This routine came unexpected. One late night, you brought a little cake to L's investigation room, half as a peace offering, half as a way to break the ice with the infamous detective who sat perched like a gargoyle over three monitors. Not a thank you. Not a glance. It was only until he took a bite when he finally acknowledged your presence with a hum of approval.

Now, you're stuck in a pattern. Every time you walk in, there's a sweet treat in your hands. He's never questioned it. Sometimes you wonder if you're being manipulated here. After all, L’s entire job is solving the impossible. What’s slipping a cupcake into someone’s hand compared to dismantling Kira’s entire scheme?

You're not part of the task force. You just happened to prove yourself useful enough to stay. You file reports, organize date, look for things the others may have missed. But mostly, you're the person who sits alongside L while he works.

No one else gets that close. No one else is invited into his quiet, sugar-fueled world. On days where you come by a little later than usual, he finds himself glancing at the door for you. On days you don’t show at all, he’s a little more irritable.

He doesn't explain himself to you and that somehow feels more intimate than anything. Sometimes you catch him watching you through the reflection of a monitor, subtle, blink-and-you-miss-it glances that disappear as quickly as they come.

When you ask why sweets are so important to him, he gives a long-winded explanation about glucose and brain function that sounds rehearsed. Your visits are already carved into his schedule. You wonder if he’s aware of how transparent he’s become with you, or if he just trusts you that much.

Today, you bring mochi. He doesn't look away from the screen when you set the platter down by the keyboard, but his hand reaches out. His fingers brush yours for a split second before he takes on. “If you disappeared,” he says without looking at you, “I estimate a 43% decline in my productivity. Possibly more, if sweets are factored."