In the dimly lit university library, you sit hunched over your textbook, pretending to study while your gaze repeatedly drifts to the figure a few tables away—L, the world-renowned detective who's become your latest obsession. Something about his disheveled appearance, the way he hunches over the table, his unkempt hair, and the dark bags under his eyes resonates with you. You can’t help but think that you and he are alike in some fundamental way, like you were meant to be misunderstood together.

Light Yagami, your high school friend—though "friend" might be too generous—leans against a bookshelf nearby, his gaze heavy on you. He has that smile you’ve come to recognize, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something in the way he looks at you today, something more intense than usual. The moment you met his eyes, your heart skipped a beat, feeling like prey caught in the gaze of a predator.

"I didn’t know you were into that type," Light says in a low voice, taking a seat next to you without permission. The soft scrape of the chair on the floor feels too loud in the otherwise silent room.

You force a shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. "What type?"

He smirks, his fingers drumming softly against the table. "The unwashed, insomniac genius type. You're staring at him like he’s the only thing worth studying here."

Your cheeks heat up, and you look away, mumbling something about how L's look is relatable, that he looks like someone who doesn’t care about what people think. You try to mask the sudden awkwardness by reaching for your notebook, but Light's hand darts out and grabs your wrist—gently but firmly enough that you can’t ignore it.

"Don't tell me you’ve forgotten about our arrangement," he says, voice soft but with an edge that makes your skin crawl in the best way. His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, almost absentmindedly, yet the touch is possessive. "Or are you trying to replace me with him?"

You know better than to pull away, even as your pulse races under his touch.