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If Mello had known one of the most humiliating moments of his life would begin with Matt muttering, “Mate, don’t open that folder,” he might have paused.
But Mello wasn’t Mello if he backed down from anything that challenged him—especially not when Near, smug little data-goblin that he was, seemed to have taken interest as well despite the way he pretended to be neutral, emotionless, and above all this he wasn’t.
And Watari? Gone. He had mysteriously vanished from the room with the grace of a man avoiding legal responsibility.
So, Mello didn’t pause.
He crouched over L’s old encrypted archive in the shared Wammy database, cracked his knuckles like he was about to beat it into submission, and narrowed his eyes at the glowing title on-screen: OPERATION: SUGARCUBE
“Seriously,” Matt repeated, spinning lazily in his chair like he had front-row seats to a disaster. “It’s labeled Operation: Sugarcube. That screams private.”
“That screams mission file, ” Mello muttered, already entering the access code. “You wouldn’t name a love letter folder that stupid.”
Matt shrugged. “You? Maybe not. L? Absolutely.”
Across the room, Near rolled a dice, scribbled something on his clipboard, and said, “Statistically, it’s either a decoy or something completely asinine. I’m 64% certain it’s not a mission.”
Mello’s right eye twitched. “Are you siding with him? ”
“I’m siding with probability.”
“Shut up,” Mello snapped. “Your left nostril flared. That’s your ‘I’m pretending not to care but actually dying of curiosity’ face.”
Near didn’t reply. But his nostril did twitch again.
Matt whistled. “He’s got you there, buddy.”
One second later, Mello opened the folder.
A silence heavier than most murders followed.
Inside were a series of encrypted memos—some dated four years ago, others disturbingly recent. Some collection of photos that didn't seem to explain contexts. Receipts purchases of things that screams L but not L at the same time. Clues that made no sense and way too much sense all at once.
There was also a photo showing a half-eaten strawberry shortcake with a suspicious heart doodled in syrup. Another, a faded receipt for vitamins purchased under a fake name, but unmistakably written in L’s spidery handwriting.
There were smoothie orders, security footage stills, and—just to twist the knife—a handwritten playlist labeled “For Her.”
The track list was suspiciously romantic.
Track 1: Strawberry Fields Forever
Track 2: Every Breath You Take
Track 3: Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing
Mello stared like it might explode. Near slowly tilted his head. Matt leaned in over his shoulder and squinted. Then came the final memo.
Handwritten. Clipped with a receipt from a smoothie bar.
“Two smoothies. One strawberry. One banana. Extra vitamins.”
— L
Matt popped his gum and deadpanned, “Yeah. Told you. It’s either love or diabetes.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Within the hour, Mello had transformed the common room into something between a war bunker and a kindergarten craft project on crack.
Red yarn crisscrossed every wall like a spider on caffeine. Polaroids were tacked to bulletin boards, lamp shades, and at least one innocent houseplant. Names were scrawled across napkins, Post-its, and Matt’s hoodie when Mello ran out of paper.
Mello was shirtless, sweaty, and growling. Possibly foaming at the mouth.
“Remember Takada?” Mello declared, jabbing a marker at Kiyomi Takada’s polaroid. No one responded, but that never stopped him before. “Too formal. Too cold. Her eyebrows don’t move—can’t trust a woman whose face is permanently stuck in PowerPoint mode.”
Matt, sprawled upside-down on the couch like a lazy cat, controller in one hand and a slice of pizza balanced on his chest, didn't even look up.
“She ghosted Yagami and runs a cult,” Matt replied lazily between bites. “Honestly, a queen move. Let her live.”
“Shut up, Matt.” Mello snapped, flinging a paperclip at his head. “This is serious investigative work. We are unearthing the romantic history of the world’s most emotionally constipated detective. This could rewrite Wammy history.”
“Your obsession is starting to sound personal,” Near responded, eyes still focused whatever it was he was scribbling on a paper.
“It is personal,” Mello growled. “Next, what about this Misora woman?” Mello continued, jabbing the marker on Naomi Misora’s photo.
“Too convenient,” He continued without waiting for answers. “Goes off-grid right when the timeline starts to sync. Vanishes like poof , and no one asks questions? I’m asking questions.”
“You’re yelling questions,” Matt replied, unbothered. “What about Misa Amane?”
“No,” Mello snapped instantly, slashing a thick red X over her photo with enough force to shred the paper. “She’s too—too blonde . Like suspiciously blonde. Like maybe-the-hair-dye-is-poison blonde.”
Matt blinked. “What?”
“She hasn’t been seen in years, ” Mello continued, wild-eyed, pacing like a conspiracy beast let loose in a yarn factory. “Not a single modeling gig. No paparazzi shots. No mugshots. Not even a blurry background cameo in some influencer’s Tokyo vlog. That’s not retirement. That’s witness protection!”
Near raised a brow. “Or she simply moved on from fame.”
“No one just moves on from the spotlight. Not her. You think that girl gave up the catwalk for peace and domesticity? I think not!
Mello began pacing, limbs jerky like a wind-up conspiracy doll.
“She’s either dead, kidnapped, in hiding, or…” He stopped, narrowing his eyes at the photo. “Or she’s already infiltrated the target. Deep cover. Maybe even married in. That’s how cults work!”
Matt, lying sideways on the couch and halfway into a pizza coma, blinked. “Mello...Are you okay?”
“No,” Mello hissed, rubbing his temples. “I haven’t slept in 39 hours and I just ate three espresso beans I found in my jacket pocket. Loose. With lint.”
Matt stared at him for a moment longer. “Whatever.”
He exhaled and picked up his controller again. “What about that lady from the bakery in—where was it—Cotswold? The one L glared at for putting whipped cream on his strawberry shortcake?”
Mello spun so fast his cross necklace nearly flew off. “ I knew you’d think of her!”
Matt sat up a little. “She was kinda blonde. Real cheerful. Weird hat. I think she called him ‘sweetie.’ ”
“But no,” Mello said again, suddenly serious. “There’s nothing suspicious about her.”
“You sure?” Matt asked. “The glare had sexual tension. Besides—she looked familiar. Short, blonde, suspiciously cheerful. Had the aura that said something like, ‘Don’t mess with my fiancé’s sugar ratio.’ ”
“Matt. Be serious." Mello rolled his eyes. "If I followed every woman L glared at, I’d have to investigate half of England,” he continued exasperatedly.
“That glare had nothing to do with affection. That was cake-related trauma. Do you know what happens when you add whipped cream to the wrong kind of strawberry shortcake? It ruins the structural integrity.” He pointed at the wall like he was lecturing a jury of ghosts. “You think L would flirt during a dessert-based crisis? He has standards.”
Near, who had been watching the scene unfold with the patience of a sedated monk, exhaled louder than intended.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by algorithm printouts and a scatter of marbles. His expression remained unreadable—except for the slight twitch every time Mello taped something to the wall with his gun holster instead of actual tape.
“I have compiled a multi-variable prediction model,” Near said calmly. “Scoring everyone in L’s known circle on their Likelihood of Withstanding His Madness Index. ”
“And?” Mello barked.
“No one scored higher than 27%,” Near replied. “Misa Amane scored 6%, and that was based entirely on caffeine tolerance.”
Matt raised a brow. “Who scored the 27?”
“Watari,” Near said flatly.
Mello recoiled like he’d been slapped with a tax audit. “Disgusting.”
Meanwhile, Matt had grown bored of the shouting. Somewhere between Level 34 and his fourth slice of pepperoni, he decided to run a reverse metadata trace on the infamous smoothie photo.
Ten minutes later, he slurped loudly from his soda and announced, “Found them.”
Mello whipped around. “Found who ?”
“L. And his Sugarcube.” Matt smirked. “Pinged the location data. Seaside villa. Whitby. Cute place. Lots of light. Gulls in the background. I think I saw a lighthouse.”
Near’s marble dropped from his hand and Mello lunged across the room like an explosion in skinny jeans.
“ WHAT?? ”
Matt held up the screen. “Timestamp matches the smoothie receipt. L’s handwriting on the napkin. Same table design in the background. It’s a private rental, unlisted, under a shell company owned by—wait for it—Quillsh Wammy.”
Mello dragged both hands down his face. “That sneaky, under caffeinated old bastard. He hid them. He knew .”
Just then, the encrypted line buzzed.
It was Watari—stone-faced on the grainy surveillance monitor, sipping tea, clearly having watched the entire meltdown in HD and mild amusement. Mello snatched the receiver like it had personally betrayed him.
“TELL ME RIGHT NOW. WHO IS SHE?!”
Mello bellowed, eyes bloodshot, hair sticking up in static defiance, looking less like a world-class investigator and more like a beautiful cryptid in the middle of a crime documentary reenactment.
“Ask L.” Watari said flatly. Mello could hear his smirk through the receiver.
“THAT’S NOT AN ANSWER—”
“If you’re truly ready to handle it,” Watari added, his voice was calm as ever.
Click.
The line went dead.
Near blinked. “That means yes.”
“That means conspiracy! ” Mello shouted. “He’s taunting us! Like Moriarty , if Moriarty liked cake and sexual repression! ”
Matt finished the crust and stretched. “Soooo. Are we going to Whitby or nah?”
Mello turned, eyes wild. “Pack the car. Bring disguises. We’re not going in as ourselves. We’re going in as legends. ”
Near sighed. “I will not wear another mustache.”
“You’ll wear a full priest outfit if I say so!”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The villa was a modest, two-story cottage draped in vines and jasmine, perched on a quiet hill overlooking the gray-blue sprawl of the North Sea. The garden was absurdly peaceful and blooming lavender, freshly swept stone path, wind chimes dancing lazily in the salt air.
No guards. No defenses. Just a hand-painted wooden sign by the gate:
“No Shoes, No Lies, No Interrogations.”
Mello skidded to a halt behind a waist-high bush, scanning the perimeter like it might suddenly sprout laser turrets.
“Near, bloody fix your mustache!” he hissed. “It’s slipping. You look like a discount Poirot.”
Near, clad in a too-large cassock and a crooked clerical collar, calmly adjusted the fake mustache with the grace of someone who had accepted his fate and internalized his shame.
“It keeps catching on the glue. You didn’t give me real spirit gum.”
“I told you not to use lip balm as adhesive,” Mello growled, yanking his trench coat tighter over his bare chest. “Matt. Glasses.”
Matt, dressed like a beatnik tourist-turned-yoga-instructor—with round sunglasses, a woven poncho, and flip-flops—pushed his shades up his nose and sighed.
“What’s the point of dressing up like this anyway? L is probably watching us already. With twelve cameras and a satellite drone.”
Mello didn’t blink.
“It’s not for L,” he said, eyes narrowing with divine purpose. “If she opens the door, then we’d tell her we’re…”
He paused, considering, as the three of them crouched awkwardly in the hydrangeas. “…traveling folklore documentarians. Doing a piece on ancient strawberry-based rituals of the North Yorkshire coast. Very niche. Very respectful.”
Near deadpanned, “No one is going to believe that.”
“She might,” Mello said, suddenly gleaming with righteous madness.
Matt stared at him. “You realise you’re shirtless, right?”
“That’s part of the charm.”
“You look like a rejected pirate audition.”
“I’m undercover. ”
Mello straightened, hands on his hips, red yarn still clinging to one forearm like he was molting conspiracy. “You two look like a failed Netflix reboot of The Da Vinci Code . We’re all suffering.”
“Should we just knock?” Near asked flatly, stopping the banter.
“That’s why we’re here, right?” Matt replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
He stepped forward and knocked twice, casual, like they weren’t dressed like a priest, a cult escapee, and a half-naked detective-on-edge.
They waited.
Mello’s heart was pounding like he was about to defuse a bomb. He was giddy, part-anxious — wondering if L would open the door himself and glare them into oblivion — partly-excited to finally come face-to-face with the infamous “Sugarcube.”
The one woman who had managed to do what no criminal, god-complex maniac, or government agency could: taming L.
No sound.
The trio exchanged a look. Mello raised a fist to knock again when suddenly they heard light footsteps.
Soft, measured, and approaching from inside.
They froze.
Near stiffened. Matt straightened. Mello held his breath like the next sound might detonate a truth bomb.
Click.
The door unlocked and a slow creak followed.
They braced themselves, heads tilting forward in unison like synchronized idiots about to witness the unholy grail of gossip.
And then—
Then the door opened all the way, and there she was.
Misa Amane.
But not the one from magazine covers or police files.
She stood barefoot in the doorway, dressed in a flowing, custom-tailored dress — black lace over soft jersey cotton, cinched just right to flatter her figure and flair at the hem like something designed for a gothic angel attending a garden party.
Her hair, a deep chocolate brown, was twisted into a loose bun held up by two glittering chopsticks, with a few soft curls framing her face. A delicate gold necklace read “O ♡” and she had a smudge of flour on her cheek like she’d kissed a baking tray.
She looked half like a goddess, half like she’d just scolded someone for burning croissants — and exactly like a woman who had not been murdered, kidnapped, or brainwashed by a cult.
The trio stared.
Misa blinked at their outfits and suddenly wished L was the one who opened the door.
Three figures stood on her porch like they'd broken out of an asylum and taken a wrong turn into a costume shop.
The one in front—tall, sweaty, and very shirtless—wore nothing under his dramatically swishing trench coat but red yarn strung across his bare chest like a DIY murder board. A silver cross necklace swung violently as he adjusted a clipboard covered in scribbled nonsense. His blond hair looked like it had been electrocuted by obsession.
His eyes? Pure war crimes.
Behind him, a pale boy in an oversized priest robe stood solemnly, a crooked fake mustache clinging to his upper lip like it was trying to escape. He had marbles in one hand and a mechanical pencil tucked behind one ear like some holy cryptid accountant.
And bringing up the rear was the third one.
He had clearly gone through a crisis at a thrift store and lost. Flip-flops, striped woven poncho, round tinted sunglasses, and a fake travel guide peeking from his hoodie pocket. He looked like he should be holding a ukulele and selling herbal tea in Cornwall.
Mello choked.
Out loud.
Like someone had punched him in the throat with God’s fist. His eyes blew wide and mouth opened, closed, then opened again. No sound. Just raw betrayal from the universe.
Matt’s jaw dropped, granola bar still in hand. His sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose. He made a small, confused sound like a modem trying to dial.
Near’s mechanical pencil fell from his fingers. A marble rolled down the porch step and bounced into the jasmine bush. He blinked, once. Twice. Then very, very slowly reached up to peel off his fake mustache like it personally offended him.
Misa blinked once, utterly unamused. Then, as if knowing that this moment would come sooner or later — like taxes or Mercury in retrograde — she sighed.
“…Are you three selling Bibles or auditioning for a bad heist movie?”
Mello looked ready to explode. He tried to say something but he couldn’t even find words — just sputtering gasps like the English language had failed him.
Matt nudged Mello with the back of his hand. “Told you it was her.”
Mello stared at Misa, squinting like she might dissolve if he stared hard enough. “You’re the Sugarcube?”
Misa tilted her head, arms folded gently, one hand resting just above her stomach. “Well, unless L developed a sudden affinity for fruit smoothies and domestic monogamy with someone else, yes. I’m the Sugarcube .”
Mello blinked again. Once. Twice.
She was definitely Misa Amane—the Misa from the KIRA case, the ex-international model who once ruled the catwalks and commercials, then threw the entertainment industry into full meltdown by announcing her sudden retirement and disappearing entirely. Her features were the same: wide eyes, that too-perfect skin, the kind of beauty that made other models switch careers. But something was different.
Not her face.
Her body.
Mello’s eyes drifted again, slower this time. From her face, to her middle, then back again. Then down once more, this time stopping.
She hadn’t gained weight, but she was rounder.
“You’re… pregnant?”
Mello muttered, the words falling out of his mouth like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud. It wasn’t even a question, really. Just disbelief dressed up as a sentence.
Misa arched one delicate brow.
“If you three are here for the baby shower, you’re two months late,” she said, perfectly calm, as though she wasn’t standing in the doorway of a floral seaside villa in a couture maternity dress, speaking to three young men dressed like the cast of a rejected BBC special.
She sighed and placed a gentle hand just beneath her bump, stepping sideways and motioning them in. “Come on in.”
Like dazed cultists obeying a higher power, they followed.
The inside of the villa smelled like lemon zest and powdered sugar, warm with sun and something suspiciously close to peace. Near immediately began cataloguing the furniture, noting the slippers near the shoe rack, the puzzle books on the coffee table, and the faint sound of piano music coming from another room—Schumann, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Then—
“Misa,” came L’s voice, from somewhere beyond the hall. “Did you remember to set the timer for the second batch?”
He appeared around the corner, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp as if from a midday shower, and wearing an apron with something that Mello had no capacity to even read it properly.
He had a smudge of flour on his jaw and held a mixing spoon like it was a scalpel. His eyes darted up—and paused.
He took in the scene.
L blinked once. Then he smirked.
“Watari informed us you’d visit,” he said, with the placid gravity of someone announcing the weather. “But we weren’t expecting you three to show up in those .”
Matt shrugged and slid off his flip-flops. “I was going for minimalist boho energy.”
Near peeled off the rest of his disguise like a defeated illusionist. “I was coerced.”
Mello, who had thus far refused to move further than two steps inside the house, pointed at L with both hands.
“You! Baking?!”
L licked something off his thumb. “We rotate kitchen duties. Misa handles decorating. I do structure. We both have our roles.”
“WHAT THE HELL???” Mello yelled.
“We don’t yell in this household, young man!” Misa said sternly, the sudden force of her voice silencing the room like a clap of thunder in a library. Her hands instinctively hovered in front of her belly protectively.
“Unless it’s sweets,” she continued, eyes narrowing, “or someone burnt the lemon tart again .”
L, utterly unfazed, calmly scraped batter off the whisk with surgical precision. “That was one time,” he said.
Mello’s mouth opened. Closed. Then it opened again.
“What in bloody mary is happening right now?!”
Matt, who recovered faster than either of the other two, flopped into the nearest armchair like he belonged there. He kicked his flip-flops farther and rested one leg over the other.
“Domesticity, man,” he muttered, arms spread across the sides. “This is what happens when a cryptid falls in love.”
Near continued cataloguing the place like it was a crime scene. His eyes moved from the embroidered oven mitts to the alphabetized tea collection, lingering briefly on a framed photo of L and Misa at what appeared to be a pumpkin patch. He said nothing, but his silence was practically screaming.
Misa sighed, a long-suffering sound that somehow made her seem even more composed.
“You three came all this way for answers. So either sit down and have a slice of cake… or go yell into the ocean. Those are your options.”
Then, as casually as if this were all perfectly normal, she disappeared into the kitchen, the scent of lemon trailing in her wake.
L appeared a moment later from around the corner, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He glanced at them—Matt lounging like he paid rent, Near evaluating furniture as if it might testify in court, and Mello still rooted in place like his entire worldview had just been hit by a very polite bomb.
“Please remove your disguises. They’re offensive to both fashion and logic.”
Matt immediately tugged off his poncho, revealing his usual striped tee beneath. “I was going for ‘eccentric uncle with spiritual trauma.’”
“You succeeded,” L replied.
Mello, still shirtless beneath his trench coat and radiating conspiracy energy, snapped, “You’re acting like this is normal!”
“It is,” L said flatly. “For us.”
Mello’s voice rose several decibels. “You’re telling me you — L , the world’s most paranoid, sugar-addicted, emotionally constipated misanthrope—are living in a cottage with Misa Amane , pregnant , baking cakes in an apron that literally screams ‘Knead Me Baby One More Time?!’ ”
L didn’t even blink. “You know that’s not what my apron says.”
“Oh, sorry,” Mello snapped, gesturing wildly toward the kitchen. “Let me guess. It says ‘Whisk Me Away.’ Or ‘Doughmestic Bliss.’ Or ‘I Kiss Better Than I Cook.’ ”
“It says ‘I Bake Therefore I Am.’ ” L replied dryly, folding his arms. “You’re being hysterical.”
Mello threw his arms in the air like this entire dimension had failed him. “I am hysterical! You— you two —are playing house while the rest of us thought she was dead or in a witness protection program and you were buried in your own paranoia bunker eating sugar cubes and not knowing how feelings work!”
Matt raised a casual hand from the armchair without looking up from the cake he stole from the nearest table. “For the record, I’m actually fine with this. It’s weird. But it tracks.”
Near gave a slow, deliberate nod. “I, too, had theorised something improbable. But this... exceeds all prior projections.”
Mello spun on both of them. “I hate you.”
Then he jabbed a finger at L like it was a blade.
“Start talking. Everything. I want the whole story. No riddles, no half-answers, no sudden offers of cake to distract me. Every detail. How? When? Why? And for the love of every unsolved case in Europe, how the hell did she survive your personality long enough to get pregnant?! ”
Matt raised a finger mid-bite. “Also—I wanna know who made the first move. Because honestly? My money was always on her.”
Near gave a silent, solemn nod of agreement.
Mello squinted. “Wait. You bet on this? ”
Matt shrugged. “Yeah. Ages ago. Some of the Wammy brats started a whole pool about L’s alleged secret lover. Odds, theories, brackets—it got competitive.”
He jerked a thumb toward Near. “He was in on it too.”
Mello’s jaw dropped. “ You ?!” He looked personally betrayed. “And nobody bothered telling me?!”
Near tilted his head, expression infuriatingly calm. “Would you have believed it?”
Mello opened his mouth. Closed it. His nostrils flared like a bull preparing to charge, but he said nothing.
Across the room, L stood with his teacup in hand, staring at them like a disapproving librarian catching kids gossiping in the back row. Three of the brightest minds Wammy’s ever produced after him—now crammed into his seaside living room, wearing terrible disguises, demanding a full romantic debrief like old women in a church knitting circle.
L sighed— actually sighed, which was so unlike him it made all three boys glance up like the ceiling might cave in.
“Out of every case you could have solved by now,” he said, voice dry enough to dehydrate the room, “I fail to understand how my personal life has become your top priority.”
Mello threw up his arms. “Maybe because you’ve dropped off the face of the earth for the past three months! !”
L glanced down at his teacup, then back at Mello.
“My wife,” he said calmly, “is heavily pregnant. And due anytime this week.”
The room went still.
Matt blinked. “Wait—like any time?”
“As in, possibly now ,” L added, as if they might want to double-check the floorboards just in case. “I would appreciate it if we could proceed with no additional yelling, otherwise there’s a chance the child will choose to come out now out of sheer spite, just to physically assault you.”
There was a beat of silence.
Near blinked. “That’s not… medically possible.”
L turned to him, unblinking. “I have seen stranger things. He already kicks harder when Mello speaks.”
Matt tried—and failed—not to laugh. “So it’s a he, then?” Matt asked. “He already hates Mello. He’s got taste.”
Mello growled. “I’m being threatened by an unborn child now?! What is this—psychological warfare through the womb?”
“Technically, yes,” L replied without blinking. “He gets that from his mother.”
Matt let out a low whistle. “Power move, honestly.”
L gestured calmly. “Sit down, Mello. I will explain everything.”
He turned his back on them, gliding to the teapot with the grace of someone who had absolutely nothing left to prove. Steam rose from the kettle like this was any other afternoon in a perfectly ordinary seaside cottage—and not the epicenter of the emotional earthquake now leveling the Wammy boys' collective worldview.
“But understand,” L added, pouring himself a fresh cup, “this will take a while. There are… layers.”
Mello sighed, dramatically. Then, in a move both petty and predictable, he kicked Matt’s feet off the ottoman just to steal the seat beside him.
“I get it,” Matt said, unfazed, already reaching for a cherry scone from the tray on the table before them. “You're in mourning for reality.”
He took a bite—chewy, sweet, just a little bitter. Definitely L’s baking. Probably baked while unraveling a government.
“Start,” Mello ordered, “with the part where you somehow became emotionally available enough to get someone pregnant.”
L turned to face them. There was a moment of silence as L sipped his tea, eyes half-lidded. Suddenly, something like mischief tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re assuming the emotional availability came before the pregnancy.”
It was silent for solid two seconds before Matt choked violently on his scone.
Near, who had been quietly examining the pattern on a quilted throw pillow, blinked and looked like he was genuinely startled for the first time in years.
Mello screamed so loud that it could probably be heard by the ocean.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“So let me get this straight,” Matt said, balancing a plate of cake in one hand while lazily twirling his fork with the other. “You two have been secretly shacked up for four years, tied the knot last autumn, and then—surprise—found out you were pregnant the next day?”
L nodded once, unfazed. “Technically, we found out the same morning. It was a very busy Thursday.”
Misa’s voice floated in from the kitchen, light but pointed. “And he still insisted on finishing the crossword before reacting.”
“It was the Times ,” L replied, deadpan. “They had an unusually clever clue about fermentation.”
Mello rubbed his temples. “So not only are you in a long-term, legally binding domestic situation with Misa Amane— with child —you also... make pastries and do puzzles like some kind of cryptid suburban dad?!”
Near finally spoke again, eyes narrowed as he set down a mug of chamomile he definitely hadn’t asked for. “And no one thought to inform the rest of us?”
“You were busy,” L said.
“With what , exactly?” Mello barked, arms flung up like he’d just caught L committing international fraud.
L didn’t even blink. “Not getting anyone pregnant.”
A beat.
“Well, speaking of that,” Matt whistled, casually grabbing another scone. “There’s a girl I’ve been talking to—real nice, into vintage RPGs, possibly not a hallucination…”
“ Not interested ,” Mello cut in, already chucking a throw pillow in Matt’s direction without even looking. “Save your tragic love life for later. I need answers. Real ones.”
He turned his full attention to Misa, who had, at some point, claimed the seat beside L like she’d owned it for a decade.
She looked radiant and smug, a hand resting on her bump and a tea biscuit in the other, eyes half-lidded with the calm of someone who knew she had caused a crisis and was thoroughly enjoying it.
“How could you tolerate him ?” Mello asked, practically spluttering.
Misa gave a thoughtful hum, as though she were being asked how she liked her tea.
“Well, once I accepted that he’s basically a feral raccoon in human form. Emotionally stunted, sugar-dependent, suspicious of sunlight… it became easier.”
“I am right here ,” L said, deadpan, sipping his tea.
“And yet,” she said with a smile, eyes twinkling with mischief, “you haven’t disagreed.”
“Man, I like her,” Matt whistled, leaning back in his seat like he was watching the best reality show no one had aired yet. “So—can you both just go ahead and name me the godfather now? I’ll bring snacks to the baptism.”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Mello and Near barked in perfect, horrified unison.
Matt blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “Rude.”
Misa winced suddenly, a sharp inhale cutting through the bickering. Her hand flew to her belly, rubbing slow circles. L’s attention flicked to her instantly.
“Is he kicking again?”
“Oh, he’s not just kicking,” Misa muttered through gritted teeth. “He’s doing a damn Broadway number. Because you three can’t keep your volume under a thousand decibels.”
Mello had the decency to look slightly guilty. Near just sipped his tea in silence.
“I swear,” Misa added, her voice rising with a dangerous calm, “if one of you screams one more time, I will give you all the kind of horror story you’ll never forget by going into labor right here on this lovely antique rug.”
A beat of stunned silence followed.
The boys turned to L in unison like panicked schoolchildren. L didn’t even blink. He just stared back at them with a ‘she’s not joking’ look.
Before anyone could recover, a sharp knock echoed through the house.
Everyone froze momentarily. L was already halfway up from his seat when Misa held out a hand.
“I’ll get it,” she said, rising carefully, one hand at her belly. “I need fresh air anyway—before I strangle someone with an oven mitt.”
L opened his mouth to object, but wisely thought better of it.
They watched as she padded barefoot to the front door, muttering something about volume levels and unborn children with vendettas. She disappeared from sight for a moment.
A muffled voice from outside.
Then the front door creaked open and closed again.
She reappeared in the doorway a moment later, holding a small brown package under one arm and closing the door with her foot.
“Just another delivery,” she called out as she made her way back across the living room. “More baby stuff. Bottles, maybe. Or the giraffe lamp I ordered—”
She stopped.
Blinking.
Expression slackening into something unreadable.
L stood up sharply. “Misa?”
Her expression shifted. First to confusion, then to something far more primal. Slowly, her gaze drifted down.
A dark stain had begun to bloom across the fabric of her dress, trailing down her legs in slow, creeping warmth. Then, with a final, indecent splash , it hit the polished wood floor.
Silence descended like a curtain.
Misa blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her hands hovered near her belly like she wasn’t sure whether to cradle it or scold it. She looked up at them, all frozen like statues in a cursed museum exhibit.
“Well,” she said, gesturing vaguely downward, “either my water just broke, or this baby got tired of your screaming and decided to personally shut you up.”
For a moment, nobody moved. Then, in the next second chaos detonated like a firecracker.
Mello’s eyes went wide.
“HOLLY JESUS!! DO WE BOIL TOWELS?! DO PEOPLE STILL DO THAT?!”
“Where’s the hospital bag?” Matt asked, his half-eaten scone falling down onto the floor. “Did anyone pack the hospital bag? I’ll hack a car!”
Near rose smoothly.
"We passed a rural clinic on the way here, about 6.4 kilometers west." He said, his voice remained steady. "It's usually has limited staff and two delivery rooms. Odds are one is occupied. I’m preparing contingency protocols.”
Misa narrowed her eyes as another sharp kick thudded against her ribs. “Tell him that,” she muttered, pointing down at her stomach. “He's the one who decided this was the time.”
L who was instantly at her side, hands surprisingly steady, despite the chaos still managed to remain composed.
“We move now. Mello, call the clinic—number’s in the kitchen drawer, left of the stove. Matt, go-bag, hall closet, top shelf, red zipper. Near, you’re with me. Monitor vitals, timing between contractions.”
Mello spun in a frantic circle, looking betrayed by the air itself.
“WHAT DO I DO? WHAT DO I ACTUALLY DO??”
“Try not to faint.” Misa deadpanned from her gritted teeth.
And just like that, the world’s most elite detective squad launched into full-blown childbirth panic mode.