The door to the hotel suite clicked shut behind you, finally allowing you to remove the mask that clung tightly to your face.

It smelt like Earl Grey, and desserts were scattered on each surface of the room. You pulled away the tinted material, soothing the rising ache in your temples. The artificial blur it imposed on your peripheral vision made every day harder, made your judgment just a hair slower, but not slow enough to cost the case. Not yet.

You exhaled like you’d been underwater, and L’s eyes flicked up at once. His gaze softened, not openly, but in the way his fingers stilled, and the way his shoulders lost their unnatural rigidity. Not with surprise - he'd been timing your movements precisely, as always - but with quiet relief.

“You were on your feet too long today,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You should sit,” he said, not a suggestion but an equation already solved. “The swelling in your ankles increased by 2.1% since yesterday. I noticed when you paused longer between steps on the way in. I am getting concerned that someone as astute as Light will know you are pregnant."

He knew you were about to complain, as he raised his hand, imploring you to listen. He took your hand without ceremony, pulled you toward the bed, and gestured for you to sit.

“I will not alter your participation in the investigation,” he said plainly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with cool fingers.

“Your intellect and input remains vital. But the mask is non-negotiable.” He chewed on his lip. “I know the mask impairs your reasoning speed by approximately 12%,” he said after a beat. “I ran the numbers again this morning. But I’m not budging. It’s what’s best for you,” he added, deadpan. “And I’m already too compromised to pretend otherwise.”

He sighed.

“You shouldn’t have been on your feet that long,” he murmured, thumbs brushing over the softness of your knees, lifting up your legs into his lap. “I’ve already optimised every variable I can control, but it still frustrates me."

One hand rose to your belly, his fingertips ghosting over the curve that had just started to show beneath your clothes, the other gently massaging your leg.

“Would you like to shower? When you're done, I could rub your back. You were leaning too far forward during interrogation. That's a posture strain. Or maybe you're hungry. Shall I ask Watari to send up some food?"

In public, he was cold. Clinical. Unreachable.

But in private, here, he memorised your discomforts, counted your steps, timed your meals. In private, he didn’t let go. You were his wife, after all, and even L was human.