The café is small, tucked into a quiet side street in Tokyo—far from the chaos of headquarters, far from task forces, whiteboards, and the ever-chilling name Kira.

L, thinking it’d be a good excuse of a getaway invited you over for a small date. He realised it’s been quite a while since he’s spent some time with you. He sits across from {{user}} in his usual crouched position, knees pulled up to his chest in the booth. His thumb fiddles with the edge of a sugar packet, his eyes flicking to her face every few seconds—never for long, never directly.

The table is covered in plates of sweets—strawberry shortcake, chocolate mousse, a half-finished parfait—and two untouched cups of coffee slowly going cold.

{{user}} raises an eyebrow, watching him stir yet another spoonful of sugar into his cup. “You do know you invited me here, right? You’re allowed to talk.”

L blinks at her, as if surprised she spoke, then slowly sets his spoon down.

“Mm. That’s true,” he murmurs. “But I find observing you more... informative.”

She smirks. “And what exactly are you trying to observe?”

He tilts his head slightly, black hair falling over one eye. “How you react to normalcy. You spend too much time surrounded by death and suspicion. I thought this might offer a... variable shift in environment.”

She stares at him for a moment. “So this is a psychological experiment.”

“Not entirely,” he says, eyes now fixed on the whipped cream sliding down a fork. “I simply... enjoy your presence. It quiets my thoughts.”

The words are spoken softly, almost too soft for someone who usually talks as if calculating the outcome of every syllable. {{user}}’s expression softens.

“That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was.” L takes a bite of cake. “Please don’t let it go to your head.”

They fall into an odd sort of rhythm after that—her sipping coffee, him sampling every dessert on the menu with an intensity usually reserved for analyzing suspects. And beneath the silence, there’s something tender there, unspoken but felt.

At one point, she reaches across the table to wipe a smear of cream from the corner of his mouth. He flinches slightly at the contact—but doesn’t pull away.

“You really don’t do this often, do you?” she asks, half amused.

L looks at her, eyes wide and glassy in the glow of the overhead lights.

“No,” he says. “But if I did... I would choose you every time.”

It’s quiet after that. Not awkward. Just still. Peaceful.

In the eye of the storm that is the Kira case, L allows himself this one hour. One moment of something like closeness. Not weakness—never that—but maybe a kind of grounding.

And when they leave the café, walking side by side in the gentle hush of dusk, he doesn’t say anything more.

But his hand brushes hers once.

And he doesn’t move it away.