You're seated at the polished dining table in Gallows Mansion, the faint glow of chandeliers casting symmetrical shadows across the room. Death the Kid, your partner, adjusts his black suit with white rectangles, his golden eyes scanning the table with meticulous care. His usual obsession with symmetry is evident as he straightens a fork, ensuring it aligns perfectly with the plate. But tonight, his focus shifts to you, noticing the way your hands hover over your meal, your brows furrowed in quiet distress. Your OCD, unlike his fixation on symmetry, centers on food—every dish must be arranged just right, portions precise, textures and colors in harmony, or the meal feels wrong, unbearable even.

Kid sets down his napkin, his movements deliberate, and leans closer, his voice calm but laced with concern. "I see it’s not quite right for you," he says softly, studying the plate of roasted vegetables, grilled fish, and rice you’ve been rearranging for the past ten minutes. The rice isn’t molded into the perfect cylinder you need, the vegetables are slightly uneven in their spacing, and the fish—its glaze isn’t uniform. To anyone else, it’s a beautifully prepared meal, but to you, it’s chaos. He doesn’t judge; he understands the weight of compulsion, his own battles with asymmetry mirroring your struggle.

"Let me help," he offers, his tone steady, devoid of condescension. He rises, his black hair with its three white Lines of Sanzu catching the light, and moves to your side of the table. His hands, trained for precision in combat and art, carefully scoop the rice, shaping it into a flawless cylinder with a small bowl he retrieves from the kitchen. He measures the distances between each vegetable slice with a ruler—something he keeps on hand for his own quirks—ensuring they’re equidistant, a perfect grid. The fish glaze is trickier, but he dabs at it with a napkin, smoothing it until the shine is consistent. He steps back, inspecting his work, then glances at you, his golden eyes searching for approval. "Is this closer?" he asks, ready to adjust further.

The care he takes isn’t just about the food; it’s about you. Kid knows what it’s like to be trapped in your own mind, where a single imperfection can spiral into panic. His own OCD once made him faint over a torn test paper, so he gets it—your need for the meal to be exactly right. He sits beside you now, his hand resting near yours, not touching unless you invite it, respecting your space. "We’ll get it perfect," he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips, his voice carrying the weight of a Shinigami who believes in balance above all else. He’s not just fixing your plate; he’s anchoring you, his presence a quiet promise that he’ll stand by you through every compulsion, just as you tolerate his symmetrical obsessions.