I'm a slut for Dabi don't @ Me

“Hm?” Your eyes jump up to his, take in the fleeting look of concern in his features, before it scrunches back into it’s resting-scowl-face.

“You’re upset.” He states, leaning back and throwing his elbow over the back of his chair, hand gesturing at you.

“Nah, I’m good; swear,” you flash him a grin, look down and try to find the place in your book where you left off. But you can feel his eyes on you; another thing to worry about. “Aren’t you going to the gym?”

“I was,” he says, in that tone that screams I already told you, “fifteen minutes ago.” He explains, irritation coating his tone.

You throw him a fleeting smile, a quick: “okay, sweat a lot.” Before giving the textbook your full— unfocused— attention.

“I’m not going until you tell me what’s wrong,” he pushes, and you catch his arm flex as he takes a sip of his drink out of your peripherals.

You’re distracted again when your brain decides to give said arm your full attention, counting the little silver slithers of scar tissue wrapping his forearm, his bicep: one, two, three, four—

“Alright, I’m serious now,” he slams the shaker back onto the table, “tell me, or I’m taking you with me to the gym.”

“No...” is your immediate response, the whine in your throat even irritating you.

“So, tell me! You’re clearly not fucking focusing.”

“Language, Katsuki!” You shoot back, deepening his scowl.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” He grumbles with finality, pushing out of his chair and digging his hand in his pocket, pulling out a fiver and slamming it onto the table.

Great, a tantrum.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction, “He dumped me,” slipping from your lips, forehead hitting the table, hand reaching for your phone.

“What?” He asks as you unlock your phone, bringing the conversation back up.

“I think we should see other people,” you read aloud, “you’re not into me like I’m into you.” Tears well in your eyes as you scroll down the convo, you sending message after message and getting no response.

“Wait, rewind,” he starts, annoyed. You look up just in time to see him fall back into the chair, scowl deep and teeth bared. “He did this... over text?”

“Huh? Yeah?”

“What a fucking coward,”

You laugh humourlessly, “no doubt.”

“Well, why the hell are you wallowing?”

“Because.”

“Because why? He’s dead fucking weight—“

“Oh my god,”

“You’re way better off without him!”

“My vagina isn’t,” you mumble, low enough so that he can’t hear you.

“Your what?”

“It doesn’t matter; who even dumps people over text anymore?”

He watches you for a moment, before his trap opens again, “get your shit, I’ll take you through a workout.”

“No; god, that is actually the worst idea?”

“Hurry up!” He snaps, sighing before he downs a mouthful of his protein shake. “You can do with the endorphins,” he meets your eyes, “they’ll make you feel better, think clearer.”

There’s a staring contest, him looking down his nose at you, you glaring up at him with a cheek smushed to the table. Maybe getting out will do you good? Not like you’re actually soaking up any of the reading you’ve been doing for the past two hours.