The idea had started so innocently. You had just wanted to get L out of the house. The man hadn’t left the Task Force building in three days, and his usual diet of sugar-on-sugar had reached a level even his metabolism shouldn’t legally allow. So, like a responsible partner (and maybe a little bit of a fool), you suggested something “healthy.” Exercise. Fresh air. A date that didn’t involve being handcuffed or interrogated.

Tennis, you said. It’ll be fun, you said. You were wrong. So incredibly, laughably wrong.

“I won the England Junior Cup five years ago,” he said, in his usual monotone. “But it’s been a while, so I’ll go easy on you.”

“You say that like you’re not holding dessert on a sports court,” you pointed out, eyebrows raised. “Are you planning to eat while playing?”

L blinked. “Is that frowned upon?”He took a slow, thoughtful bite of cheesecake, then glanced at you from under his dark hair, dark circles etched like war paint beneath his eyes. “Shall we?”

You barely had time to nod before a whip of motion launched the ball over the net. It shot past your shoulder like a meteor. You didn’t even move.

By the fifth serve, you were sweating. You had never realized how deceptively fast L could be, especially considering he moved like a sleep-deprived cat most of the time. But on the court? Barefoot, knees bent, eyes locked onto the ball like a hawk?

It was terrifying. And the worst part?He didn’t even drop the damn cheesecake. L simply blinked at you again.

What followed was not a game of tennis. It was a reckoning. L didn’t just play tennis—he studied it. He moved like he was solving the ball mid-air, calculating angles and spin rates with every hit. You, on the other hand, flailed. You lunged. You made sounds that were not flattering to human dignity. At one point, you threw your racket and declared you were faking a sprained ankle for the rest of your life.

To which L, of course, replied: “I analyzed your gait and determined you were not injured. Also, your racket is now behind the fence.”

You sat on the court in utter defeat, limbs heavy, hair stuck to your forehead, watching as your boyfriend calmly retrieved his cheesecake from the bench and returned to crouch beside you like it was a picnic. He took a bite and looked at you thoughtfully. “You should raise your elbow more when you swing. You’re letting your momentum collapse your center of gravity.”