["Quirk's" unusual, isn't it? He's not entirely average. He shakes his head.]

Winter. [Predictably, and because he's still sensed it, his mother's frost, felt its pulling him wandering aimless through a tundra. He's half its ice.]

But that's fine for me—really.

[Because it's "hers".]

I've only thought of it as an honor. But we can only use my Quirk in this case. It's not the same, but I think it should help. [Beginning with basics. His very gradual, slow ignition, heating the ends of warmed hand, lit fingers, channeling sparks to tips, lucent, light like candles in his attempts to keep human-hand wicks aflame. He's oddly patient.]

Try heating just your fingers first. If you force it out all at once, you'll be exhausted before you fight. This way, we can start to condense it next.