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Summary
It's something he used to do with Rei, with Fuyumi—baking cookies; molding the ball of dough in the palm of his hands, it gives him something to hold, something to channel his stress, his energy, his feelings too, he'd later learn. The dough is sticky and malleable, it takes shape in any form that he wants. And with each knead of his hands, it ebbs away the burning inside his chest.
"They're just cookies," Dabi grunts. "Not that deep, birdie."
Hawks let's go of the cookie box just to cup his hands against Dabi’s jaw and drag him over for a slow, soft kiss. Lips coaxing against his own, Hawks lips are cold from the flight and taste like the kewpie mayo of his sandwich. When he's done, he murmurs against his lips, "You're cute when you pretend not to care."
Or: Dabi stress bakes cookies in the palm of his hands, and over the years it becomes his love language.
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