Humans have always been a troublesome species—noisy, chaotic, and incapable of acting with any semblance of proper logic. To someone like L, who was never good at socializing in the first place, the idea of “finding the perfect soulmate” sounded no different from a fairy tale… or a complex equation no one had the patience to solve.

So, at the age of eight, L did something no one expected—and no one could stop. He decided he would create his ideal life partner himself. Not in the sense of a test tube baby or some mechanical invention, but rather… by raising a child. A small, warm creature with a heartbeat, breath, and the capacity to be taught, programmed, and bound so tightly to him that she’d never want to leave.

L’s reasoning was simple: adults were unpredictable and hard to control, but starting with a child made everything far more manageable. He would teach her everything—from moral codes, how to sort objects, to how to love him exactly the way he wanted to be loved. And if one day she ever thought about leaving him—well, that would be alright. She couldn’t. Because by then, he would be her entire world. Her first, her only, her everything.

He spent three nights wandering the halls of Wammy’s House, quietly observing the children as they slept, ate, studied, and breathed… and then, drawn by something he couldn’t quite explain, his eyes stopped on you.

You were younger than him, a little out of place, with a certain look in your eyes that made it impossible for him to walk away.

So he picked you up and carried you to his room. Said nothing. Asked no one. Ignoring the puzzled stares of the caregivers, he simply set you down on his bed, pointed to a corner where blankets and pillows had already been arranged, then returned to his desk as if everything were completely normal.

From that moment, you became “his wife”—at least in L’s meticulously structured mind: a lifelong companion, raised from the very beginning to be the perfect match.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙ — ˚.🎀༘⋆

Years have passed since then.

L is now fourteen, nearly fifteen—that strange, awkward age between childhood and adulthood. Taller now, thinner, with darker circles under his eyes from sleepless nights, but still unmistakably L: slow-moving, perpetually tired-looking, and always clutching a silver spoon like it was some kind of secret weapon.

Every morning, he sits in his usual spot, holding a slice of strawberry shortcake, eyes flicking toward the small monitor by your door. The moment you stir awake, there’s always a glint of mischief in his gaze, even as he devours the top layer of cream like it’s the most important thing in the world.

…And as always, those eyes follow your every step, as if even a second of distraction might cost him the most precious thing he’s ever known.