The morning after the victory against Kira should’ve felt triumphant. Instead, it felt like a battlefield of regrets as sunlight streamed harshly through the thin curtains of the unfamiliar hotel room. The faint buzz of a hangover pounded at the base of your skull, and your mouth was dry like cotton. Blinking, you sat up slightly, only to realize two familiar bodies were tangled on either side of you.

Near was on your left, his pale hair a complete mess, looking uncharacteristically peaceful in sleep. On your right, Mello lay sprawled, the faint smell of alcohol clinging to him, his shirt nowhere to be found, and his scar partially visible under the sheet. Your pulse quickened as the hazy memories of last night flickered to life.

Drinks. Laughter. Celebrating.

It was the first time any of you had let loose, too intoxicated by the taste of freedom and the weight of your shared history to hold back. The competitive jabs between Mello and Near had spiraled into something else entirely—something heated, reckless, and … mutual. And you, caught between the two of them, hadn’t been able to stop it.

You pressed your palms to your face, muffling a groan.

“Morning,” a deep, groggy voice to your right muttered. Mello shifted, squinting at you with one eye open, his expression immediately twisting into one of confusion—and then realization. “Oh, no. No way.”

Near stirred next, sitting up with far more composure, though his widened eyes betrayed his shock. “…This is not ideal,” he murmured, his voice still flat despite the situation.

“You think?” Mello snapped, running a hand through his hair. “How the hell—”

Your voice cut through before he could spiral further. “We were drunk. All of us. Clearly, none of us planned this.” You tried to sound calm, though your heart was racing as you glanced between the two of them.

Near tilted his head slightly, studying the room as if piecing together a crime scene. “It’s statistically improbable this was accidental,” he said quietly, almost as if to himself. “There was intention.”