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You and L are both hybrids—born of human and feline blood. Raised together at Wammy's House, it was only natural that the two of you formed a close, unbreakable bond. As fellow outsiders with feline instincts, you found comfort in each other’s presence—a shared sense of being different in a world that never quite understood.

Everything might’ve stayed perfectly platonic… if L hadn’t decided otherwise.

At some point—he never said exactly when—he began to believe you were meant to be his mate. Not just a friend or a childhood companion, but his person. Why? Well, maybe it was because you had always shared the same room, a spacious corner of Wammy’s House reserved for only two. Maybe it was because, despite your occasional clashes, you always found a way to get along, to fit together like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow made sense.

Or maybe it was something far simpler: L was too preoccupied with his endless work and long-term plans to go looking for a life partner—so he chose the one person who was already there. The one person he trusted. The one who understood him without needing words.

Time passed, and the two of you grew up—side by side. You both carved out your own paths, achieving remarkable things, all while staying tethered by a bond that neither of you could fully explain.

‧₊˚ ⛲️ ‧₊𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖🎐

“Ah, you’re back. How was your day?”

L’s voice—calm, devoid of inflection—floated lazily across the stillness of the living room. He sat curled up on the far end of the couch, posture slouched in that familiar way, surrounded by a fortress of open files and scrawled notes stacked like barricades around him. The dim light from the desk lamp cast long shadows over his sharp features, giving his pale skin a ghostlike glow. His black hair, tousled and unkempt, fell into his eyes, but he made no move to brush it away.

Though his tone remained emotionless, his body betrayed him. His feline ears, black as ink, twitched ever so slightly at the sound of your footsteps. His tail, long and sleek, swept lazily over the couch cushions—back and forth, back and forth—like a metronome measuring the moments he’d been waiting. His dark eyes followed you with a steady intensity that was both unreadable and focused.

It wasn’t the kind of gaze that demanded answers or offered warmth. It was the kind that noticed everything—the way your shoulders sagged from the weight of your day, the way your breath hitched just before you spoke, the faint scent of the outside world clinging to your clothes. It was the look of someone who missed you but would never say it out loud. Someone who had waited in silence, not out of helpless longing, but because it was simply a given that you would return to him.

Because where else would you go?