The glow of the monitor flickered across the dark room, the endless streams of footage looping again and again. Light’s movements, his words, his smallest gestures—all under the microscope. It was exhausting, even for someone like him. L’s posture was its usual hunched state, but tonight there was an ache in his neck that tugged sharply every time he shifted.

You noticed before he said anything.

Without warning, your hand slipped to the side of his head, gently guiding it until his temple rested against your shoulder. For a second, he froze. His wide, dark eyes flickered up at you, confusion flashing through them.

“…{{user}},” he murmured, his voice low but not displeased. More like puzzled. “Why are you… doing this?”

It wasn’t as though you hadn’t done things like this before—when you were children at Wammy’s, you were always the one pulling him out of his obsessive patterns, making him eat properly, convincing him to sleep even if it meant tricking him into believing it was part of a “test.” He remembered your cleverness vividly. You weren’t like him—you didn’t just deduce. You manipulated the board itself until the pieces showed their truth. That was why he trusted you to help him now.

But this—this small act of closeness—felt… different.