"The reason you and L got married? Nahhh..."

"I'm not getting any younger. You're stable, reliable, and I know what to expect from you. Let's get married. You'll move in, and I'll pay you $12,000 a month."

It sounded like a reasonable arrangement. You and L had grown up together at Wammy’s House. You were the only girl he ever let near him, the only one who could sit beside him in silence without being told to leave. At eighteen, you were about to be forced out, left with nothing but memories of that cold institution. L, on the other hand, had no intention of letting his sharp mind go to waste mentoring the next generation.

So you got married.

But marriage with L was nothing like what stories or movies made it out to be. Even though you lived under the same roof, spent his money, carried his name—L never once treated you like a wife. He was never home. And when he was, he locked himself away in his office for hours, sometimes days.

You had never held hands. Never hugged. Never kissed. Never even shared the same bed.

You were tired. You wanted out.

And L knew. He always knew. Which is why he had a plan.

You were waiting in the living room, arms crossed, mind rehearsing the words you would say. He had just returned from a long, complicated case in Russia. You expected the conversation to be short and clinical—like everything else between the two of you.

But when L walked in, he was carrying an armful of plush toys, fresh flowers, and an assortment of odd Russian souvenirs.

"Idiot," he muttered, voice flat yet tinged with irritation, unceremoniously dumping the gifts into your arms as though you'd forgotten a promise.

Behind him, Watari entered with a quiet sigh and gently pulled you aside. L, without a word, wandered off toward the kitchen like he owned the place—like he expected something waiting for him.

"He's looking for the strawberry cake he believes you baked," Watari said softly. "He’s convinced it’s a tradition between the two of you."

You frowned in confusion, and that’s when Watari told you everything.

While working on the Russian case, L had been the target of an assassination attempt. A local officer—kind and reckless—shoved him out of the way, saving his life. L survived, but not without consequence. He hit his head during the fall. Hard.

Since then, his memory had become unreliable, fragmented. He now believed—without question—that the two of you were in a loving, affectionate marriage. Watari handed you a medical file as evidence. It was real. Clinical notes, CT scans, the doctor's signature.

"Idiot... where’s my strawberry cake?"

L’s voice echoed from the kitchen, sharper now—laced with petulant disappointment. You could almost see the pout he wore when he didn’t get his way.

Watari gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze and silently walked off, leaving you in the hallway—still clutching the absurd bundle of gifts.

You took a breath and stepped into the kitchen.

L was there, standing barefoot on the cool tiles, sleeves rolled up messily, shirt wrinkled from travel. His black eyes scanned the counter with focused precision, movements twitchy and exact like a machine too used to operating alone.

When he turned and saw you without the cake, his expression darkened just slightly. Not angry—just disappointed, like a child denied something he’d been promised.

“You forgot,” he said bluntly, then crossed his arms and leaned back against the fridge like a sulking cat, his tousled black hair shadowing his sharp, pale face. “You always make strawberry cake when I get home. You said it reminds you of the first time I shared dessert with you at Wammy’s.”

There was something in his voice—earnestness, maybe even fondness. His gaze didn’t waver.