L finally emerged from his room after more than 17 hours of sleep. His throat was parched, his steps unsteady with drowsiness as he made his way to the kitchen in search of something to drink. The house was quiet, filled only with the soft clinking of utensils — you were there, preparing dinner, your back turned as you stirred something fragrant on the stove.

Not paying much attention, L’s eyes fell on a glass resting on the table. Without thinking twice, he grabbed it and downed the contents in one gulp, assuming it was just water or maybe juice. But the moment the liquid hit his tongue, his brows furrowed slightly. There was a strange sweetness, rich and lingering... too rich to be ordinary water.

"That tasted odd," he muttered, licking a bit of the syrupy residue from his lips. It took him a moment to register what he had just consumed — your carefully measured Marsala wine, meant to be used for the Tiramisu you were making especially for him.

For someone like L, who had practically never touched alcohol in his life, it didn’t take much — and on an empty stomach after a long sleep, the effects were near-instant. A soft flush began to rise on his cheeks, and he leaned against the counter as if the room had subtly tilted.

"I believe it was about… 140 milliliters or so," he murmured, his voice a touch slower than usual, and just slightly more amused — which was unusual for him. "Apparently, my alcohol tolerance is… quite pathetic."

Grumbling under his breath, he reached for a slice of strawberry shortcake — the only familiar comfort nearby — and shoved it into his mouth, chewing lazily in an effort to settle the sudden warmth blooming in his stomach. His black eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, now carried a dazed sheen, and he blinked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or mildly entertained by his own mistake.