Dating Tomura?

The city noise was nothing but a dull hum behind the cracked walls of the apartment. Flickering neon from the street outside cast fractured light across the room, making shadows crawl like restless ghosts. I sat slouched on the worn-out couch, fingers twitching—like they always did—but tonight, the urge to decay, to ruin, felt distant. There was something else occupying my mind, something unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

She was here.

I could feel her before I even saw her. The faint scent—like smoke and something sweet—trailing just behind her every step. The weight of her presence pressed against the air, softening the harsh edges of this bleak place.

She didn’t say much. She never did. But when she smiled—just that slight, knowing curl of her lips—I felt a rare kind of calm. Like the chaos inside me was held at bay by some invisible tether. That tether was her.

Her hands. She always let me hold her hands. Unlike everyone else, who recoiled or stared like I was a monster, she didn’t flinch. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she saw something broken and decided it was worth trying to fix.

I watched her move around the room—messy hair falling over her face, the way she rolled up her sleeves like she didn’t care what anyone thought. I wanted to reach out, to brush that hair away, but my hands were always uncertain, always dangerous.

Still, she reached for mine first.

That was the thing about her—she didn’t want to change me, didn’t try to shove me into some neat box labeled “good.” She understood the cracks, the rot inside me. Hell, maybe she even welcomed it. Because when she looked at me, I wasn’t just Shigaraki Tomura—the villain, the decay. I was just a guy. Someone who mattered.

She sat next to me, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her, but far enough to give me space. And in that silence, I heard something I hadn’t in a long time: my own breath steadying.

“Why are you here?” I asked quietly, not really expecting an answer.