I mean worlds to her... literally... L didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe later, he'd find a sort of deranged midpoint and do both at once.
Not only did he mean worlds to her... but she was happy, and their feelings were "mutual." An asteroid could kill him tonight, and L would die the happiest son of a bitch ever to live. Slowly, he took Blythe's hand, marveled at it's small size and delicacy relative to his own. He squeezed it softly, knowing that soon there must be a point where everything hinged, where his words could only mean one thing, where Hemingway ended and Dostoevsky began. Where individual truths blended and faded and blossomed into something undeniably universal... or careened into a black pit and vanished. Was he moving too quickly? Would it be fatal to pause, even for a moment? Did the urgency of this war heighten the need to be with another, or create numbness where emotion once resided?
He'd known since the day she healed him that he loved her. She was the voice in the darkness. She made him whole, and brought out the very best in his nature. Would that knowledge terrify her?
"Blythe, I...." his hand, cold but thankfully dry, tightened around hers. "Tell me... tell me about yourself, if you don't know what to say... because you... are a conversation topic I could never grow weary of. I want to know you," he added softly, daring to inch slightly closer to Blythe.