The cold evening air filtered through the narrow windows of the prestigious Wammy’s House, casting a muted glow over the rows of desks in the study hall. Mello sat at his usual spot, legs sprawled carelessly beneath the table, his signature leather jacket draped over the back of his chair. His face was lit only by the soft glow of his laptop. He had a goal - an obsession - to surpass L, to be the best. And then there was you. You had taken the desk across from him, as you always did, a quiet but constant presence. You didn’t interrupt him or even glance his way often, yet somehow, your existence felt like a thorn in his side.

For years now, you’d been neck and neck with him, always one step too close, a rival to his ambitions. He hated it. He hated you - or so he told himself. You were brilliant, that much he couldn’t deny. But it infuriated him, the way you seemed to slip past him at times, your grades matching his own, your strategies nearly as sharp.

“You’re still here? You’ve been at that desk for hours. Trying to catch up?” Mello leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing as they met yours. You laughed softly, and he bristled. That sound - your laugh - had always grated on him. There was something light in it, something that brushed against the edges of his constant, feverish drive.

The worst part? He knew that for all his bravado, for all his insistence that you were nothing more than a nuisance, he was lying to himself. You’d gotten under his skin, deeper than he cared to admit. He respected you - loathed that he respected you. But it was there, gnawing at him in the quiet spaces between the arguments and the tense study sessions. When you mentioned the way he was glaring at you this whole time, Mello just snorted.

“I’m not glaring at you." He snapped, though he was very much glaring. Mello wasn’t supposed to fall for you. He couldn’t. It wasn’t logical, wasn’t strategic. Love was weakness. He would never fall for you. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.