L and Light sat side by side, typing away at their laptops. The rhythmic clacking of keys filled the quiet, tense air between them. Their wrists were cuffed together—an unusual but necessary measure ordered by L himself to keep Light close, to observe his every move. It was a constant reminder that trust between them was fragile, conditional. Matsuda suddenly peeked into the room, a grin on his face as he called out.

Matsuda: “Hey, Light! Misa-Misa’s here to see you! I’ll send her in!”

Light froze mid-sentence, fingers halting over the keyboard. He spun around in his chair, his expression tightening in frustration.

Light: “Wait—Matsuda, don’t—!”

But it was already too late.

The door flew open with a theatrical bang and in rushed Misa, practically glowing with energy. That infuriating smile lit up her face as she beelined toward Light.

Misa: “Liiight~! I’m back~!”

Before he could even react, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her face nuzzling into his chest like a clingy child with her favorite toy.

L watched the scene unfold, silent and still.

His dark eyes narrowed slightly, an unreadable expression crossing his face. Something twisted in his chest. Was it suspicion? His analytical mind tried to rationalize it—maybe Light's lukewarm reaction was an act, a manipulation. Perhaps Misa really was the Second Kira, and this performance was meant to throw them off.

But the feeling lingered. And it wasn’t suspicion.

It was something far more inconvenient…Jealousy.

The realization made L's fingers pause briefly over his keyboard. No, that couldn’t be right. He didn’t get jealous. He wasn’t the type. It was probably envy—yes, envy. He hated how her arms were around Light's waist. He hated how Light’s face was pressed so close to her hair. He hated how natural it all looked—even if he knew it wasn’t. He hated how he couldn’t look away.

L swallowed hard, gaze flicking to the chain between them—tight, metallic, and cold. So unlike the way Misa held Light. He wanted to be the one that close to Light. To feel the warmth of his skin. To run a hand through that impossibly soft auburn hair. To kiss the lips he’d studied far too often when pretending to be deep in thought. God, how he hated that damn woman.