ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ \\ ᴍᴇʟʟᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

5 | Mental Chess

[Y/N's POV]

The next morning - a few hours later - I wake up early at sunrise. The light slips through the hotel curtains in thin, golden slivers, cutting across the room like quiet reminders that the world hasn't stopped. The first thought that crosses my mind is why is it so smoking hot in here.

It takes a bloody moment until reality sinks in and I remember that I am not alone in bed, but am literally lying with Mello body-to-body in the exact same position we fell asleep in. His grip around my wrist has loosened sometime during the night, but it's still there. Faint, almost like a subconscious attempt to anchor himself. I watch him for a moment longer than I should. There's something peaceful about this version of him, even with bruises all over his face. Vulnerable, human. It's a stark contrast to the violent, sharp-tongued version I first met. But maybe both are real.

Carefully, I slip out of bed and stand, stretching my arms. My ribs ache from yesterday's fight and my face still stings from the cuts, but none of that compares to the mental weight pressing down again.

Back to reality.

I walk over to the balcony and quietly light a cigarette, watching the early city stir below. We're still two fugitives tangled in secrets, debts, and blood. Last night doesn't change that. And yet, it changed something. Behind me, I hear a rustle. Sheets shifting, followed by a low groan.

"You always smoke this early?" Mello's voice is rough, still thick with sleep.

I glance over my shoulder. He's propped himself up with an elbow, messy hair covering part of his face. For someone who was coughing up blood last night, he doesn't look half dead anymore. Just tired.

"Hey, I let you steal my bed. Let me have my one vice," I reply.

Mello lets out a raspy chuckle, rubbing a hand down his face.

"Fair enough," he mutters, voice still half-buried in sleep. "Though I don't remember you being so generous last night."

"You don't remember throwing up on my boots either," I shoot back, keeping my eyes on the city beyond the balcony.

There's a pause, followed by the sound of him shifting behind me. "That really happened?"

"Oh, it really happened."

He's sitting now, legs dangling off the side of the bed, head lowered like he's still debating whether to fall back onto the mattress or face the day.

"I guess I should be thanking you again," he says eventually, quieter this time.

"You already did," I reply, flicking ash over the edge of the railing.

"I didn't mean for last night. I mean for... everything else."

I don't answer right away. The words sit between us, heavier than the smoke in my lungs. I inhale once more before I answer.

"I didn't do it for the notebook, Mello," I say and turn my head. "I just... didn't want you to die."

His eyes meet mine. Steadier now, sharper. But there's something else there too. Something raw. He nods slowly.

"I know."

When I step back inside, he's looking at me. Not with suspicion, not with defiance, but with something that almost resembles trust. I didn't expect to see that on his face. Not this soon. Maybe not ever.

"You hungry?" I ask, because the weight in the room is starting to feel too heavy for this early in the morning.

"Starving," he mutters.