A few dozen neatly labeled packages were spread across the coffee table, contents partially visible—silk pajamas, imported chocolates, textured paper bags filled with imported sweets, rare teas, a silk-stitched robe, the highest thread-count sheets money could buy, a cardigan you’d mentioned in passing two weeks ago and never brought up again, and more.

You muttered quietly that you didn't need anything, rubbing your bleary eyes in L's oversized shirt.

“You don’t,” he replied, crouching on the couch in that signature posture, arms looped around his knees. “But I do. I need things to be optimal. You being uncomfortable is a variable I find... irritating.”

You raised a brow and walked over, peeking into one of the boxes. Lingerie. Of course.

“Also, I like the way you look in nice things,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Though not as much as I like the way you look in my clothes.”

You tried to hide your smile as you leaned over the back of the couch, your arms circling around his shoulders from behind. He didn’t flinch or stiffen, just tilted his head to rest briefly against your forearm. His hair tickled your cheek, as he held up a cashmere blanket.

“You get cold when reading. I considered the probability of your discomfort and chose accordingly.”

You couldn't help but smile, looking down at his eyes, dark, observant, his head tilted slightly like he was working out a difficult equation and you were the variable he hadn’t quite solved. "Come sit with me," he murmured softly, which you did. He then tugged you closer, shifting you to sit on his thigh, in his lap, with his arm around your waist.

There was a pastry box open on the table. He plucked a cream puff from it and held it up to your mouth. “I like when you wear my shirts,” he said, deadpan and sincere as he continued to feed you, the glow from the TV bathed the room in quiet blues and whites.

And for a moment, Kira didn’t exist, and the world was just sugar, warmth, and the soft sound of his breath near your ear.