I huff quietly. “It’s the best you’re getting.”
“…fair.”
Silence settles again—but this time it’s… different.
Not sharp. Not tense.
Just quiet.
The kind that feels earned.
I shift slightly, enough to be more comfortable, but not enough to pull away. My wings adjust with me, feathers brushing against his sides before settling around us both again like a shield.
He doesn’t comment on it.
Doesn’t push them away.
If anything, he leans into it—just a little.
“…don’t get used to this,” I murmur.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he replies immediately.
A beat.
“…liar.”
“…shut up.”
But his hand doesn’t move.
And neither do I.
—
We end up sitting like that longer than I expect.
At some point, we shift properly onto the sand, backs against the rough trunk of a tree just beyond the reach of the firelight. I’m half-leaning against him now, shoulder pressed to his chest, wings loosely draped around both of us like a blanket.
It’s… nice.
Too nice.
Dangerous, probably.
But I don’t have it in me to care.
The sky above us slowly darkens, clouds rolling in thick and heavy, swallowing the stars one by one.
“…that’s not good,” I mumble, squinting up.
Dabi follows my gaze. “Storm.”
“Yeah, I figured that much.”
“Relax,” he says. “We’ve got shelter.”
“Barely,” I mutter, glancing toward our driftwood setup.
The wind picks up, sharp and sudden, carrying the scent of rain.
My feathers ruffle instinctively.
“…we should probably—”
Thunder cracks.
Loud.
Close.
I flinch, wings tightening for half a second before I force them to relax again.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, even though he didn’t ask.
“Didn’t say anything,” he replies.
“…you were thinking it.”
“Always am.”
I roll my eyes faintly—but I don’t move away.
The rain starts not long after that.
At first it’s light, just a drizzle tapping against leaves and sand—but within minutes it turns heavy, pouring down in sheets that blur everything beyond a few feet.
We scramble for the shelter, ducking under the uneven roof just as the wind really picks up.
The fire dies quickly, hissing out under the rain.
Darkness settles in.
Another crack of thunder splits the sky, louder this time—followed by a sharp, splintering sound somewhere deeper in the trees.
I stiffen.
“…what was that?” I ask, already tense.
Dabi tilts his head, listening.
Another sound—wood creaking, shifting.
“…tree,” he says. “Probably fell.”
My stomach twists.
“That close?”
“Relax,” he mutters, already standing. “I’ll check it out.”
“What? No—just leave it,” I say quickly, reaching out before I can stop myself.
He pauses, glancing back at me.
“I’m not going far,” he says. “If it messed up something near the shelter, I wanna know.”
“I—” The words get stuck.
The rain is loud.
The wind is louder.
Everything feels… off.
“I’ll be right back,” he adds, softer this time.
Before I can argue again, he’s already gone—slipping out into the storm like it doesn’t bother him at all.
And then it’s just me.
Alone.
The rain pounds against the shelter, loud and relentless. The wind howls through the trees, bending branches, making everything creak and groan.
It’s fine.
It’s just a storm.
I’ve dealt with worse.
I pull my wings tighter around myself, crouching lower, trying to ignore the way my chest is starting to feel… tight.
Too tight.
Another crack of thunder—
Closer.
I flinch hard, breath hitching.
It’s fine.
It’s just noise.
Just noise.
The wind surges again—and then—
CRACK.
A tree somewhere nearby splits with a deafening snap, crashing down so loud it feels like the ground shakes under me.
And suddenly—
I’m not here anymore.
Too loud.
Too sudden.
My chest seizes, breath ripping out of me in a sharp, broken gasp. My hands clamp over my ears, but it doesn’t help—it’s like the sound is still echoing inside my head.
I can’t—
I can’t breathe—
My vision blurs instantly, heart slamming hard enough to hurt.
Not again—
Not now—
“Keigo!”
I don’t even hear him come back.
One second I’m alone—
The next he’s there, dropping to his knees in front of me.
“Hey—hey, I’m here,” Dabi says immediately, voice cutting through the chaos. “Look at me.”
I shake my head frantically, curled in on myself, wings tight and shaking. “T-too loud—”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. It’s the storm. Just the storm. You’re okay.”
I’m not.
I can’t breathe.
“Hey—look at me,” he insists, closer now.
His hands hover near my arms—not touching yet.
Waiting.
“Can I?” he asks, voice lower.
I nod shakily.
That’s all it takes.
His hands settle on my arms, firm but careful, grounding me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Same as before. You’re not alone this time, alright?”
My eyes finally lift to his, panicked and unfocused.
“There you are,” he says softly. “Stay with me.”
Another thunderclap rolls overhead—I flinch hard—but his grip tightens just slightly, steadying.
“Focus on me,” he says. “Not the noise. Me.”
It’s hard.
God, it’s hard.
But I try.
“Breathe in,” he guides, slower this time, more deliberate.
I follow—barely.
“Out.”
Again.
Again.
The storm doesn’t stop.
The noise doesn’t stop.
But he doesn’t either.
“You’re here,” he repeats quietly. “You’re with me. Nothing’s touching you.”
My breathing stutters, then slowly—painfully—starts to even out.
It takes longer this time.
A lot longer.
But eventually, the panic loosens its grip just enough for me to think again.
For the world to come back.
I sag forward without meaning to—and this time, he doesn’t wait.
He pulls me in immediately, one arm wrapping around my shoulders, the other pressing my head against his chest, shielding me from the worst of the noise.
“Got you,” he murmurs, almost drowned out by the rain. “You’re good.”
My wings curl around us both automatically, clinging tighter than before.
I don’t even try to hide it.
“…don’t leave,” I manage weakly.
There’s a brief pause.
Then—
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
His voice is quiet.
Certain.
And this time—
even with the storm raging around us—
I believe him.The storm rages outside, but inside our little shelter, there’s a strange calm. My body still trembles faintly, but his arms around me feel like an anchor—solid, warm, unshakable. My wings are draped loosely around us, the feathers brushing against his sides, a soft shield that says I don’t want to let go.
He doesn’t rush, doesn’t say anything. Just lets me cling to him, breathing slowly, letting the panic ebb from my chest. I can hear the steady beat of his heart through the fabric of his shirt, steady and grounding, and it’s almost hypnotic. Almost.
A part of me—small, careful—starts to relax. My body leans closer into his, forehead pressed to his chest, wings loosening just enough to rest comfortably.
Then, I feel his hand shift. Slowly. Tentatively. It slides from my shoulder, tracing down the small of my back, then lower, resting gently against my waist. My stomach twists—not with panic this time—but with a strange warmth that makes my heart stutter.
I don’t pull away. I can’t. The motion is slow, careful, like he’s testing the water, but his presence is firm, grounding. His other hand stays at the back of my head, fingers tangled in my hair, holding me in place like he’s afraid if he loosens even slightly I might drift away.
“…Dabi…” I murmur, voice barely above the rain, shaky, unsure if I should say something or just let it happen.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just adjusts slightly so his chest presses a little closer to mine, his hand on my waist giving a reassuring pressure. “Don’t move,” he says finally, low and quiet. “Stay with me.”
I stay. Of course I stay. Because here—now—it’s safe. Because when he’s like this, careful and patient and warm, I don’t feel like the world is screaming at me anymore. I feel like… home.
The rain pounds harder outside, lightning flashes, thunder shakes the trees—but I’m cocooned in him. I let my wings loosen fully now, draping over us both, feeling him press slightly closer as he adjusts, his hand still on my waist, steadying me.
“Keigo,” he murmurs after a while, voice soft, intimate, almost hesitant. “You okay?”
I lift my head just slightly to look at him, eyes meeting his calm, blue gaze through the rain-darkened shelter. “…Yeah,” I whisper, “…better.”
He hums softly, a low, almost content sound, and I feel him nuzzle the side of my head, pressing me a little closer, his hand still resting warm against my waist. The storm outside rages on, but I don’t even notice anymore.
Because right now, here, like this—he’s all I need.
And I can’t help the faint, shaky smile that curls my lips as I press myself closer to him, letting the warmth, the security, the feeling of being truly held—sink in completely.
He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to. He just holds me, steady, grounding, and somehow—despite the storm, despite the world outside, despite everything—we just… exist.
Together.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I need to fight to survive alone.
Because he’s here.
And he isn’t going anywhere.I stay pressed against him, wings draped like a shield, and I realize I’ve barely even breathed since he pulled me close. His hand on my waist is warm, solid, grounding me in a way I didn’t think was possible. My heart is still shaky, but the panic has faded enough that I can actually… notice him.
He shifts slightly, and I feel the press of his body closer, a little weight on my shoulder, his hand still resting at my waist, thumb brushing lightly against the skin beneath my shirt. I swallow hard. That small movement sends a strange heat curling through my chest, making it hard to think straight.
“…you’re warm,” I mumble, almost unconsciously, pressing my forehead a little harder into his chest.
He hums, a low sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “…figured that out yet?” His voice is teasing, but softer than before. Almost tender.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I do, I know it’ll come out as a stutter, a weak laugh, or worse—a confession I’m not ready to speak out loud. Instead, I just nuzzle closer, letting my wings loosen around him fully, draping over both of us.
He shifts again, small, careful movements, until his face is just above mine. I feel the warmth of his breath, faintly smelling of smoke and rain, and my chest tightens—not with panic, but with something else entirely. Something… dangerous.
“…Keigo,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “…look at me.”
I lift my head slightly, and my eyes meet his blue gaze—storm-darkened, intense, and impossibly focused on me. My breath hitches. “I… uh…” I falter, feeling my wings flutter nervously.
He smirks faintly, just the tiniest curve of his lips. “…don’t think. Just… stay here.”
Before I can protest—or even overthink it—his hand moves a little, sliding from my waist around to the small of my back, pulling me slightly closer. My wings instinctively tighten around him, and I feel the slow press of his lips against my forehead. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a promise, an anchor, a reminder that he’s here. That he isn’t going anywhere.
“…Dabi…” I murmur softly, almost breathless.
“Shh,” he says gently, pressing his lips briefly to the top of my head this time. “…just… stay with me. Don’t fight it.”
I don’t fight it. I can’t. My wings wrap fully around us now, curling over him as he shifts to press against me even more. My cheek rests against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat, steady and grounding beneath me.
For a few quiet moments, there’s nothing but us—the storm outside, the wind, the rain, but all of it fading into the background. The warmth, the closeness, the press of him against me—it’s more grounding than anything I’ve felt in years.
And then… I realize my panic isn’t completely gone.
The wind rattles the shelter. A branch groans against the roof. Thunder cracks sharply in the distance. My chest tightens again—not fully like before, but enough that my breathing stutters.
“…Keigo?” His voice is sharp, concerned now, and his hand moves from my waist to my shoulder, steadying me. “…Hey. Look at me.”
I lift my head slightly, eyes wide, shaky. “…I… can’t…”
“Yeah, you can,” he says firmly, yet soft. His other hand cups my cheek gently, thumb brushing against my jaw. “Breathe with me. Same as before. In… out… slow.”
I follow, shaky at first, then steadier. His gaze never leaves mine. His hands, warm and grounding, never let go. The panic ebbs just enough that I can feel him again—his chest beneath my cheek, his warmth, his presence.
“…good,” he murmurs, voice low, almost intimate. “…you’re doing fine. I’ve got you.”
I sag against him fully, wings draping over both of us. “…thanks…” My voice is faint, almost a whisper, but sincere.
He smirks faintly, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “…don’t thank me. Just… stay here.”
And I do.
We stay like that through the storm—cuddled, pressed close, his hands sliding from my back to my waist again, fingers brushing lightly, a promise of more, a tether that keeps me grounded when the world feels loud and terrifying.
The storm rages on. But for the first time, I feel like I could survive it—not alone.
Because he’s here.
Because he stays.
Because he’s mine—even if neither of us says it yet.It’s late. Dark, almost pitch-black inside our little shelter. The storm’s passed hours ago, but my mind refuses to rest.
I try to lie still, wings tucked close, but my thoughts spiral—flashbacks of what happened with the Hero Committee, the feeling of being trapped, the sharp sting of every insult and command replaying in my mind. I think I’ve processed it… I thought I had.
Then my eyelids snap shut.
And I’m back there.
The nightmare hits fast. Blinding fluorescent lights, the cold, hard floor beneath me, voices shouting over me, orders I can’t follow fast enough… and then the fists, the shouting, the anger, the humiliation.
I scream.
I wake with a start, heart hammering, breath ragged, wings flaring in panic. The world is dark and quiet, but my chest feels like it’s being crushed.
I try to calm myself. It’s just a dream. It’s over. You’re safe. You’re on the island. Dabi’s…
I freeze mid-thought. The name makes my chest ache in a different way—because I need him.
The door to my panic is already open, and I can’t close it.
“Keigo?”
Dabi’s voice is quiet but firm. Calm. Familiar. And then I feel him beside me before I even realize he’s moving, his body warm against mine.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs, sliding closer, careful not to startle me. His hand rests lightly on my shoulder. “…nightmare?”
I nod, unable to speak. My wings tremble slightly around us.
He doesn’t say anything else. He just moves slowly until he’s pressing against my side, chest to chest, shoulder to shoulder, letting me lean against him. His arm drifts around me, resting securely over my side, grounding me. The other hand finds mine, fingers entwining gently, holding me like I can’t fall apart if he’s there.
The warmth seeps in. His steady heartbeat presses against me. I breathe in his scent—smoke, faintly burnt wood, and something uniquely Dabi—and it’s enough to anchor me, to remind me I’m not alone.
“…you’re okay,” he whispers softly, thumb brushing lightly along the back of my hand. “…I’m right here.”
I nod, still shaky, letting my wings loosen, wrapping around us both now. He doesn’t push me, doesn’t say a word about the trembling in my body or the hitch in my breath. He just holds me.
And slowly—oh so slowly—the panic starts to fade, ebbing out like a tide pulling back. My chest loosens. My wings stop quivering. My mind… quiets, finally.
I can feel his arm tighten slightly over my side as I finally relax into him, the other hand still holding mine, fingers curling together. My forehead rests lightly against his chest, and I close my eyes again—not to escape, but because I don’t have to fight anymore.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, like a promise. “…I’ve got you.”
I nod, the words failing me. The panic is gone, replaced by a warmth that makes my chest ache differently now—not with fear, but with something soft, something like… home.
And for the first time that night, I let myself fall asleep.
His arm is still over my side, his hand holding mine, wings draped loosely around both of us. His presence is steady, solid, unyielding in the best way, and I know—without thinking—that I won’t wake alone.
Because Dabi is here.
And he isn’t going anywhere.I wake to warmth. The kind of warmth that makes it impossible to open my eyes fully at first. My head’s resting on something solid—muscular, steady, and annoyingly comforting—and my side is pressed against something even warmer.
Blinking slowly, I realize I’m… tangled up with Dabi.
His arm is draped over my side, holding me like a pillow. His other hand is still intertwined with mine, fingers snug and firm. My wings are still loosely wrapped around both of us. I try not to move, trying not to wake him… but it’s impossible to stop the faint smile tugging at my lips.
“…hm,” Dabi murmurs, voice rough from sleep. One of his eyes cracks open, just a sliver. “…still here, huh?”
“…I—yeah,” I mutter, voice hoarse, just enough to make him smirk. “…couldn’t sleep without you.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just hums, low and teasing, as he shifts slightly so his chest presses a little closer to mine. “…you always this dramatic, or just when you’re stuck with me?”
“…shut up,” I reply, though my cheeks burn. I hide my face briefly against his chest. “…don’t answer that.”
“…mmm,” he says, sounding suspiciously smug. “I think I’ll keep answering anyway.”
I try to wiggle out, but his arm tightens lightly over my side, keeping me pressed against him. “…hey!” I protest quietly.
“Nope,” he says, hand still holding mine, thumb brushing along my knuckles. “You’re mine until at least breakfast.”
I can’t argue with that. Not really. He’s warm, steady, grounding… and comfortable in a way that’s unfair. My wings loosen further, draping fully over us both like I never want to move.
“…you’re ridiculous,” I mutter, but there’s no bite in it.
“Yeah,” he admits easily, voice low and satisfied. “…and you love it.”
I groan softly, pressing my forehead a little closer to his chest. “…maybe.”
He chuckles—quiet, soft, and it makes something twist in my chest. “…maybe, huh?”
“…maybe,” I echo, just to tease him back.
We stay like that for a long while—silent, tangled, cozy. My panic from the night before feels like a distant shadow now, replaced by something safe, steady, and impossibly warm. Dabi hums occasionally, shifting slightly to adjust without waking me fully, thumb brushing along my hand. I feel his steady heartbeat beneath my cheek and the slow rise and fall of his chest, and somehow… it’s perfect.
“…don’t let go,” I murmur quietly, half-asleep, barely audible.
“I won’t,” he replies immediately, voice low, certain. “Not now. Not ever.”
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself drift fully back to sleep—anchored, safe, and pressed up against him, with his arm over my side and his hand holding mine.
Because here, with him, I finally feel like I can breathe.