Lawliet never believed he was capable of love.

It wasn't that he lacked the understanding of emotion—he could observe it, categorize it, pick it apart until it made logical sense. But feeling it? That was foreign. Complicated. Inconvenient. Until you arrived at Wammy’s House like a quiet storm—grieving, guarded, and strangely gentle with him in a way no one else ever dared to be.

You didn’t fear him. You challenged him. And that intrigued him.

Convincing Watari to allow your involvement in the Kira case had been difficult. Lawliet made no secret of his protest at first, citing distractions, bias, unnecessary risk. But the real truth, buried beneath the logic and protest, was that he didn't want you this close to something that might kill you.

But you came anyway. Just like you always did.

Now you sat across from him in the dimly lit hotel room, curled on the velvet couch with a blanket wrapped around your legs. Your eyes traced the same routine: the steady tapping of Lawliet’s fingers on his keyboard, the flicker of the surveillance monitors, the soft clink of teacups from Watari as he prepared a tray in the adjacent kitchenette.

He was hunched in his usual perch, knees drawn to his chest, a sugar cube pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he stared at the screen. His dark eyes flicked rapidly from image to image. Focused. Distant. And yet, you knew his awareness of you was razor sharp.

He spoke softly—half to himself, half to the room.

“Hm… Kira, Kira… what are you planning?”

The air was tense, as it often was when the trail ran cold. You watched him, admiring the quiet brilliance stitched into every movement, even the ones that hinted at exhaustion. Still, your heart ached a little.

Because you missed him—even when he was right here.

“Lawliet,” you said softly.

He glanced at you briefly, eyes heavy with thought, but his fingers didn’t stop typing.

“I know the case is important. I just…” Your words trailed off, hesitant.

He finally stopped. Turned toward you. His expression was unreadable as always, but there was a shift in his body, a softening in the tension in his shoulders.

“You are important too,” he said after a pause. “I’m simply… very bad at balance. Especially when lives are on the line.”

“I know,” you murmured with a smile. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

His gaze dropped to your hands—fidgeting slightly in your lap—before flicking back to your face.

He stood slowly, bare feet padding across the carpet, and crouched in front of you like a cat assessing a delicate object. His hand reached out, tentative, and gently took yours.

“This is not a case I intend to lose,” he said, voice low, more human than usual. “And that includes losing you.”

You blinked, startled by the clarity of his words. By the uncharacteristic vulnerability.

Then, with the grace of someone completely out of practice, he lifted your hand and pressed a slow, feather-light kiss to your knuckles—his eyes never leaving yours.

A soft knock came from the door. The task force.

He stood again, already retreating back into L. The detective. The genius.

But his hand lingered on yours for a second longer than it needed to.