🎱Pee Wentz🎱

╰☆╮

New Year’s Eve, New York City. 9:00 P.M.

The clock was 3 hours away from striking twelve. While many New Yorkers had chosen to corral around Times Square for the annual ball drop, there were a certain few who had been chosen to attend the expensive and neighboring party of someone particularly familiar. Maybe around 100 people, per se– but the venue could hold a much larger capacity than that. 

Vern had rented out one hell of a mansion after he had become a “hit,” as he would so generously call it. His initial intentions were to keep it small. Maybe invite some close friends, some family, some plus ones— which didn't end up as planned.  Now, those margins of people had thus been expanded to: very select members of the NYPD, deceitful yet wealthy politicians, locally residing high-profile celebrities, and then, close friends, family members, and their plus ones. It was quite evident who Vern cared about more. 

And of course, following the actions of most recent events, who could forget the turtles? 

Thankfully, his invitations were denied by a large majority of the supposed recipients. It really was a nice party, the bulk of the larger figures having not showed up. It was much easier to find friends and acquaintances in this ostentatious mess.

The celebration was held at night, a large portion of Vern’s venue held outside in the cool air. He had heaters strategically placed, not visible, but blasted to a high enough temperature to where they were easily noticeable against the freezing cold. 

Most people gathered near the fountain. It was a massive limestone structure, easily nine feet tall, with water spilling down its three tiers. The sound of it filled the space, quiet; but loud enough to enjoy as simple background noise. Conversation and clinking glasses would soon easily add to this ambience. Soft lights glowed from inside the waterfall, turning the water a warm gold and casting the same iridescent lighting over anyone standing nearby. 

Strings of tiny bulb lights were strung across the open sky overhead—everywhere you looked, looping from beam to beam until the stars were merely just distractions. Were there even stars up there anymore? Railings and trellises were adorned with fairy lights, which replaced any need for normal fixtures. Tables with rich linen cloth circled the lobby area, individually. The walls were covered in vertical gardens, flowers spilling downward in neat rows. In a few places, marble panels had been carved out to make room for thin waterfalls, water sliding down polished stone purely for the sake of atmosphere and photo opportunities. 

There were also many expensive vendors present! Each had their own designated spot within the venue: steak chefs, seafood boilers, and even a chocolate fountain. The bartenders were what Vern seemed proudest of. Each specialist was dressed sharply and stocked with an overwhelming selection of bottles and concoctions that have yet to be revealed to the public. The man heard luxury; the man automatically clicked buy.

A mansion-like building towered above the venue, just distant enough to make it feel separate, yet close enough for New York to feel very much nearby. From the terrace, you could see the skyline stretching out below, golden fireworks already popping in the distance as people gathered for the countdown. The city glowed in the majestic way it always did. 

New York was loud; New York was alive. 

New York had three hours until the four turtles had officially been inducted into society as formally recognized “heroes.” 

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

Upon their arrival, Leonardo handled their entrance the best.

He stayed near the edge of the terrace. Posture straight as always, arms folded loosely across his chest. His eyes never stopped moving. Splinter had taught him that. He kept track of exits, counted security guards, noted the way the crowd would whisper and sneer every time someone important arrived. Still, there was something softer about him this particular evening; despite his straight posture, his shoulders weren’t as tense. When someone approached to thank him—quietly, genuinely—he nodded and listened instead of brushing them off. Leo was making an attempt to enjoy himself, but he hadn’t really decided whether he liked all of this yet. Vern’s extravagant parties. Maybe just Vern in general. He has yet to think about that one…

Raphael hovered closer to the building itself, half inside and half out, not really committing to either room, moreover just looking for people to chat with. He didn’t like just standing around doing nothing. Talking with people was weird, yeah, but he’d get over it... eventually! He wasn’t a fan of the higher powers that actually did end up making an appearance; he could tell only one sentence in when someone was a rich snob. It wasn’t that hard. He just spent time munching on free food and indulging in the occasional game of pool. 

Michelangelo bounced between every group he could find. While he, alongside Raph, was not a fan of the celebrities that showed up, he did try to snap a picture with each of them, that fanboy at heart, he was. By the end of the night, the food vendors would have been absolutely ravished of their stock. Not his problem! If wasting Vern’s money like this would be an annual thing, hell, he’d be here every time. He soaked this up. It was exactly the kind of night he’d been waiting for.

Donatello, meanwhile… seemed to regret showing up at all. 

He lingered near Mikey at first, mostly because it gave his twitchy hands a break from the total freak-out he felt the second they walked in. That didn’t go on for too long, as Mikey had spontaneously spotted April at the bar; he had something “sooo private” he had to ask her, and Donnie was not allowed to follow. He was left alone. Consequently, the slider was rather observant tonight– dare I say, more observant than Leo.

Were he and his brothers supposed to have dressed up? He was just wearing his typical cargo pants, thick-framed glasses, and tech gear, just like any other night. Everyone else looked so much better. Shit. They should have tried. 

The other people– humans, Donnie would think– looked so much better. Hair so perfectly slicked back, posture defined; these people clearly work out. (He corrected himself on that thought, though– he found it silly to be critiquing himself for that.) At least the wide majority didn’t act like rich snobs. Well, maybe they were snobs, they just pretended not to be? Yeah. That’s likely. 

 It was just… the effort people had put into their outfits was so so painstakingly, disgustingly obvious! The purple turtle and his brothers couldn’t exactly participate in all of these formal incapabilities. He sighed. Loudly enough that maybe someone would hear it, Donnie had hoped.

Quit diverting your focus, he’d think. What if something happened nearby? They needed to be ready. Being useful and practical was way more important than being socially acceptable.

Stop it. That was dumb. You’re perfectly fine… yeah, you look fine. Just wander around until someone you know pops up.  

Meandering some more, Donnie found his hands fidgeting. Picking at some dead, shedding skin, adjusting the strap on his bo staff, literally anything that would ground him in this huge and unfamiliar place. He kept watching the crowd, desperate to find some form of a half-stable structure in the mess.

His eyes, finally, wandered upon you. 

Oh, he knew you. 

He knew you well. 

You two went waaaayyyy back.

But he couldn’t exactly talk to you before he got caught up in some other fuckass issue he really didn’t want to deal with.

“Hey—uh, you’re Donatello, right?”

The woman had appeared at his side without warning. NYPD dress uniform, jacket folded neatly over one arm, badge still clipped to her waistband like she’d forgotten to take it off. Maybe she was showing it off? Hmm. She smiled in a way that suggested she’d practiced this in a mirror. Donnie was startled upon her pop-up, nearly smacking her with the end of his bo staff as he turned!

“Oh—yes. Hi. That’s—uh. That’s me,” he said quickly, already stiffening.

“Oh, wow,” she said, “you’re taller than I expected.”

Donnie blinked. “Oh. Uh—thank you?”

She laughed, eyeing him up and down. He couldn’t pinpoint the reason. “Relax. I mean it as a compliment. I’ve seen you guys on the news, but you’re… different in person.”

He nodded, unsure what the correct response was supposed to be here, exactly?

“Well, that would make sense, the cameras April and her team use don’t really account for our–”

“Must be weird,” she continued, voice lowering, “being everyone’s hero all of a sudden.” She stepped closer—not enough to be obvious, just enough to shrink the space between them. But Donnie noticed. 

“I don’t— we don’t really think of it like that, it’s more of a… general thing we’ve done since we were kids,” he rambled.

Iffy. Uncomfortable. That’s how this conversation made him feel. 

“Mmh.” Her eyes lingered on his glasses.“You’re the smart one, right? The brains.”

“I… suppose.” The turtle shifted his weight.

“I like that,” she said easily. “Smart men don’t usually get enough appreciation.”

Oh, hell no. Back off!

She reached out, fingers brushing his arm as if by accident. “Do you ever get time to yourself? Off patrol, I mean.”

Yeah, that was it. That was when his discomfort had officially spiked. 

“I— No thank you, I’m usually pretty busy,” he replied, a little too fast.

She smiled again, slower this time. “That’s a shame. I was thinking maybe you and I could grab a drink later. Somewhere quieter?” 

Her thumb traced the seam of some holster-like piece of gear he had on his arm. She held it out for a minute, ignoring the uncomfortable look upon Donnie’s face. “I’d love to hear more about what you do.”

Well, then. Watch the news, he thought.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His eyes flicked past her shoulder.

That was when you waved.

“I—no, I mean—not no, just—uh—” Donnie gently but firmly eased her hand away, an awkward smile stretched tight across his face. “I’m actually—expected elsewhere. Right now. Immediately. Very immediately.”

Mercifully, you caught his eye again from across the terrace. A slight chuckle on your lips. You couldn’t hear exactly what was going on, but you could assume. 

You raised your brows, then tilted your head toward the fountain, making an exaggerated come here motion with two fingers. You did this in hopes he would take it; it was an easy out for him in this little interruption. When that didn’t work fast enough, you added a dramatic little wave, enthusiastically mouthing something that looked suspiciously like a get over here!

Donnie nearly fell over with relief.

“Hey, wait—where are you headed? Can I grab your contact info before you go?” The woman proceeded, following him. She stayed right with him, matching his pace, shoulder brushing his now and again. Every time he glanced toward the direction he was pointing, she adjusted, keeping herself in his line of sight. This officer was not taking no for an answer!

“Oh! Yes—that,” he blurted, pointing at you far too obviously. “That’s—she’s— that girl over there, see her?—important. Very important. I have to go. Please go.” 

You held your hands behind your back politely as he shuffled over, the officer watching the exchange with mild and visible frustration with the turtle before letting it go. Donnie didn’t look back. He didn’t stop moving until he was standing in front of you, breath uneven, shoulders tight. Even when he was heaving and slouched over, he still stood at a colossal height. You held back your laugh until he’d completely blocked your view of the officer.

“Thank you,” he muttered under his breath, pushing his glasses up his nose. “That was… actual hell. Never again.”

And then he finally got a chance to look at you properly.

You…. your outfit.

The dress you wore collided with your skin tone in such a gentle, beautiful manner. The sparkling grape-purple material flowed delicately down the sides of your hips, highlighting your features in a way everyone could notice and admire. The straps of the dress were designed to look almost strapless, the sleeves loosely draping to the sides of your shoulders—likely the way it was made, intended to be worn. A clear, almost iridescent, invisibly lavender-toned set of heels, which only heightened you by a few inches, throned your feet. 

It didn’t give you much more length. Yet you looked so different from usual. In a good way. God—such a good way. He wasn’t complaining!

In contrast to his own everyday ensemble, yes. He was astronomically underdressed. Did you care? No. There was absolutely nothing in this world that could make you care. 

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

The two of you had met through some really, really unexpected circumstances. It was an accident– though, a lovely accident that you would never regret. 

You’d been in April’s apartment, checking in on a new cat she’d adopted over the summer. She was gone for about a week, and you had taken the liberty of feeding… “Mr. Purrito.” You had some critiques for that cat’s name, but he was a cutie. It didn’t matter.

Regardless, you had been in the wrong place at the wrong time– Donnie had also dropped in to help fix some technological issue that she was having ever since she had moved into her own place. April had called him earlier about her Wi-Fi acting up again. And she just happened to forget to mention that a specific someone else would be there.

He was clearly just as startled as you were, if not… more. His hands were fumbling as he tripped over his words, hands finally raising quickly in panic that you would panic. You did. For a second. It took a few minutes to settle in what the hell was going on, but it was him who talked you through the whole situation! Not really calming you down, necessarily, but providing an explanation as to what you were seeing. 

Mr. Purrito, entirely unbothered by the presence of a giant mutant turtle, immediately took a liking to this familiar face, circling his legs and demanding attention. You watched Donnie lean down for a quick second to scratch the cat behind its ears. 

As you listened to his rambling, you kept your distance. Donnie didn’t push for you to interact with him any more than you already had. He stayed where he was, talking too much in his verbose, overly detailed way that drew you in; you found yourself shocked that you hadn’t run away in absolute terror. You didn’t want to. He was too… nice. Approachable, you would describe it– if he was someone you would actually see out in the streets of New York, everyday. But he wasn’t. He explained why he was there once more, then apologized—the last time, now—for startling you. 

And from there on out, he had somehow managed to make himself a part of your daily life. 

The turtle didn’t integrate himself on purpose. It just kept happening. Meeting him– running into him, in lieu of April. She had demanded that they needed to meet and trust new people; hell, you’d already met him, why not? 

On a few rare occasions, you had a gut feeling it wasn’t really the purple brother you were seeing hopping buildings atop of alleyways; likely, he had told one of his brothers about a human encounter he had experienced… it was probably Leo or Raph debating on whether or not to come and threaten you the same way they did April. She had told them to back off; Donnie advising the same, too.

The two of you had gotten along like it was a match made in heaven. The majority of your interactions were at April’s apartment, the three of you becoming something of a trio– but in the same way that he and April hung out, and she and you hung out, Donnie and you had a connection outside of April, too. 

Your most common meeting place was the alley behind a coffee shop. You’d swipe some coffee—or tea, in your case—and he’d grab his preferred caffeine, along with a little radio he’d built himself, and you’d wander up to the hill by the old drive-in. Watching from afar was nice. Beautiful, this way; watching as the sunset would fade behind buildings. You’d talk about anything. Science, music, movies, the dumbest little things… he’d nerd out about silly topics and you’d find yourself smiling at any word that had been uttered from his lips. You’d throw in the occasional bad joke, punch each other lightly, laugh quietly so no one else would hear. If anyone happened to look over at you and Donnie, one of you would quickly cover the other's mouth, followed by a snicker from the one whose mouth was now covered. And sometimes, when one was zoned out and attentive to the movie, the other would shy their eyes and stare longingly at their company for the night.

Most of the time, neither of you were caught. Most of the time.

That continued for months. Months would spiral into years. All of this was nearing half a decade ago, now.

When Donnie was alone, tampering aimlessly with some piece of tech, he’d think about you. 

When you were alone, staring at the ceiling as you ached for sleep, you’d think about him. 

None of you said a word about this… not a single, uttered word. 

The both of you just let it linger and allowed it to hurt. Hope was truly your only way of coping in this situation.

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

“Donnie?” You interrupted. He seemed to be in a daze.

He nodded, eyes drifting briefly back to the crowd before returning to you. The turtle resumed his speaking. “Hey, do you—um. Want to walk around? This place is huge. It might be more productive than standing still.” He spun a little in place, the pieces of gear he'd brought with him tonight bobbing on his back as he did so.

“I’d like that,” you said easily.

You fell into step beside him, moving through the venue like you always did—side by side, talking about nothing and everything. The lights reflected off the fountain as you passed, music swelling and fading as you crossed different spaces. You people-watched for a bit, noticing how everyone was really in their own zone, here. Donnie found himself relaxing without realizing it, his thoughts quieter when he focused on you instead. 

“Here, give me your arm,” you said, your heels thankfully giving you enough height to reach your own up to his, looping your wrist under his elbow. Your eyes darted around the premise quickly, a tiny part inside of you hoping that the officer had seen. Maybe you just wanted her to feel some pang of jealousy that you had known him first. Maybe you were just being an ass. 

Donnie froze for half a second when you took his arm. He was used to you touching him, gentle touches, casual things. Passing him cards from a game, handing him a screwdriver, the basics.

He wanted to take some superglue and permanently stick your much smaller hands to his much much bigger arm. While it took him a minute to adjust to this warm feeling, he relished it; didn’t want you to let go. He encased your arm a little tighter. 

The two of you kept walking, your pace unhurried, weaving through clusters of guests. Donnie angled his body slightly without thinking, guiding you around tighter spaces, away from a server carrying a tray of champagne, around a group of laughing strangers who had already had far too much to drink.

Your eyes flicked toward the crowd again, and there she was—near the bar, nursing a drink, gaze drifting just a little too invasively in your direction. You leaned in closer to Donnie, lowering your voice.

Glancing up at him, you gave a teasing murmur: "Hey, Dee… your girl's looking."

He resisted the urge to look immediately. Failed. His eyes darted over, caught her glance, and he winced. “Oh. Great.” As his eyes started to wander throughout the venue, looking for something interesting, anything interesting to lay his eyes on that wasn’t the officer; his eyes landed on you, instead. Only for a moment. You didn’t lock eyes, but he did want to keep staring. He’d stare as long as you’d like, if you allowed him to. 

“She’s still looking over here,” you murmured. “I don’t know what she’s thinking. Her facial expression is making it hard to tell. It’s all over the place. I kinda feel bad,” you joke, your eyes, too, darting around; ending up watching the fountain’s coordinated performance with the music. 

“Ah. I wouldn’t feel bad,” he said. “She sort of chased me out here when I asked her to leave. It was more of a plea, though. She was a very determined individual.”

“Oh. I didn’t see that. Guess she’s a persistent one, then.” A slight chuckle escaped his lips. 

“Yeah, clearly. I’m trying my hardest not to look back. It feels weird with all of this attention, can’t say I’m particularly enjoying it.” 

“Well, you’re doing a bad job.” You teased him. Of course he wasn’t, he was perfect at everything he did or even tried to do. 

“Shh. I’m doing my best,” he nudges you playfully. 

You tilted your head just enough to peek over your shoulder. The officer stood near the bar, posture relaxed, eyes decidedly not. Her gaze tracked the two of you as you moved.

“She looks very… intrigued? Her eyes haven’t left anywhere you’ve been,” you added. Again, a pang of jealousy hit your heart. Were you supposed to feel like this anytime someone even made a mere mention of dating him? 

Jesus, that felt so wrong to say. Possessive, almost. All four of the boys had just been resurfaced as heroes and the first thing that came to your mind when someone wanted to get closer to them was no. Well, just the one. Donnie. He’s all that mattered to you right now. 

Be more accepting! Let him branch out to other people, you’d think. But you didn’t want to. God, if that thought could be banned from your head, you’d do it; but the only reason it was being let in was for Donnie’s benefit. They’d never had a chance to branch out in this way; much less, date people! Fuck. This felt wrong… limiting him with your thoughts. 

Jealousy. That’s what this was. Plain and pure. 

Donnie sighed. “I hate this.”

“Hate what?”

“Being stared at… and treated like I’m some kind of object. That cop, mostly.” He hesitated. “People don’t know when to back off. Especially when I’m already here with someone.”

Your heart stuttered. Oh. “With someone?” you echoed, then smiled, careful to keep it light. “Donnie, did you come with a date?”

He blinked. “I mean— with you. Not like—” He stopped, cheeks warming. “Sorry. That came out wrong.” 

You laughed, soft and quiet, and gently slipped your arm from his, giving him space instead of tension. “You didn’t sneak anyone in, did you?” The edge of your elbow nudges him softly.

“Trust me… you’d be the first to know.” He leans over and murmurs to you.

…You would be the first to know, Donnie thought. You’d certainly be the only one to know, considering if he’d actually gone through with his previous plans and asked you here—unlike the spineless coward he had been lately. Yes. Yes, you’d be the first to know that he was bringing someone along with him tonight. That person could have been you. Should have been you. 

“Are you hungry? I’m hungry. Let’s go eat, maybe Mikey hasn’t completely cleared out the vendors of their stock yet,” Trying to change the subject, Donnie gently took your hand, which you’d just undone from his arm, and led you toward the food tables.

As the turtle dragged you along the line of food vendors, you quickly stepped in your heels to keep up with him; almost tripping over yourself. You didn’t care. Nothing really mattered when you were with him. So many food variants caught your eye. Steak, sushi, calamari, some fifty dollar ice cream stand that wasn’t included in the venue, the self-serve chocolate fountain you’d seen earlier–

“Stop. Donnie, stop!” Immediately upon request, the turtle stopped in his tracks, leaving a little dirt on his feet from the quick halt in the grass. “What? Are you okay, what’s wrong?”

“Sorry. I’m fine, but, look at that chocolate fountain,” you said, eyes lighting up. “We have to try it. I think that’s like… a rich people thing. Please?” A breath from Donnie. He thought you were in trouble, despite being in his hands this whole time.

"I'm down for sugar any day of the week, just sound less in danger next time, (y/n)." He chuckled as the two of you swiftly made your way to the short line of people waiting for the fountain. Upon arrival, the delicate brown tray below the fountain was layered with an assortment of dippables: graham crackers, marshmallows, strawberries, and cherries—your typical variety.

You took a stick from the table the fountain rested on, handing one to Donnie. Taking a strawberry and  skewering it onto your stick, you immersed the fruit under the chocolate fountain; allowing the liquid to completely drown the berry. Donnie, with a different approach, took two graham crackers, laid them on a plate, and then doused a marshmallow in a thorough chocolate coat from his stick.

“Ooooh, that was smart.” You mumbled, eyeing his makeshift smore as you shoved the now chocolate covered strawberry into your full mouth. You looked almost like a squirrel in the springtime, hastily shoving acorns into its mouth for a later harvest. That made him grin, quietly, a little fondly. The turtle looked away. 

He took a careful bite of his s’more, then tilted his head toward you. “Yeah… you’re missing out. I could make another if you want?”

Happily, you would have accepted the items to make your own s'more; the idea of it was intriguing after a sweeter berry! You hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “If you want to surrender yourself to that labor, sure. I’ll take it.”

Donnie's eyes flicked to the table. “Oh—God, damnit! I ate the last of the graham crackers.”

You shrugged. “I’ll survive.”

Instead, he gave you the one he had already eaten; still over half of the s’more left, as if he knew you would have wanted to try some of his food. “You want the rest of this? I think I can bear to part with it.”

“Why would I want your half-eaten s’more, Donnie?”

“Because you said it was good. And there’s no graham crackers left. Simple deduction skills, really. It’s not that hard.” He teased, pulling out a chair for you at a nearby table; leaning over to grab a few more fruits from the fountain. Cherries, bananas, and some more strawberries for the two of you to munch on. He grabbed a few of the bigger marshmallows, too. 

You slid into the chair, careful not to spill any chocolate on your dress, while Donnie dropped into the one across from you. The small table was private, tucked slightly behind the fountain, giving the two of you some more space out and away from the loud and atmospheric party. He carefully arranged the fruit on a small plate between you, handing you a strawberry first.

“Here, you can take the bigger one. It looks good,” he said, voice soft, tone light and gentle; the way he'd always spoken with you. The way he's spoken with you since forever ago. You took it, handing him the smaller cherry in return. 

You watched– when you should have looked away– as he took his teeth, dragging the fruit off of its stem, taking a few moments to tie a knot with said stem, and then placing it back on the plate.

You lean back in your chair, letting your gaze linger on him longer than you probably should. The way his fingers twist that miniscule cherry stem—slow, precise, god, this feels like teasing? It feels impossibly intimate, and you can’t stop the warm little butterflies that soar deep within your stomach. Why am I thinking about this? You chastise yourself. It’s just a cherry stem. Just a stupid cherry stem. But the way he so easily handles it…? Shit. This is the stupidest thing to be attracted to.

You can tell Donnie catches you watching, but he doesn't seem bothered.

If anything, he looks curious. Intrigued. How long can he keep you staring for? You don't want to pull away, either, but the longer you watch, the more your thoughts wander. What else can those dexterous hands do? What would it feel like, having those fingers run over your skin—

Stop.

You swallow. Shake your head a little. He's your best friend. 

Cut. It. Out.

After a few minutes of genuine conversing, and an eventual brief silence, Donnie speaks up again. “Sooo,” he says, crossing his legs, accidentally bumping the table, and your own feet; “you glad you came?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Think so?” he repeats, just testing how much you meant it.

“Mm, I’m iffy about big gatherings like these.” You tilt your head. “What about you?”

He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “I’m not a party guy. You know that.”

“I know, I know. You only came because your brothers did.” 

Only partially, he would think. Primarily because of you. 

The party was also socially required, at this point. If he didn’t come… he’d likely still be considered an outcast.

He doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t agree, either. Just reaches for another marshmallow, getting his hands dirty as he douses it in more chocolate and tosses it into his mouth. You mimic his actions, grabbing a smaller marshmallow and doing the same. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “That’s… part of it.”

You hum, unconvinced but letting it go. The music swells somewhere closer now, laughter spilling across the lawn in sporadic fits. From here, tucked behind the fountain, it all feels distant—like you’re watching the party instead of being in it. Alone was nice. But, alone with Donnie was better.

You saw Leo drinking something in a corner, eyeing Raph and Mikey throwing darts; they were kicking some other man’s ass at it, the same way they were likely doing in their previous game of pool. April hung around Casey, talking to some of his NYPD friends; but Vern was nowhere to be seen. Donnie’s eyes followed to where yours were settled. 

Even when his entire group had been corralled together, he still chose to be with you.

“I’m kind of surprised you haven’t bailed.” You say softly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. People are far too busy with their formal nonsense to notice… hiding out seems fairly appealing right now, actually.”

Donnie snorts. “What, and miss this?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you, the half-empty plate, the faint smear of chocolate on his knuckle. “Yeah. Tragic loss.”

“Truly sweeping me off my feet here, Don.” You tease. 

“They would notice. Vern made a big deal about this party being some commencement for me and my brothers officially entering the new year as heroes or some bullshit. Whatever his tagline was.” Donnie leans down a little bit to slouch in his chair, rubbing the sides of his head in the midst of the action. He really was done and tired of this party; wanting to leave, but given so many undesirable reasons to resist doing so. “Also—minor detail—I’m huge. Me leaving would be exceedingly noticeable. No Irish-goodbye for me.” He groans quietly. “And Leo already said this was mandatory, so if I bail, I’m dead.”

“I think Leo needs to get over himself, then.” You chuckle. “How tall are you? Seven feet?”

“6’8. But I’ll let seven slide.” He smiles at you.

A waiter passes your table, pausing briefly to offer champagne. You wave him off politely. Donnie declines.

The two of you share another round of dessert, taking turns with the remaining pieces of fruit and the marshmallows, eating in a comfortable quiet. The sounds of the party were muted enough for you to pretend like it was just the two of you. 

The sky had grown darker. The city, still loud and bright, was a constant buzz around the terrace. Fireworks were still being lit, popping every minute or so, filling the air with a stark feeling of anticipation. The party was winding down. It wouldn't be long before the guests were crowding the lawn, ready to count the seconds until the ball drop.

A beat of silence. 

"You wanna ditch?" you ask, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 

"God, yes. Let's go." The two of you rise simultaneously.

You follow Donnie as he leads you out of the crowd, moving in the opposite direction of the main gate. When the music fades behind you, he glances over his shoulder, eyes flashing with a hint of mischief. He slows just enough for you to catch up, his arm brushing yours, and when he reaches the edge of the terrace, he stops. An annoyingly average-sized figure stood in his way. 

“Oh. Hey there, Vern.” Donnie stutters, pausing and faltering in his tracks. “What’s, uh, what’s going on?”

“Trying to get out of here already? Come on, man. Only an hour til the ball drops! Where’s the fun in that, huh?” Vern raises his half-empty glass of whiskey towards the crowd, all gathered near the floral-adorned garden. Though it overlooked the rest of Times Square, the view was hard to appreciate with so many people crowding the space for photos.

Vern’s eyes slide past Donnie for a split second, landing squarely on you. His smirk tightens, like he’s already won a victory of some sort.

“Ah, there you are!” He says, voice smooth, a touch condescending. He slips past Donnie for a second, his arm caressing around your shoulder– bringing you closer to him as if he wanted to pull you away to chat. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to send someone to find you.”

You blink, caught off guard. Donnie stiffens beside you, albeit slightly, he still stays near as Vern tries to pull you away.

Don reached over and gently grabbed your wrist. You had a feeling it wasn't to bring you closer; he was likely debating on whether or not to tug you back, but ultimately decided against doing so. He just held it. The wind blew on his face for a brief moment as he decided to slowly interlace his three fingers in your the best he could, which you allowed. You were used to it. In bigger crowds, he did this sometimes, clinging in small, quiet ways whenever he could. It was most likely an anxiety response.  

Vern, however, had caught the motion. He glanced down at your hand, then to Donnie, then back to you.

A very slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't tell me that you two are—"

"No!" The turtle exclaimed. "No, we're not. I promise, it's nothing, she's just—"

"Just a friend." You finish, slipping your wrist out of Donnie's grasp. "But thank you for your concern," he added, continuing the thought.

Vern gave a dismissive scoff. “Yeah, whatever, I’m not gonna open that can of worms tonight. Anyways, (y/n)! I promised you five months ago I’d get you in touch with the manager of that company you were interested in,” He hunched down a little bit, like he was ecstatic to tell you something like a little child would be. “He’s here tonight. I told him you’d meet with him.”

Fuck. 

About five months ago, you'd talked with Vern. You'd somehow been cornered into a conversation about careers, which was absurd coming from him—a man famous but hardly knowledgeable in any field! He used to be a reporter alongside April, but that was long gone. To escape, you'd made up an excuse, mentioning a desire to work for a more "prestigious" company. Vern, annoyingly, claimed he knew just the person. You needed to get out of that interaction. His severe lack of connection to reality was starting to piss you off. Desperate to end that whole conversation, you'd impulsively asked him to make the connection, so you could leave.

Now, karma was a real bitch. You actually had a decent job now– an even better one, at that. But he just wouldn’t let it go.

“That’s sweet, Vern, but I have a better job now. I don’t really need to talk to anybody at the moment.” You shrug him off, trying to move closer to Donnie.

He moves closer, too, blocking you. His arm stays wrapped around your shoulders.

"Hey. It's a quick meeting. He's waiting on the terrace by the fountain." Vern says.

You glance toward the terrace, spotting a man in a navy-blue suit. He holds a flute of champagne, and his eyes scan the crowd, looking for someone. You. You swallow.

"No. Thank you. I appreciate it, though," you say firmly, shaking your head.

His smile slips. "It'll take two minutes. Just go and talk to him. I've got a lot of pull in this town, (y/n). Do yourself a favor and get on his good side."

His voice is casual. Pleasant, even. But his fingers dig into your shoulder a little, just enough for you to get pissed off enough to leave.

Donnie notices, too.

"Two minutes. Go on," he repeats. 

“Fine. I don’t want to hear about any more connections, then, Vern. I came to have fun, not for business antics.” You groaned, disappointed that you had to let go of the turtle next to you. Oh, how you were going to verbally beat his ass once he was finished hosting this stupid party. 

Donnie shifts closer to you, his tall form towering yours as he leans in. His voice drops.

“You don’t have to go and do this,” he says quietly. He wasn’t pleading, not as much as he wanted to be. “If you don’t want to go, you don’t go. He doesn’t get to decide that.” You glance up at him, catching the seriousness in his eyes. It makes your chest tighten in a way you don’t have time to unpack. You wanted to look at him more like this, you thought. 

“I know,” you murmur. “But if I don’t, he’s gonna keep circling me all night. Tomorrow. Next week. Forever.” You sigh. “This is easier. He’s an ass. It’ll be two minutes and then I’m done. We can leave.”

His grip around your wrist remained. He didn’t want you to go, not when the look on your face was clearly one of resignation, not excitement. You wanted to give in to Vern, but he didn’t want to let you. He wanted to keep you with him. He didn’t want you to leave. Not when he finally had the one person he actually likes in this place right in his three-fingered grasp. 

Donnie’s gaze shifted to Vern, the polite, reserved posture he usually maintained cracking just slightly around the edges. The whole coercion issue was ticking him off, but he was fighting the urge to let it show. An outburst here wouldn't help him. It certainly wouldn't help his standing with Vern, which, while already low, was still a necessary evil for the sake of his family's reputation. 

It had gotten progressively worse these past few months. So, so much worse. Vern may have admitted to not being the sole hero of New York City against both the Kraang and Shredder, but he’s done worse things amidst these problems! He was starting to gain some sort of an attitude with the group of people that had actually saved the city. He was starting rumors about Casey, getting into an extra risky argument surrounding morality with Leo, and finally ended up getting some sense knocked into him after he said the wrong thing at the wrong time around Raph. That was after he had mumbled something extremely disrespectful about Splinter, though. That’s when the turtle's opinion on the guy began to change. 

Vern had seemed to misinterpret Donnie's silence as grudging acceptance. Perhaps he’d seen it simply as a continuation of the general apathy Donnie usually displayed in social situations. The smug look on the host’s face deepened, a clear sign that he felt his little power play had worked perfectly. He’d gotten his way, and that was all that mattered to him.

You should’ve said something, you idiot. Now she’s gone. Great going. 

"See? Just two minutes, big guy," Vern chirped, patting his other shoulder with an overly familiar hand, a gesture that made Donnie’s jaw clench. He watched as you walked off, searching for the man in the blue coat.

The casual, proprietary way Vern was acting around you grated on every one of Donnie's nerves. It was the same way he treated everything he considered an asset or a trophy—something to be shown off and leveraged. Vern was leveraging you, and the thought made a low, unfamiliar hum of protectiveness resonate in the turtle's chest. He knew Vern didn't care about your career. He only cared about proving his own influence.

"I'm just doing her a favor, Donatello! Donnie. D-dog. Networking. It's how the world works. Can't stick around eating chocolate-covered junk all night, right?" Vern's eyes, momentarily, met Donnie's, and in that fleeting second, he was just pissed. Straight-up pissed.

“Were you watching?” His voice went flat. “Serious question, Vern. Do you not have anything better to do? Nothing better than to sit around and watch two people live their life while your pathetic, self-engrossed mind enjoys it?” Donnie finally spoke, his voice dangerously low, stripped of its usual verbose flair. The intensity in his tone was enough to make Vern pause, the host's casual demeanor faltering for a beat. "You could have asked. She said she was happy with her job. You know what? You didn't even ask her, you told her. That's not a favor, Vern. You’re not helping her. That's practically manipulation. Motherfu—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, trying not to keep going. Donnie's hand came up to clasp against his mouth, resulting in a following muffle sound. "…Why did we even come to this stupid party?”

And Vern didn't hesitate. "Hey, hey, hey, what's with the sudden attitude, man? I'm helping her! Giving her a chance to move up. And I'm hosting this thing, which means I get to talk to her. It's not a crime."

"You didn't host shit, and no, that doesn’t give you a right to speak to her like that." Donnie shot back, his frustration rising. "This whole thing was planned and organized by a dozen people before you had even heard the name. You didn't plan a damn thing. All you did was pick a date and pay for the food that’s half-decent. For fuck’s sake, Vern, you couldn’t even manage to keep your eyes off of us for two seconds!”

“This is the best venue in the city. I had to make sacrifices. I’ve got other work to get to, anyway. You really expect me to do everything by myself?” Vern rolled his eyes, dismissive. He wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. He never would.

“She’ll thank me later, once she lands a job that actually requires a nice dress. I mean, listen to her talk—she can barely form a full sentence when you’re not around. No way she’s getting a job that pays even half-decently with how quiet she is.”

That was it. That was the line.

Donnie stared, jaw slack, before his face hardened into a permanent scowl. The low growl that escaped his throat was unlike any sound Vern had ever heard from the usually composed turtle. He didn’t even want to think about where that came from.

"You know what, Vern?" Donnie’s voice was dangerously quiet again, laced with pure, unfiltered rage. "Go fuck yourself. Seriously. Have fun with your ‘best venue in the city.’ I’m out."

He didn't wait for a response. He didn't spare Vern another glance. He turned sharply and stalked away from the host, moving toward the edge of the venue, but not toward the exit. He needed to be alone. He needed to scream into a pillow. He needed to bash his bo staff into the nearest criminal, which, in his head, was Vern.

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

Donnie had angrily strolled around that area for a solid two minutes—the time you’d promised. He watched you from across the terrace, your conversation with the suited man seemingly cordial, though you kept glancing back toward the spot where he stood. He wasn't doing a very good job at blowing off steam… and this wasn’t helping him much, either. The entire scene was like someone had taken a glue stick and permanently attached his gaze to your presence. He saw you offer a brief, firm handshake and then quickly turn away, heading back toward him– but then you got caught in another crowd of rich, horrendously snobby businessmen. 

From across the terrace, you caught his eye again. Your mouth formed a silent apology. I’m sorry.

He shook his head once, sharp, and lifted a hand in a small, useless gesture. Smiling softly and covering his anger for you. 

“Take your time,” he mouthed back. “It’s okay.”

Or maybe it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure anymore. The words came out a little stronger than he meant them to, pushed out with a breath. Mostly for you. A little for himself.

He needed space. The fury Vern had ignited was burning a hole in his stomach. It was fucking visceral; an unfamiliar feeling that demanded an outlet of some sort. He didn't head for the exit, the turtle knew that there would just be press waiting at that door with endless interview questions. Instead, he headed for a quiet corner, a place where he could perhaps breathe without the oppressive weight of another’s curiosity. 

He found himself meandering toward the bar area.

It wasn't the main bar where April and Casey were, but a smaller caterer Vern had set up further out on the terrace—a gleaming, expensive vendor’s stand made of dark, polished wood and a sleek black metal. Maybe a strong, overly caffeinated concoction would reset his brain. It was fully stocked, though it was likely just another luxury designed to impress. Sleek bottles of liquor glowed under the soft lights, manned by sharply dressed mixologists who looked extremely bored serving champagne and cocktails.

Donnie would lean against the counter, back to the crowd, staring blankly at the impressive array of expensive, colorful bottles. Crowds all around him, and he still felt exposed, conspicuous, and alone. His internal monologue was a rapid-fire bullet of self-criticism: You should have been firmer with Vern. You should have just grabbed her hand and walked away. You're a coward. You let her walk into that.

“Just… strong, thanks,” he said quietly, giving the bartender just enough to go on.

He went with whatever the bartender suggested—some citrusy cocktail that tasted like nothing but enough to wipe his mind for a bit. The bartender had warned him about something, but the slider had shoved it off– clearly too focused on something else. He didn’t want to hear what the mixologist had to say about the mysterious drink. 

He barely even heard the warning the guy muttered about the potency– how the drink was a special one made for tonight, a drink that was specifically concocted and adjusted to the levels of tolerance the turtles likely had. The other guests to the party tonight were not allowed to order this drink– the mixologist had said something about it being his “lucky day.” Donnie did not listen. 

He’d missed most of it, actually. By the time the bartender was finished talking, his cocktail was halfway down. After that, it was drink… after drink… after drink…

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

Donnie had a complicated relationship with alcohol. While he rarely drank socially—due to his social skills and the fact that most human recreational drugs or intoxicants didn't mix well with a 6’8" mutant turtle's physiology—he knew his body handled it surprisingly well. His much larger liver, combined with a metabolism that could burn through just about anything, meant that it took a significant volume of spirits to even register a buzz. More often than he’d like to admit, Donnie would occasionally take that to his advantage. 

It had been about a year ago, when he figured this out. He’d been having a night where he was pulling a 72-hour shift in his lab, fueled by cold pepperoni pizza and three types of caffeine. Espresso. Energy drinks. Melatonin. He’d become immune to practically all of it. To make things worse, his main monitor had just flashed an irreparable system crash, wiping not one– not two, but three weeks of simulation data. 

That night, pissed and willing to try anything, Donnie decided to drink. Something. Anything to get his mind off of this sinking feeling. He doesn't remember where he even found alcohol, but he does recall the outcome: eight solid hours of a knocked-out slumber on his cot. He recalled feeling slightly tipsy, but he was always mindful of his intake—he knew his limits, Donnie always knew his limits. He simply needed a bit of a reprieve that night. That's all.

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

Donnie's gaze finally drifted from the spot where you had stood. Though the hope of your return still burned, he knew a long while would pass before it happened. He was standing near the bar when a warm, familiar presence settled beside him. Turning to face him would serve a useless point. He could sense those neon colors from miles away. Although, he usually heard him, first.

"Heyyy, bro. Uhh, rough night?"

That voice was soft. Something he, admittedly, needed. Donnie didn’t need to turn to know it was Mikey. His youngest brother slid onto the stool next to him, a half-eaten plate of what looked like miniature sandwiches in his hand. His brother in orange was wearing a brightly colored, probably Hawaiian-themed shirt under his shell, a very… clear contrast to the formal wear of the other guests! He was the only one who seemed entirely unbothered by this unorthodox setting. Donnie had to give him points for that. 

Donnie sighed, taking a long, bitter sip of his drink. "Define 'rough.' If 'rough' means being treated like a novelty, having a police officer try to proposition me in front of all these people, and then watching Vern bully the only genuinely good person here into a fake business meeting, then yes, Michael. It’s been rough."

Mikey offered him a sandwich, which Donnie politely declined. "Oh, yeah, I saw the officer thing. That sucks, D. Also saw the Vern thing. Dude’s a total a-hole." Mikey took a large bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Did you tell him that you guys were together?"

Donnie nearly choked on his cocktail. "What? No! Why would I—"

"Dude, you were holding her hand like she was gonna float away. And you looked like you wanted to turn Vern into some, I don’t know, dust, or something. Not that I blame you. But still, you like her, Donnie. Like, like-like. It's written all over your ugly green nerd face." Mikey’s eyes were wide and innocent, yet his words still deduced that his advice most certainly was not applicable to Donnie’s situation. 

“Thank you. That’s so encouraging,” He scoffed. Donnie scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up his nose in frustration. "Even if I had said something, It's not that simple, Mikey. We're mutant turtles. We are not like everyone else here. She's... normal. She deserves normal. She deserves someone who can take her out to dinner without the interruption of patrol. Or, better yet, someone who can actually intervene and stop her from doing things she doesn’t want to do!" His fingers hook the rim of his glass, squeezing, releasing, squeezing again. The fidgeting ramps up. “And even if I had said something—if I’d actually opened my mouth—I’d just screw it up. I always do. I'm a mess. I'm a socially inept, verbose, overthinking mess. She's too good for the kind of emotional wreckage I'd bring into her life. I couldn’t say shit to Vern until she was gone, and now she’s stuck blabbering to some rich-ass about a job offer she doesn’t want." 

Mikey slid off the stool and turned to face his brother, abandoning the sandwiches entirely. There was a stinging sensation on Donnie’s shoulders; Mikey had taken the liberty of squeezing them as hard as humanly possible.

"Donnie, dude, listen to yourself! You think she hangs out with you for half a decade because she's scared of 'emotional wreckage'? Huh?” The purple turtle stared blankly back at his brother. “Oh my god. She's here, at Vern's gross party, right now, just because you are. She's been choosing you for years. Raph and I are literally betting on it. She likes you, dude. If she cared about the whole mutant deal, she’d be gone by now. So many people have. She likes you. The real you, bro." He nudged Donnie's arm gently. "So stop over-thinking it." 

Donnie hunched back in his chair. “Mikey, what the fuck are you betting on? Me and her? Are you serious?” Another sip of the drink before he set it down. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "And you guys are not helping. Nottt, no. Not at all… This is my life, and this is her life. And Vern just made it ten times worse."

"I'm just saying! The point is that you gotta say something. Or do something! Not just let Vern walk all over her! If you don’t, you might as well let that officer try to drag you off to a dark corner." Mikey’s expression shifted, the usual playful glint in his eyes replaced by a more serious, earnest look. "Look, Dee. You're my brother. And I love you. But sometimes, lots’of times, you're a coward. And this is one of those times. So! You can either be the turtle who mopes at the bar because some guy was a jerk to the girl he likes, or you can be the turtle who does something about it. Your call."

He took one of the sandwiches off his plate and held it up like a peace offering. "Also, you should probably eat this. That drink looks dangerous. And you're starting to slur your words."

Donnie blinked, a wave of delayed dizziness washing over him as he processed Mikey’s claim. Had he been? 

“I am… I am not slurring my words,” he insisted, though the sentence felt clumsy on his tongue. He took another swallow of the cocktail, the citrusy burn doing little to ground him. Mikey just raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Yeah. Sure.” The orange slider would add.

“Alright, well, just listen to your heart, bro. I don’t care about the bet that much. Just do what makes you happy. And don’t get too tipsy, m’kay? Love ya. Don’t add or subtract to the population. Also, don’t die. Bye!” 

And with that, Mikey was gone, disappearing back into the crowd, leaving Donnie alone with his swirling thoughts and the rapidly diminishing cocktail. He stared into the glass, the colors blurring slightly at the edges. He had to give Mikey credit; he was right. He was a coward. He’d spent years hiding behind some invisible barrier, too terrified to risk what he had with you for a chance at something more.

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

Meanwhile, on the terrace near the fountain, your own situation was devolving into a corporate interrogation.

The manager— Mr. Sterling—was not talking about a job. He was talking about his own company, his yacht, his divorce, and his vision for the future of New York, occasionally stopping to ask you questions that were less about your professional skills and more about testing your ability to politely nod. It was agonizingly slow. The promised two minutes had stretched into fifteen, then twenty. Now, Vern and two other associates had joined, turning the conversation into a suffocating, four-on-one pitch for an entry-level position you didn't want.

You sighed internally, pulling out your phone under the guise of checking the time.

You: hey are you okay? You: that was a whole thing w vern You: did he yell at you too lmao

It wasn't long before he began typing.

Donnie 💜🐢: Yes. He is an illiterate cretin and I had words with him. Are YOU okay? The promised two minutes have elapsed 10x over. How's the job offer? You: he’s trying to sell me on the company benefits. i’m dyinggg Donnie 💜🐢: Get out of there. Tell him your dog is on fire. You: i don’t have a dog Donnie 💜🐢: My point exactly. They’ll never be able to verify the claim. Make a run for it, I'll cover your retreat lol

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud. This was a nice distraction.

You: look up.

Donnie’s eyes flicked up instantly, scanning the area near the fountain. He spotted you—standing tall despite the discomfort, the purple dress of yours catching the golden fountain light. But he also saw Vern, Mr. Sterling, and the two others surrounding you, their postures overly familiar, blocking you in. They were literally barricading you from leaving.

Donnie 💜🐢: Oh. My. God. Donnie 💜🐢: They're treating you like a piece of collateral. Donnie 💜🐢: Do you want me to come over there? I have my bo staff, I’m willing to use it, just as a heads up You: tempting. but i think he’s almost done. he keeps repeating himself. hopefully he’ll be done in a bit. Donnie 💜🐢: Okie dokie. I'll pass the time.

Thank God. Talking to you and not somebody else had reset his head; something much, much needed. Donnie took a deliberate sip of his cocktail. He thought he was handling it quite well, but his vision was beginning to blur. He paid no mind to the water glass next to him that the bartender had provided two drinks ago. 

He brushed the blindness off. Maybe he just needed a new glasses prescription…yeah! He downed his fourth. It was just a way to kill time, a distraction while he waited for you.

He was just finally settling into the soft, internal hum of the alcohol when he saw it.

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

You had typed back a quick 'okay' and slipped your phone back into your clutch. Taking a deep breath, you plastered on your most apologetic smile. “I am so, so sorry to cut this short, Mr. Sterling, gentlemen, Vern. It’s been… enlightening. But I just received a rather urgent text, and I really must be going.” Eyeing Donnie, you smiled. Finally, time to get out of this shithole. You were looking forward to celebrating the New Year’s countdown with him somewhere else… maybe at your spot on the drive-in hill. With the radio. Yeah!

Sterling smiled, a flash of too-white teeth that didn't reach his cold, assessing eyes. "Now, now, don't rush off. We have all the time in the world." His voice, smooth as aged whiskey, slid over you unpleasantly. "A woman as captivating as you shouldn't be leaving so soon. You've got a brilliant mind—I can tell." He stepped closer, his cologne absolutely violating your nostrils. "And the rest of you is... quite brilliant, as well."

His hand was on your arm. Oh. Oh, no. Ew. His fingers, heavy and laced with cold rings, curled around your forearm just above your elbow. It wasn't a friendly touch. This shit felt like some display of ownership. His thumb began to stroke back and forth, a disgusting and egregious movement that made your stomach turn.

Donnie felt the alcohol in his system suddenly turn cold.

No. Absolutely not. He’s had it with other men bothering you.

He shouldn’t care this much. Why did he care this much? He closed his eyes, focusing on the scent of the garden and the distant fireworks, trying to manage the sudden rush of his anger and frustration.

She’s an adult. She can handle herself. She told me she was almost done. Look away, look away, look away–

But the image of that hand on your back burned behind his eyelids. He wanted to be the one standing next to you. He wanted to be the one guiding you away from the crowd. He wanted to be the one who made you smile like you did when you shared his half-eaten s’more. They didn’t have that with you. Not even close. 

Donnie opened his eyes, staring blankly at the bar. He had been drinking high-proof, expensive amalgamations of alcohol, but his mind felt amplified. Every feeling about you, every repressed thought about your relationship, was magnified and set into focus.

I like the way she looks at me. I like that she's quiet until I start talking about astrophysics and tech. I like how she rambles about the things that she likes. I wish she did it more often. I like that her hand felt so small on my arm. I hate that I’m standing here while she’s being harassed. I hate that I’m too much of a coward to tell her how I feel, and I hate that some low-grade flirt is getting to touch her while I'm stuck here because of Vern's stupid ego.

Words, words, words. 

He reached for his glass, intent on taking another sip, hoping to drown out the internal monologue, when yet another hand landed gently on his shoulder.

"Rough night, little brother?"

Donnie startled, spinning around. Leo was standing there, calm and composed, sipping a clear drink—likely something light, with a twist of lime. His posture was still straight, but his eyes were clear and almost dilated. He wasn't drunk, far from the levels of inebriation that Donnie possessed. But he was definitely relaxed.

"Leo. Yeah. Rough night because that is happening." Donnie gestured vaguely towards your direction with his chin, the anger still simmering just below the surface.

“Ah. Yeah, I saw her little… friend, over there. Looks like a tough situation.” Leo sipped a bit of his drink, setting it down to speak to Donnie. “Why haven’t you gotten her out of it yet?”

His brother groaned. “Vern. Vern is why. He’s so… he’s so fucking adamant that he keeps her away for two minutes, which turned into twenty for a job offer she didn’t even want! And now these men, disgusting, vile men, are caressing her like she’s an object. Do you see this shit, Leo? It’s disgusting!”

“So go get her. Again, why haven’t you? You’re bigger. Be the bigger person.” He advised. 

A sigh from the one in purple. “Because she told me to stay put. And I’m trying to respect that, as much as I wouldn’t like to. I’d like to go and individually dismantle each of his–”

“Okay, okay, Don. I get it. You need to calm down. You look like you're about to fall off that stool," Leo said, his hand coming to rest on Donnie's shoulder. "Maybe slow down on whatever that is?" He gestured to the half-empty glass.

Donnie stared at his brother, the words taking a moment to register. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

Leo raised an eyebrow, his gaze dropping to the cocktail. "Sure you are." He reached for the bottle the bartender had left on the counter, turning it to read the label. "What's even in this stuff? Is this one of the-"

"Leave it," Donnie slurred, swatting weakly at his brother's hand. "It's just a drink. Should be light."

Leo pulled the bottle back easily, his eyes scanning the fine print. A slow, humorless smile spread across his face. "Yeah, that'll do it," he mumbled, mostly to himself. He set the bottle down with a soft click.

"What?" Donnie demanded, a surge of irritation rising past the alcohol. Leo picked up the bottle again, pointing to a small, nearly invisible label on the back. "You, of all people, should’ve noticed this. Vern had these cocktails pre-mixed for us tonight. The bartender should have explained it to you before you ordered.”

Donnie blinked, the words slowly filtering through the alcoholic haze. "What are you talking about?"

“They made these drinks specifically for us. The alcohol’s way beyond what a normal person can handle.” Donnie blinked. Confused. Leo groaned. “…Vern figured the party’d be more appealing if we could get drunk easier, genius.”

“Holy shit. That is so unethical.”

“Hey, they warned you. Had a whole speech about it and everything before they could serve you.” Leo chuckled, his eyes scanning Donnie's flushed face and slightly unfocused gaze. "Look, you should get out of here. Go home and sleep it off. You're not thinking clearly. I’ll tell Dad to brew you some tea so you won’t feel so bad in the morning." 

Donnie shook his head. “No, no, don’t bother him. I don’t think it’s that bad… yet. I’ll be fine. I’ll alert you if something happens.” 

Leo watched him go, a faint, resigned sigh escaping him. Part of him didn’t believe Donnie– at least, not 100%. "Alright, then. Be safe, I’ll see you tonight. And sober up, Don. Don't go out like this, for God's sake." The purple brother groaned.

As if on cue, Donnie’s phone vibrated. 

You: come get me?  You: or i come get you?  You: please

Typing that comment felt like a beg. A plea. You were asking him to come and get you, to save you from whoever this godawful person was who hadn’t the slightest clue what personal space was. 

Donnie receiving that comment felt like it was his birthday– thank god. You were finally asking him to come and rescue you from that horrendous sight he’s been told to sit back and watch you handle for the past half-hour.  

In all honesty… it’s better it was just you. Standing next to Sterling, that man would’ve committed crimes irreparable. Donnie’s fingers stumble over themselves as he texts something out.

Donnie💜🐢: i’m om my wpy

… You had struggled for a second, reading that text. It wasn’t that hard to make out, really– but texting mistakes? Donnie? That was something you’d never seen in the guy, no matter how long you’ve known him. He was always perfect at grammar, spelling, punctuation– perfect everything. 

So how did he manage to misspell “way” with a letter that’s completely across the keyboard? “On” being spelled incorrectly was a reach, even for him. 

You just stare at the screen, thumb hovering uselessly over the keyboard. The typo shouldn’t matter. It’s nothing. One letter in two words. He’s fine, you overthink– where is he? Is he okay? 

He’s all you can really think about while Mr. Sterling continues to wrap his arm around your waist. Your best friend wasn’t even here right now, and you were still using him as a distraction. Why do you keep thinking about him in situations like this? You can handle yourself perfectly fine! Matter of fact, why is it now so habitual that we’re thinking about him like this? You shouldn’t. You know better, you know damn well.

“Okay. I’m sorry, Mr. Sterling, please get off. I’m not very comfortable with you, uh, doing that.” You say, slightly nudging away from him. He doesn’t move away. 

“Well, why not? It’s not like you came with anyone tonight,” he scoffs. “None that Vern told me about, at least. I looked at the guest list. Guest list told me that you were free, sweetheart.”

You had to think of something. Quick.

Oh, god...

“I’m actually here with my boyfriend tonight. He’s on his way. Now, please get your hands off of me.”

The lie slips out smoother than you expect. Like you’d practiced the damn thing in your head a million times. 

Crazy, it’s almost as if you had, before! Huh! How coincidental!

You can’t bear to even look at Sterling when you say it— it feels too good to be true, and just too out of reach to feel false. You look past him instead, toward the edge of the terrace, like your boyfriend could materialize if you just believed hard enough. 

“Oh, how cute. Yeah, I’m sure that he’s–”

"There you are," his voice comes, a little lower, a little slower than usual, but it calms you, as a relief does.

Wait, was he seriously here right now?

Doing this?!

He reaches you, his hand coming to rest gently on the small of your back, a deliberate, respectful touch that makes Sterling’s grip feel even more grotesque in comparison. "Sorry I took so long. Got held up by... well, by everything."

Donnie’s gaze flicks to Sterling, then down to the hand still wrapped around your forearm. He doesn't glare. He doesn't threaten. He simply looks at it, then back at Sterling’s face, with an expression that is both tired and utterly unreadable. "Is there a problem here?"

Sterling’s smile is tight. "No problem at all. Just getting to know your... girlfriend." He says it like it was a challenge. Getting you to defend your statement. Your face turns so fucking red.

Oh. Oh.

 It clicked for the turtle. 

“Boyfriend,” he repeats, curious with the word. “Hi.” His thumb rubs a slow circle against your dress. He’s standing completely behind you, his arms around your waist and his chin resting on your head. 

Your stomach dwells deep; you can’t look at anyone right now, holy fuck. What is he doing? Is he okay? Is he giving into this? Could he hear what you’d lied about, what you’d said? Was he going along with it? 

“Okay, A: She has a name,” he says, his voice still calm, though you can hear the faintest slur in his words. “And B… she was just leaving." He turns his attention to you, his eyes softening. “Are you ready?” 

You stare at him for a couple of moments, blabbering over your own words. “Huh–? Oh, uh, yeah– I think– yeah, let’s go,” you say, but it comes out more of a whisper than anything. 

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

He didn’t stop walking until the cries of the party were entirely behind them. Donnie guided you quickly, ducking through a side door and up a narrow flight of stairs that was clearly meant for staff only. The hallway above was quiet, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and old wood. When he pushed open the glass door, you stepped out onto a small, empty balcony that overlooked the back of the venue.

Oh, wow... it was much more scenic here.

The balcony itself was a small hideout, almost, made of smooth, white marble. Shrubbery and vines curled along the edges of the railing, their leaves brushing lightly against his arm as he leaned against it. Tiny flowers peeked through here and there. Cute little daisies, maybe. Weeds? Probably weeds.

He let go of your hand, leaning heavily against the stone railing, his shoulders slumping in a sudden wave of exhaustion. He couldn't really even comprehend things at this rate... he hated himself like this. How could he have possibly become this intoxicated? In front of you? You didn't deserve this.

Still, he tried to push out some words. Donnie could still think. Feel his emotions.

"Oh, God. Thank you, it’s so crowded down there," he muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose, though they immediately slid back down his slightly sweaty skin. His eyes were unfocused, darting everywhere but at you.

You felt like you should have thanked him for saving you; but there was clearly another concern at bay that you wanted to address first. 

You could see it, clear as day. The way his words occasionally slurred. The sweat. Him tripping over himself. The incorrect spelling in the texts. 

You thought he couldn’t get like this. His body and metabolism aren’t exactly what typical drinks are designed to affect.

"Donnie, are you okay?" you asked, moving closer, your voice hushed. "You don’t look so good."

He scoffed, a quick, humorless sound. "I’m fine. Just a little inebriated. What I drank altered my system, unto my own expectations. Uh… highly, highly, highly… altered it."

"You’re drunk," you stated softly. “Jeez, how much did you consume to get like this..? I mean, I’ve seen worse, but this much, even for you?” God, he loved listening to your voice. So soft. So… something. He didn’t know. Can you talk more? He’d like to listen to you for a bit. 

"Drunk is… such an understatement." Donnie waved his hand vaguely, correcting you. "But that’s besides the point. You… you’re okay, yeah? That guy—Sterling—or whatever his face is? I dunno, I never wanna see him again, but, uh, he was touching you. I mean, obviously he was touching you, but not in a good way,” the reptile rambled. Slurring his words together yet again.

You hesitated, leaning against the railing next to him. "I’m okay, Dee. Just grossed out. I should have been firmer with him, it’s my fault.”

“What? No," he snapped, turning his head sharply to meet your gaze. That was sudden. "No, don’t you dare start. Don’t apologize for him being an ass, and don’t you dare apologize for me intervening! What he did was disgusting… God, I was going to lose it if he kept his hands on you."

“I know. I could see you from afar. I tried to get out of it… he wouldn’t let me leave. Dude buys a yacht and thinks he’s a god.” You chuckle– Donnie follows suit, grabbing onto the railing of the white staircase; allowing it to help him plop down onto the marbled balcony, curling his legs up to his plastron. 

It was quiet, for a moment. Between the two of you. For a second, you passed time, just by watching. Watching the fireworks boom in the distance. Watching his brothers scatter across the lawn, sitting down with friends to admire the countdown ball, soon to drop. Watching Donnie, who’s focused was zoned in on you, for the last time tonight. 

“I need to talk to you,” he mumbled, voice muffled by his arm. He had set his staff down next to him, the device folded. You appreciated when he did that. It was a tiny gesture, but one that let you know he felt safe around you; vulnerable. You could smell the citrus and liquid burn in his breath. 

“You can. Always, Dee. What’s going on?” There was a bit of dirt on his arm from grabbing the rail, clearly lacking a good cleaning for a few months. You brushed it off, gently wiping the excess on your dress. He frowned at that. He liked that purple– it was his purple. 

“There’s nothing going on, I mean, there is, but it’s not what you— I’m not drinking to forget some shitty or traumatic situation– well, kind of. Good lord, how do I even start this,” he whined, his higher-pitched voice cracking amidst his admittance. “I can’t believe this is coming out like this.” 

You tilted your head, turning your gaze away from him. You didn’t know if that helped, but sometimes, talking to nothing and rambling to the world is what he needed most. With you there, everything was okay. Donnie leans forward without thinking, resting his head gently against the top of yours. You barely come up to his shoulders. He leans in anyway.

“Donnie–”

"I’m very drunk, (y/n)." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "And that is the only reason I can say this without my internal monologue absolutely gutting me from the inside." He took a slow, deep breath, and you felt his chest expand under his thick gear. You didn’t see, but you felt.

“God, I hate that he touched you,” Donnie’s voice dropped lower, his breath warm against your hair. “Hate it. You know, when I saw his hand on you, all I could think was that—that should be my hand on your arm. I wanted it to be my hand. I tried to make myself feel better by coming behind you and touching you earlier when we tried to play that whole thing off, but that just made it worse. I feel addicted to it and I feel disgusting for saying that.” He mumbled, voice cracking a bit due to his higher pitch. Donnie scoffs. His head is still on your shoulders, but he’s mumbling into your skin.

“It’s ridiculous, right? Pathetic. I spend years convincing myself I just value our friendship, that I’m above these primitive impulses. They only come around this time of year. It’s cold as hell outside, nearing end-of-winter, I know-- but anytime I’m around you, it feels like spring. I don't know what's wrong with my body. I can't control it. I hate not being in control." 

Donnie had made brief mention of what happens in Spring before, near you. He didn’t dare go into deeper explanation of what he does to “fix” it; but he always made sure to warn you to never visit him during that time. You haven’t the slightest clue. You respected him too much to ask and find out, as much as you wanted to. Every brother was secretive about it.

“I don’t know if it’s because of that, I really don’t. I don’t care either. I can’t research why I feel the way I do when I’m around you. I don’t like how I felt earlier when that asshole touched you the way he did. And, don’t tell me you’re sorry for having to save you earlier, either. I would’ve done it anyway. Planned on it. I wanted to grab you, pull you behind me, and—" A pause from his ramble. "I'm sorry, I can’t finish that thought sober."

He pulled up a little bit; raising his head from his verbal rabbit hole to glance at you; listening to him like he was the last voice on Earth.

Sober Donnie would have hesitated spilling anything else. Inebriated Donnie did not.

“And if I didn’t tell you earlier,” he muttered. “You look really fucking good in that dress.” He plopped back down onto your shoulder. 

“I apologize. You can tell me to go to hell now. Please, actually, tell me to go to hell now,” Donnie groaned, closing his eyes. 

There was a lot of computation in your head, then. How should you respond? There was a lot going on here. His feelings. Your feelings. The fact that this giant turtle reciprocated? Oh, my.

"Dee. I'm not going to tell you to go to hell," you said softly. "I’m not gonna say anything that that drunk brain of yours is probably telling you to believe, right now. Because that’s not how I feel."

You took a shallow breath, your own admission just as exhilarating and relieving as his own. "When I told that guy my boyfriend was on his way... I didn't have to think very hard about who I wanted to show up. It was you. It was always you. I couldn’t think of anyone else if I tried.”

“...did you want to?”

“Want what?”

“Think of anyone else. You said you tried to.” 

“If I had tried. I didn’t.” 

He lifted his head from your shoulder, pushing himself up to actually look at you, his eyes wide and slightly unfocused in the dim light. Donnie’s glasses reflected the anticipatory fireworks; yet, his pupils remained wide, despite the amount of light that was fleeting the night sky. 

The distant sound of the crowd below started escalating. The countdown was beginning. 

Ten seconds. Nine.

“Please don’t lie. I can’t handle that shit right now if you are, (y/n).”

“When have I ever lied to you, Donatello?” You whispered, turning your face to gaze into his lens-covered eyes. 

Eight seconds. Seven.

“I just needed to hear it,” he returned, matching your stare; eyes blinking slowly once every few moments. 

Five. 

He looked utterly lost for a moment, the emotional weight of the admission and the alcohol combining to overwhelm him. His eyes flickered down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

"Can I—," he started, his voice barely audible, then swallowed hard, correcting himself with painstaking slowness. "May I kiss you? Right now?"

Four.

He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t pushing you, nor was he begging you to get closer. To touch him. All this nervous, rambling dork wanted was your permission.

And by God– it took everything in you to say no. 

Three. 

Your heart ached, but you shook your head, gently. "Not like this, Dee. I want your first kiss to be one you remember. One where you’re completely, perfectly yourself." 

Fuck. Did he screw up? 

Two.

“Right. Of course. I–” 

You leaned forward instead, bypassing his lips, and pressed a soft, warm kiss to the bridge of his thick-framed glasses, right between his eyes. The glass was cool against your mouth. It was sweet, an act of tenderness and denial that was somehow more potent than a kiss on the mouth would have been.

He flinched, a quiet, whimpered sound escaping him, before he melted into the touch, letting out a shaky breath.

One.

"I need you to remember this. Every single word," you tell him, your gaze searching his. "So, when you wake up tomorrow, and you're sober, we're going to have this conversation again. I want you to be honest. I’ll hold you to it, okay?"

The roar of the crowd exploded. Fireworks burst directly overhead, showering the sky in gold and purple, the sound momentarily deafening.

Happy New Years, the people would shout.  

I promise, Donnie would whisper. 

You smile. A genuine, warm smile. You wanted nothing more than to kiss him; absolutely nothing could have surpassed that level of greed. It was tortuous. Instead, his waist found its way under your arm, and you gently helped him up; careful to prevent the wobbly turtle from tripping over his own two feet. You start to guide him toward the door, taking slow, patient steps. He offers no resistance.

Only right before you came into the view of everyone else in the venue, Donnie pulled you a little bit closer to him. You weren’t sure if it was for a hug, or warmth, or perhaps, just to be close. 

“Hey, (y/n)?” He mumbled into your hair, stumbling a little. 

“Hi, Donnie.” You responded, playing a little. 

“I love you.” 

"I love you too, you big, genius dummy," you whisper. "But tell me tomorrow, when you’re sober. Okay?"

“Mhm. Okie-dokie.” He groans, allowing you to help pull him along. Even now, you struggled to get all 6’8 of him to stand up straight.

ꕀꕀꕀꕀ

You woke slowly, the itchy fabric of your living room couch registering against your legs before anything else did. Damn. You hadn’t even made it to your bed.

You’d barely managed to change into pajamas. You remembered the dress being a nightmare to peel off—and with Donnie in the state he’d been in, he hadn’t exactly been much help. Probably for the better. After getting home, after taking care of the giant turtle and whatever else needed doing, you must’ve pulled on a massive gray T-shirt that swallowed your figure and sunk onto the couch. Pants hadn’t even crossed your mind. You had no idea where the piece of clothing came from—perhaps a family member had left it behind?

A faint whine escaped your throat as you had sat up. 

The scenery was always beautiful, this time of the morning.

It was silent… just about as silent as New York could get. The city that never sleeps. Of course, there was the hustle and bustle of the unfortunate ones who had to work New Year’s Day; thankfully, that was not you. Or Donnie. Looking over at the snoring turtle, who was 99% of the sounds you had heard; he was clearly still nursing a mild hangover. He had rambled something last night about how he handled hangovers well; he may be in a more conscious state than the average person when he’s to wake. 

Speak of the devil…

You slowly twisted your neck, wincing at the stiffness. Curled into a somewhat fetal position on the floor, head pillowed on one of your softest throw blankets, was one hell of a previously intoxicated turtle; still, somehow, he looked comfortable. His large legs hung off of a mattress you had blown up. 

Goddamn, how bad was it? Did you forget to even offer up your bed? 

He was still in his cargo pants and gear, though his purple mask was loosened and draped half off his head, revealing the dark smudges under his eyes. His long legs were stretched out, one large, three-toed foot resting (probably uncomfortably) on the edge of the coffee table, the other tangled between your biggest blanket that was miniature compared to his size. His arms were wrapped around a pillow, and the soft, thankfully light whistle of his snores was the only thing audible in this quiet room.

You remembered the blur of getting him out of Vern’s party. How hard it was navigating the security-lined corridors, and somehow, somehow, getting him up the fire escape and into your apartment without Raph, Leo, or Mikey’s help. Moments of your return came back, one by one.

You had offered him the couch or your bed, but abiding by his drunken logic, he had insisted that your floor provided "optimal structure realignment" for someone of his kind. No; he just wanted you to have it. You blew up a mattress for him, instead. He'd promptly face-planted onto the thing, and you hadn't the heart to move him. Nor did you possess the strength to do so…

It was 11:30 A.M, according to your phone. January 1st. Happy New Year.

You gently slid out from under the blanket, wincing as the sudden creaking of your wooden floors had caused Donnie to grumble, tightening his grip on the pillow. He didn’t wake, thankfully.

The kitchen wasn’t exactly the cleanest thing ever, but it sufficed. The refrigerator had stains on it; previously being a polished white and transforming itself over the years into a faded and sandy brown. The fan that could be turned on was obnoxiously loud, so you refrained from that, for now. The outlets that your coffee maker was plugged into didn’t send electricity through, half of the time. This wasn’t one of those times. 

You quietly measured out coffee grounds, setting up the machine as silently as possible. The low, gurgling sound of the water starting to heat felt like avoiding waking a sleeping giant; you winced, glancing back at the sleeping turtle. Still out. Good.

Opening your pantry, you adeptly seeked out a tiny bottle of emergency aspirin you’d gotten at a pharmacy a few weeks ago. Your head was still throbbing. God knows how much of a reprieve Donnie would need; you wondered if he’d need anything at all, actually. Will his body handle the after-effects better than a regular person? Worse, considering how much he’d consumed? Hmm. Briefly skimming the cabinet, there was a box of unopened herbal tea next to some strawberry Pop-Tarts. You pulled both from the shelf.

You started a pot of water on the old stove for the tea, keeping the flame at its lowest level. The apartment began to warm up slowly. You poured yourself a cup of coffee, the scent unmistakably drifting through the room, and leaned against the counter, just watching the muted light filter into the living room through your thin, cream-colored curtains.

Donnie stirred again. A soft sigh left his nose. He must have smelled the caffeine. It was hardly visible, but he had a tail; what was visible of the miniscule thing had been so lightly curled beside him, and it twitched once before settling. His eyes fluttered open slowly. Blinking at the ceiling, then squinting at the light, he brought a hand up to shield his face; looking extensively exhausted.

"Goo’ mornin’," he mumbled, his voice gravelly and slurred due to sleep. He paused, then corrected himself with a slight alteration. "Ah, well, good afternoon, I suppose."

"Morning, Dee," you whispered, taking a careful sip of your coffee. "Sleep okay?"

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the blanket falling away. He looked around your living room, his gaze lingering on the empty pizza boxes, the scattered throw pillows, and finally, his gaze settled on you, leaning against the kitchen counter in the oversized t-shirt.

"Like a baby," he said, slowly sitting up. He blinked again, his eyes taking a moment to focus. "My head is a bit fuzzy. But nothing I can’t handle. My liver, I’m sure, is having a field day. Did we get back here safely?"

"We got here safely," you confirmed. "You insisted on sleeping on the floor. I was able to talk you into a mattress at least." You gestured to the deflated thing with your cup.

He looked at the air mattress, then back at you, a faint, embarrassed blush creeping up his neck. "Ah. Right. I apologize. I can get… quite illogical when my cognitive functions are compromised."

"Oh, really?," you softly teased, a small smile playing on your lips. "I made some tea. And I have aspirin if you need it."

"That would be appreciated," he said, pushing himself to a standing position, a bit stiffly. "Though, I should be fine. My metabolism is a wonder of bio-engineering. Still, the tea sounds good."

He shuffled over to the kitchen, kneading at the back of his shoulder as he did so. He looked at the box of Pop-Tarts on the counter, then at you. A sigh. Silence.

“How bad was it?” 

You tilted your head, sitting yourself down on the edge of the couch as he stood in place. 

He swallowed hard. You could see his throat working beneath the green skin, the way his breathing hitched. The morning light caught his face, revealing the dark circles under his eyes that had nothing to do with a hangover.

"I need to apologize," he said quietly, finally looking up at you. His eyes were doused in dark circles. "For putting you in that position. I should’ve never gotten drunk at a stupid party, anyways, I don’t even know how that happened– I’ve only ever gotten drunk by myself. In my lab, alone. Even then, it took a highly improbable amount of alcohol to get me that way, so, statistically–"

“Donnie. Hey. Pause for a minute, okay?” He stopped, seemingly waiting for some sort of reprimand from you.

"Don’t apologize for getting drunk. It happens. I wanted you to have a good time, and if that’s how you do so, then by all means–” 

“It wasn’t supposed to happen. Our physiology is completely different from yours, (y/n) –  I don’t have the slightest clue what was in those drinks, I was supposed to keep control of myself. I wasn’t supposed to spill shit out, get pissed at the other men and get all close to you the way I did–”

“You were protecting me, Donnie. I needed you in that moment. And you were able to come get me. And you did it even though I told you to stay put, which, frankly, was dumb on my part. So thank you for that."

He just stared as you spoke… yet, his face was still filled with some sort of emotion you couldn’t decipher. You patted the cushion beside you. "Sit. Please. You're looming."

“I should have stopped when Leo showed up,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I don’t like being… in that state. Not in front of other people, absolutely not.”

“I know.” You whispered, laying against him; giving him a sense of weight as comfort. He appreciated that. You didn’t hate him for it, at least. 

"Now… as for the other things you said... last night," you continued, your voice soft but firm. You kept your eyes locked on his, ensuring he knew you were serious. "The things you said about why you were there, and what you wanted to do, and how you felt... those things. Do you remember them?"

Donnie took a breath. “Oh, god…”

No backing out now.

His eyes narrowed slightly, dread and acceptance in his expression. "I remember the gist. The unfortunate, verbose, highly explicit gist. Yes." Leaning down, Donnie grabbed a red, what used to be a fluffy sherpa blanket and held it up to his chin, hiding his face in a half-manner. The best he was going to get at burrowing, in this situation.

"Do you remember what I said?"

A moment of genuine confusion crossed his face. He hummed. "Little. You... you were very kind about it. You said you didn't want my first kiss to be ruined by alcohol. You said you'd hold me to having the conversation today."

"Good job. Do you remember anything before that?" you prompted, softly. "When I was with Mr. Sterling, I texted you, and you showed up. What did I tell him?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "You said... you were here with your boyfriend. And that he was on his way."

“Mhm… and then you showed up, and you said you were my boyfriend.” He turned his face away rather than burying himself in deeper depths. “You used my name and told Sterling off. Do you remember any of that?"

He nodded slowly, whining into the blanket in a very, very silent manner, so you wouldn’t hear. He shifted beneath you, trying to get more comfortable in this confrontational debacle.

"Yes. I remember you saying that. I assumed... I assumed you were just using me as a shield. I know, I know assuming is bad. I couldn’t help it. I played along because I was drunk and angry and very desperately wanted him to leave you alone. I thought it was just a lie to get him off your back. I remember saying 'boyfriend' because you did. Or what’s-his-face did. Someone…" He paused, chewing on his lower lip. "I am so, so inexplicably sorry, (y/n)."

You glanced up, shortening the gap between the two of you. "Donatello. I told you last night. I didn't have to think hard about who I wanted to show up. It was you. I told him I had a boyfriend because I wanted you to be my boyfriend. I wasn’t just pissed that Vern’s friend had his hands all over me.” You chuckled, a soft reminiscent laugh escaping your lips. “And guess what?"

He turned his head back towards you after having been staring at the wall for the past two minutes. Is that really how you felt?

“What’s that?”

“You played it off perfectly.” 

You reached out, gently taking one of his hands in both of yours. His skin was cool and calloused against your softer palms. "I want you to look me in the eyes when I say this. We’re both sober. It's a new year. I'm holding you to your promise. You said a lot of things last night about how you felt, and I said a few things too. I am just as guilty as you are here. We are not friends right now, Donnie. Not the way we were yesterday.” You were shaking. Fuck, this was just as exhilarating as having alcohol flooding through your veins. “You need to be honest with me, right now, about what you meant, and if you still mean it.” A gentle moment of eye contact. “Is that okay?” 

Donnie nodded. 

You took a breath. A hopeful breath. Your tone, this time, was the shaky one. Anxious. 

“Do you still mean it?”

He lifted his head, meeting your gaze.

"I don't know what the statistical likelihood is that I fall in love with a human, or what the social ramifications are for my brothers and me, or how I would even begin to integrate my life with yours, or what the logical solution for this situation is," he admitted. "But I know that there is absolutely zero possibility that I regret what I said last night. I meant it."

You smiled. The biggest, most ecstatic fucking smile. Donnie took a breath– he wasn’t done speaking. 

“And… with me being sober this time around, I wanted to ask… the right way, this time.” HIs voice was shaky; but his overall appearance remained calm. His eyes darted between your own and your lips. Back and forth, back and forth again. 

"I want to..." he began, his voice cracking slightly, the words catching in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying again, forcing the words past the lump of fear and anticipation. "May I... can I kiss you? Properly, this time?" His eyes were locked on yours, wide and vulnerable, waiting for the judgment he was sure was coming.

You didn't answer. Not with words.

Instead, you leaned in, closing the final, infinitesimal distance between you. The world narrowed to the space you now shared. Your hand came up to cup the side of his face, your fingers brushing against the rough, slightly scaly texture of his skin, the coolness of it a stark contrast to the fire blooming in your chest. You felt his sharp, sudden intake of air, the way his body tensed in surprise.

And then you kissed him.

His lips, softer than you had ever imagined, parted under yours with a startled gasp. He tasted faintly of coffee and the strawberry pastry he’d licked at, earlier. His hand, the one that had been grasping at your blanket, found your waist; his fingers digging into the fabric of your t-shirt, pulling you closer and eliminating any and all remaining space between you.

His other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his long fingers tangling in your hair, holding you to him with some sense and level of need that even Donnie couldn’t comprehend. And, oh, how he loved this– the rational, scientific part of his brain, that stupid part that had him second-guessing himself this entire time, had finally, blissfully, gone silent. There was nothing.

That nothingness was pure instinct, pure need. Raw and straight necessity. The air in the room grew thick and heavy, and holy shit, you could feel your heart hammering beneath your ribs. You could hear it. You swore you heard him mumble something like a “come here,” under his breath. 

You shifted on the couch, swinging a leg over his to straddle his lap, never breaking the kiss. The new angle allowed you to press against him more fully, to feel the solid weight of his body beneath yours. Donnie’s larger hands found their way under your shirt; well, his.

“Nice shirt. I’ve been looking for that one,” he chuckled, hands teasing with the hem of it. 

“Oh, shoot! It’s yours? I just figured it was a family member’s, it was in my closet…” you murmured, looking down at it. Well, that made sense; the way it engulfed you like a tiny fish in the sea. 

"Must’ve left it here a few weeks ago," he breathed, his eyes darkening as he traced the hem of the shirt with his fingers. "Forgot about it."

“I’ll give it to you before you head out, then.” 

“Mm, no. It smells like you now. You keep it.” He tugged you closer, his hands sliding further up under the fabric you'd unknowingly claimed. His skin was cool against yours, and you shivered as his thumbs brushed against your ribs. “Wearing my shirt,” he murmured, nuzzling against your neck. “Didn't even realize.”

He was peppering you in soft, open-mouthed kisses now. Your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder—any place he could reach. Donnie was worshipping you, like he'd been starved for this very thing for years. You arched into him, a soft sigh escaping your lips as his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear. This had to have been the best day you've had in your life.

"Donnie," you breathed, tangling your fingers in the fabric of his purple mask where it had shifted. "Higher."

He obeyed without hesitation, his lips trailing up your jawline until they met the corner of your mouth. You turned your head, capturing his lips fully again. The kiss deepened, growing more desperate as months of unspoken longing finally found release. His tongue slid against yours, exploring, claiming, tasting.

Your hands roamed across his shoulders, tracing the sharp angles of his carapace through his gear. You wanted more—needed more. You caught his wrist, guiding his hand from your waist to the curves leading up to your chest. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then his fingers curled around your side; thumb brushing over the line of skin that was covered by the thin fabric of your– no, his–  shirt.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating through your body. "Like this?" he murmured against your mouth.

"Exactly like that," you gasped as he repeated the motion, more confident this time. Your hips rolled against his instinctively, drawing a sharp intake of air from him.

Donnie's other hand slid down your back, fingers pressing into your skin as he pulled you flush against him. You could feel him stirring beneath you, thick and hard against your core. The realization sent a jolt of electricity straight through you.

Your own hands were not idle. One remained grasping his shoulder, while the other slipped between your bodies, slowly tracing his thigh around his cargo pants. He bucked into the feeling with a choked sound, his weight adjusting beneath you.

"Is this okay?" you whispered, your voice husky with desire.

He answered by covering your hand with his own, pressing it more firmly against him. "More than okay," he managed. "Don't stop."

And continued, you had. Complying with his request; a soft, content smile crossed your face. You fumbled with the gear that surrounded his thigh area, fingers trembling with anticipation. Why did he have these holster straps so tight, good lord?

Your hands worked at the fastenings of his gear, each buckle and strap a small barrier between you and what you truly wanted. Donnie watched your efforts, his breathing growing more ragged with each second.

"Here, let me help" he chuckled, his larger hands easily finding the releases you struggled with. With quick, repetitive movements, he unbuckled the leg holsters, letting them fall to the floor with a soft thud.

Now there was only the barrier of his cargo pants between your touch and his skin. You felt the area around his thigh again, teasing, moreover. He made a strangled sound, fingers tightening on your hips.

"Okay, that's enough."

His hands slid down to grip your thighs, suddenly lifting you absolutely effortlessly as he stood. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively as he carried you across the living room, never breaking the kiss. Your back met the wall with a soft thud; his body pressing flush against yours, pinning you there.

“Oh, come on. I was having fun…” Your fingers, which had been playfully trying to mess with the intricate shoulder gear on his skin, were suddenly intercepted. He took your hand in his, his grip gentle as ever, smoothly pulling it away from the straps that tightened on his green skin. Instead of letting go, he guided your arm, placing it back around the nape of his neck where you were previously holding on to when he’d swooped you up.

“Eager, aren’t we?” He murmured, smiling and eventually shutting himself up by smashing his mouth up against yours, once more.

His hands held you firmly by the thighs, his thumbs stroking circles on your skin that sent shivers up your spine. The position gave him a new angle to explore your mouth with his tongue, and he took full advantage, deepening the kiss until you were breathless and dizzy. The wall behind you provided solid leverage as he continued to kiss and push against you-- the feeling alone was enough to release some heavy heaving through your lungs. Donnie swallowed your sounds, his own low groan vibrating through your chest.

Your fingers tangled in his purple mask, tugging him impossibly closer as his teeth nipped at your lower lip. The sensation sent sparks shooting straight through your entire body, your legs tightening around his waist involuntarily. He responded by pressing you more firmly against the wall, his hands sliding higher to grip the curve of your waist and thighs, kneading the soft flesh through his shirt that you wore.

"God, Donnie," you breathed between kisses, your head falling back against the wall as his mouth traveled along your jawline. His lips found that sensitive spot below your ear, making you shudder.

"Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?" he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough with desire. "Thought about this?"

Your response was lost as his mouth claimed yours again, hungrier this time, more demanding. One of his hands moved from your thigh to tilt your head for him; he wanted your neck open and clear, nothing in the way so he could make a mess of your (temporarily) clean skin. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping you.

And, of course.

Just as things were heating up, a familiar buzz cut through the haze that was your current makeout. Donnie's phone, still in his cargo pocket, vibrated insistently against your hip.

“Ignore it," he mumbled, not breaking the kiss.

The buzzing stopped, only to start again moments later, more persistent this time. Followed by another. And another. And another. 

"Jesus," Donnie sighed, pulling back slightly. "What the fuck does he want?" It was Leo’s texting notification; he was spamming Donnie with something apparently imperative.

With one hand still supporting you, he fumbled for his phone, finally managing to retrieve it from his pocket. The screen lit up his face, revealing multiple missed calls and a string of increasingly frantic texts.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, reading them. "He’s been trying to reach me for the past hour. Dad wants me home. Like, now. That asshole better not have told him I got drunk," Donnie groaned– pissed.

You unwrapped your legs from around his waist, your feet touching the floor as he carefully set you down.

"Everything okay?" you asked, smoothing down the shirt that had ridden up during your encounter.

Donnie's eyes scanned the messages, a frown forming on his face. "No, no, it’s okay– nothing bad. Dad just heard about last night and is getting antsy that he hasn’t heard from me. He’s not very… appreciative of us coming home in daylight, either…” He rambled off. “Mikey told Leo to cover for me. How many times have I told him not to do that? Leo can’t lie for shit, he’s too honest for his own good when it comes to Dad–” He looked up at you, disappointment evident in his expression. "I'm so sorry, (y/n). I have to go."

You nodded, understanding of his circumstances. "It's okay. Family first. Always."

"I'll make this up to you," he promised, leaning in to press one last lingering kiss to your lips. He leaned his forehead against yours.

"I’m sorry it took me getting absolutely hammered to do all that," he mumbled into your hair, a genuine, finally sober, apology.

You just chuckled, resting your hand against the thick shell on his back. "I’m glad you got hammered, then. Happy New Year, Dee."

"Happy New Year, (y/n)," he whispered. A slight pause– him thinking. Cogwheels, turning in his brain; you observed him doing this quite often, when he didn’t know you were watching.

 "Uhh, tonight? I'll come back tonight. Can I come back tonight?"

"Of course. I'll be waiting," you smiled, touching his cheek. You guided him towards the door, despite him having entered and exited your house countless times. Turned around to grab his things, there was a strange sense that felt familiar; an absence. You hummed.

“Donnie?" Nothing.

You leaned against the doorframe, listening to the distant sounds of the city. He was trained. Silent. You didn’t hear the clang of him jumping from building to building as he left your fire escape. 

The apartment felt impossibly empty now. 

You walked over to the kitchen, poured yourself another cup of coffee, and sat down at the small table by the window. The day stretched ahead, long and empty without him. 

But he’d be back. Even if it really was sooner, rather than later.

You glanced at every piece of gear he’d seemingly forgotten on the ground. 

And he’s supposed to be the genius, you chuckled. Dork.

╰☆╮

It was just another day. Valentine’s Day didn’t really mean much when there wasn’t anyone “special” waiting around for you. Just red balloons, discount chocolate, and couples walking a little too close together like the sidewalk might swallow them if they left space.

And there you were, sprawled across your bed with absolutely no intention of going anywhere. Mindlessly flipping through channels like the remote might magically produce something better than the same recycled rom-coms — the kind of stories you were pretty sure were never going to happen to you anyway.After a sigh — one you tried to pass off as boredom — you turned the TV off.

You rolled out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee.

Right as the water started to heat up, a few soft knocks echoed at the front door.​

Three in a row. A pause. Two more.

You knew that rhythm.

You dragged your feet to the door, already frowning.

“Patrick?”

The smile on the other side formed before you’d even finished saying his name.

Sure enough, there he was.

Standing on your doorstep in his crooked trucker cap, denim jacket, and a scarf that was aggressively too big for him.

His expression was trying to be casual but failing miserably.

Standing too straight. Lips pressed thin. And with one hand suspiciously tucked behind his back.

“Hey!” he said, way too fast.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, already smiling.

“I, uh— was just in the neighborhood,” he started, which was a lie and you both knew it. “And I was thinkin’— just maybe... y’know… you wanted to hate this whole corporate Hallmark nightmare with me?”

He shrugged, one hand hovering mid-air like he hadn’t planned that far ahead.

Your eyes drifted slowly to the other one — still tucked behind his back.

His gaze followed yours.

Something in his expression broke for a second, like he’d been caught red-handed.

“Oh—” he huffed a small, crooked smile and brought his hand forward. “For you. I mean— I had to bring something, right?”

You spotted the gerbera between his fingers.

Not soft pink. Bright. Almost fuchsia.

Slightly crooked, like the flower itself had shown up nervous.

You took it without really knowing what to say. The whole thing felt like a surprise you hadn’t rehearsed for.

“Wow,” you laughed softly, holding it against your chest without thinking. “Is this like… an anti-romance flower or something?”

“Definitely,” he said a little louder than intended, lifting a hand toward you like you’d just fully grasped the concept.

You let out a small laugh and stepped aside so he could finally come in.

“My best friend giving me a flower on Valentine’s Day is kinda tragic, don’t you think?” you said lightly, already filling a glass with water to put it in. “Good thing I’m into tragic. Thanks, Trick.”

“It’s nothing,” he shrugged, then immediately contradicted himself. “Well— actually— my mom helped me pick it. She said that one specifically felt… like you.”

You turned back to him, smiling, the flower still in your hands.

“Oh yeah? Well… tell your mom thanks for me.”

Patrick nodded way too fast.

“Yeah. She’s gonna be thrilled her strategy worked.”

You frowned, amused. “Strategy?”

He blanked for a full second. “No— no,” he laughed nervously. “I mean— nothing. She just… has very strong flower opinions. Like. Aggressively strong.”

You laughed again, eyes still on the gerbera as you brushed your thumb gently over the petals, appreciating it more than you were ready to admit.“

“Well,” you said, softer now, “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen your mom just talking with her plants. I like her”

“They answer her,” he replied matter-of-factly.

You burst out laughing instantly and Patrick watched you. The look on his face was pure defeat—the good kind—as if seeing you laugh was the only thing he’d actually come here for.

“Okay, botanist,” you teased, finally looking up at him. “You planning on standing there all day? Sit. I was making coffee.”

He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck.

“Yeah, uh— actually… I was kinda thinkin’…” He shifted his weight. “Do you wanna go out? Not— not like go out go out. Just— there’s this diner nearby. We could grab a milkshake or something. Low-key. y'know. I dunno.”

You stepped a little closer, narrowing your eyes just to watch him unravel. “A milkshake,” you repeated slowly.

He was already turning red.

“That’s not very anti-romantic of you.”

“It’s not romantic!” he shot back immediately. “I mean— why would it be? It’s just us. Like always.”

“Uh-huh, like always.”

He ran a hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable.

“Yeah. I mean. We go there all the time.”

You smiled, giving him a playful nudge with your elbow. “Take it easy, Romeo. I’m just messin’ with you. Let’s go get that milkshake.”

Patrick smiled too, like those words had loosened a knot in his chest.

You walked over to the coat rack to find your jacket.

You felt his stare before you saw it.

When you did, he was still there, watching you as if he could almost put a thought into words.

“What?” you asked.

He didn't answer right away.

He let his eyes wander over you—quick, but not quick enough—.

“Oh, Nothing. Just…” He adjusted his glasses, buying time. “You look…”

The silence stretched out.

“Ready,” he finished, way too fast. And then he immediately added: “I mean— are you ready?”

You smirked. “Born ready, Stump. Just fair warning: if I see more than two couples making out, you’re buying me a donut stuffed with that shake.”

He stared at you, incredulous. “Only two? That’s— that’s not fair. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

You shrugged. “And I’m generous.”

Before he could start negotiating terms and conditions, you grabbed your keys off the table and gently pushed him toward the door.

“C’mon, Romeo.”

“Don’t call me that,” he whined, though he was already walking out.

You laughed at the tone. You loved getting under his skin.

And maybe — just maybe — you did it a little more than necessary, just to watch him lose composure for half a second.

Before he could protest again, you placed both hands on his shoulders from behind.

“Walk, Stumpie,” you murmured, leaning forward just enough to let a little of your weight fall against him.

He tensed at first — barely a second— then let out a resigned sigh.

“You are absolutely abusing your power.”

You laughed near his ear, close enough that he could feel your breath. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Then, like nothing had happened, you slipped back to his side and started walking.

The air was cold enough that every exhale turned into small white clouds drifting between you before fading away.

It was almost impossible to ignore how aggressively Valentine’s Day was taking over the streets, with all those hearts taped to shop windows, signs with ridiculously cheesy quotes, and a few balloons fighting the wind, tied to the streetlights.

“Look. Couple,” you said, nudging him lightly just to mess with him.

“That doesn’t count,” he protested. “They’re just holding hands.”

“Hand-holding couples are the worst. Trust me. It counts.”

He just shook his head, chuckling.

You kept walking, shoulders nearly brushing.

Patrick took a hand out of his pocket, letting it hang between you as if it were casual. Like he wasn't measuring every single inch.

Your fingers were right there. Close. Your hands almost brushed.

At that exact second, a gust of icy wind made you shiver.

“God, it’s freezing,” you muttered, rubbing your arms.

Automatically, you shoved your hands into your pockets.

Patrick’s fingers closed around empty air.He stayed like that for half a second.

“Hey— c’mere,” he said quietly, resting his hand against your forearm with careful hesitation.

“What—?” But before you could finish, he was already pulling off his scarf. “Patrick, no. You get cold so easily. I’m fine—”

“Don’t be stubborn. You’re such a whiner, y’know that? Always got somethin’ to complain about.”

He stepped closer. Too close. He wrapped the scarf around your neck in quick, slightly clumsy motions. His fingers brushed your cheek as he adjusted it.

The warmth was still there.

​“There,” he said, stepping back like it was no big deal. “See? Now you can keep being a brat, but at least you won't freeze to death... dumbass.”

You looked at him for a second. Then you smiled— just a little.

Without saying anything, you stepped closer and looped your arm through his, leaning into him like it had always been that way.

Patrick went rigid. “What are you doing?”

“We’re even,” you said lightly. “You gave me your scarf. I’m giving you moral support.”

“That’s not even how that works,” he stammered, his cheeks tinting red. “You’re just usin’ me as a space heater, I know your game.”

“Look— that’s two!” you cut in, subtly pointing toward the corner where a couple was making out with a level of enthusiasm that felt illegal in daylight.

Patrick turned his head and immediately regretted it.

“Jesus…” he muttered, snapping his gaze away dramatically. His face somehow redder than before. “Yeah. That definitely counts.”

He made a genuinely horrified face.

You burst out laughing and, without really noticing, held onto his arm a little tighter.

“Are you twelve?”

​“No!— I just… I dunno, it’s gross.” He gestured vaguely. “There was way too much tongue involved. Like, we’re on a public sidewalk, y’know?”

You kept laughing at his outrage as you walked, never breaking contact.

Patrick muttered something about “public displays requiring boundaries,” and you cut him off with teasing commentary about how secretly old-fashioned he was.

You reached the diner before you even realized it.He opened the door and let you go in first. The bell chimed softly behind you.

The air inside was warm and sweet — coffee, sugar, syrup — layered over the low hum of dishes clinking and people talking.

He closed the door carefully and glanced at you for a brief second before nodding toward an empty booth.

You slid into one side. He took the other, across from you.

Patrick immediately grabbed the menu —a ritual at this point— even though he always ended up ordering the same thing.

While you waited, your fingers absentmindedly played with the fringe of his scarf still wrapped around your neck.

“You gonna pretend you’re considering something different?” you asked, resting your chin on your hand.

“I’m exploring options,” he said without looking up.

“You’ve been exploring the same options for three years.”

He looked up, offended. “Yeah, whatever. Maybe I’m feelin’ reckless today. You don’t know.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Watch out, we got a badass over here. What’s next, Stump? You gonna order a vanilla shake? Truly livin’ on the edge.”

He made a face, but he didn’t look back down at the menu.

He just... watched you. For a second longer than he probably meant to. You didn't even notice your fingers were still messing with the tassels of his scarf, twisting and untwisting the wool until you finally looked up.

Your eyes met, and the air between you just... shifted. It wasn't a joke anymore.

No more banter, no more teasing. Just that weird, heavy stillness where everything else in the diner—the clatter of plates, the music, the people—just faded out.

His expression softened, that guarded look of his completely slipping for once. He looked at you like he’d forgotten he was supposed to be "cool." Then, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to, he looked away fast, clearing his throat.

Right on cue, the waitress appeared at the table.

Patrick jumped a little, looking at her like she’d just handed him a lifeline.

“You kids ready, or you need another minute?”

“Oh—Hi, yeah. Yeah, sure,” Patrick jumped in. “We’ll do two donuts. One raspberry-filled, one chocolate. And— uh— marshmallows.”

“Got it. Drinks?” she asked, already scribbling.

Patrick cleared his throat again. “Yeah, um…” He lifted the menu and pointed at something like he was double-checking, even though he wasn’t. “That one. Chocolate. Please.”

He didn’t look at you to confirm. He just stared at a spot on the table, waitin' for her to leave so he could finally breathe again.​

The waitress gave you a quick glance, then looked at him, smiling knowingly. “Perfect. Be right out with that.”

The waitress disappeared toward the counter, leaving you two in a pocket of silence that felt a lot louder than the rest of the diner.

Patrick shot you a sideways look just as you narrowed your eyes at him. “What? No— don’t look at me like that,” he rushed out. “I didn’t order anything you don’t like, I swear. Do you wanna change it? We can—”

“No, no. I didn’t say anything, you dork,” you laughed, leaning both arms on the table. “Just... it’s cute that you know.”

​A small smile tugged at his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared out the window for a second, then back at the table. But under the wood, his fingers were fidgeting like crazy.

And that’s when you really noticed it. He was visibly nervous.

His leg was bouncing under the table. Rhythmic. Uncontrollable.

“You good?” asked, leaning forward a little.

He looked at you. “Yeah— yeah,” he repeated, clearing his throat, trying to sound steadier than he felt. “Of course. Why?”

“Patrick. You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

You glanced down. His knee was still going.

​“Really?” You stretched your foot forward under the table and gently pressed your sneaker against his, stopping the movement.​

He froze instantly. The contact was small, but it was enough to make his breath hitch.

​“Fine. Yeah… maybe. It’s just...”

“Here’s your order, kids,” the waitress chirped, sliding the tray onto the table with a knowing smile. She lingered for a second, looking from your amused face to Patrick, who looked like he was about to combust.

She set the plates down first. Then the milkshake, right between the two of you.

One large chocolate milkshake. A dramatic mountain of whipped cream. Two cherries.

And—Two straws.

“You better take it easy on him, honey,” she added, patting his arm lightly. “I haven't seen a boy turn that shade of red since my high school prom. Enjoy, you two.”

​Patrick choked on his own breath. “Th—thanks,” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly as the waitress walked away with a chuckle.

He stared at the chocolate shake like he wanted to vanish into the air.

The silence was thick, but you just leaned your chin on your hand, watching him with a playful glint in your eyes.

“Oh my god, Patrick... that is actually wild. Did she really just say that? She’s literally acting like you’re fall for me or something. It’s hilarious.”

He didn't find it funny.

​​“Don't worry, Trick,” you teased, your voice low and light. “I'll try to be on my best behavior. I don't bite. Not today, anyway.”

Before he could answer, you plucked one of the cherries and popped it into your mouth.

Patrick finally looked at you. With that crooked half-smile he got when he was overwhelmed tugged at his lips.

“____,” he said quietly, a little dazed. “You don’t realize it, do you? I mean— you’re not laughing at me, right?”

The corners of your mouth dropped, caught off guard. You genuinely had no idea what he meant.

And maybe that was exactly what had undone him — that to him it was so obvious he could barely look at you without feeling like his entire nervous system had turned to jelly.

“What did I miss?” you leaned closer, gently lifting a hand to his chin. “Did you mess up your hair again?”

“What? N—no, it’s not the hair, ____.”

“Then what exactly would I be laughing at?”

Patrick looked at you.

“At me?” he said finally, barely above a whisper. “At… all this.” He gestured to the table. Then vaguely between the two of you. “It’s Valentine’s Day. I gave you a sad little flower—”

“Hey!” you cut in. “I liked the flower. It’s beautiful.”

He closed his eyes for a second like that might actually finish him off.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, shaking his head lightly. “Please. Just— let me finish before I lose whatever tiny bit of courage I’ve got left. Which isn't much. Honestly.”

You mimed zipping your lips shut. He gave you the smallest smile.

“I’ve been… planning this for weeks. I backed out three times. I bought you chocolate and then ate it because I thought it was stupid.” He shrugged. “This. And I mean all of it…” He took a breath. “It’s supposed to be a date.”

He looked at you then — waiting.

“Wait— ” you breathed, your heart giving a sudden, erratic thump. “The lady was actually right?”

He held your gaze. And instead of getting annoyed… a small laugh escaped him. Incredulous. Affectionate.​

He shook his head.​ “You’re just…” he sighed, like he couldn't fight it anymore, “incredibly oblivious.”

​There wasn't any edge to it. He just sounded amazed. Frustrated, yeah—but totally surrendered.

You froze, your thoughts scrambling backward through the day until it hit you all at once. The flower. The scarf. None of it had been random.

“Maybe you’re right…” you huffed, your face burning. “But you’re part of this too, Stump! You’ve always been terrible at subtle—how was I supposed to figure it out?”

“Yeah, well… I’m not the best at this stuff. Probably.” he admitted, adjusting his glasses. “But you didn’t notice I’ve been trying to hold your hand for like… three weeks.”

“WHAT?!”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, resigned. “Multiple attempts. Very strategic. All failed.”

“So this is… a date?” you asked, still catching up.He made a vague gesture with his hands.

He gestured vaguely with his hands.

“It was supposed to be. Unless you hate that idea. Which is totally fine. I can pivot. I can pretend I forgot what day it is. We can call it National Milkshake Day or somethin’...”

That’s when it finally clicked. You started to smile. Very slowly.

“You really... invited me out on Valentine’s Day… as a confession?”

Patrick closed his eyes for a second before answering, like he was bracing for impact.

“Ye—Yeah.” The word sat between you — small, but enormous.

You studied him more closely.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Because... I was scared you’d laugh.”

“Excuse me?”

“Like actually laugh,” he clarified. “Like full-on ‘oh my God, Patrick, no’ laugh.”

“You’re such a dork. I’d never laugh at you!”

He looked personally offended.

“You laugh at me all the time!”

“Because you’re funny!”

“No, I’m serious.” His voice lost its shakiness and gained some ground. “Every time I try to say somethin’ sincere, you grin like I just tripped in public.”

You tried to keep it together. You really did. But the mental image was too much, and a short laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Patrick pointed at you instantly.

“See? This is exactly what I’m talkin’ about!”

“I’m not laughin’ at you!”

“You literally are!”

“It’s ‘cause you’re dramatic.”

“This is not dramatic,” he insisted, his brow furrowing just a bit. “This is emotional risk.”

That line made you soften your tone. It didn't sound like a joke anymore. It sounded vulnerable.

“Okay. Fine. Yes. I laugh,” you admitted.

“Thank you” he responded immediately, quieter this time.

You looked down for a second before meeting his eyes again. “I would never laugh at your feelings. I might laugh at you, sometimes. But never at that.”

Something shifted then. Almost imperceptible.

Patrick lifted his gaze slowly, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off, and when his eyes met yours this time, he didn’t look away.

His hand moved across the table — careful, awkward — sliding just close enough to yours. You looked at it.

It was barely extended toward you, like he didn’t quite dare cross the line. Like he was still ready to pull back if you even flinched.

You reached for it gently. His fingers were cold. A little tense at first. But when you wrapped yours around them, you felt them soften. Just slightly.

“This… isn’t pity, right?” he asked quietly.

You rolled your eyes without letting go. If anything, you laced your fingers through his more firmly.

“It's not, dumbass.”

He exhaled then — long and deep — like he’d been breathing on half-capacity since the conversation started.

You watched him for a couple seconds before smiling.

“You’re still shaking.”

His mouth twisted into a nervous half-smile that couldn’t decide whether to disappear or stay.

“I know.”

His cheeks were flushed; it wasn’t even that warm inside, but he looked like he might actually melt under your stare.

“You’re red.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered, still staring at your intertwined hands like he wasn’t entirely convinced they were real.

You leaned a little closer, just enough for him to notice you weren’t planning on letting go.

“You’re adorable.”

Patrick blinked. He swallowed, trying to hold it together, but he was completely undone.

“Don’t say that right now...” he said under his breath, almost pleading. “I’m tryin’ to be cool here.”

“You have never been cool. You cried watching The Notebook.”

His eyes widened in pure betrayal.

"Nunca dejarás eso ir, ¿verdad?"

You shook your head, letting out a soft laugh, not meant to be cruel.

“Its a good movie!” Patrick tried to hold onto his indignation. It lasted three seconds. “You’re impossible…”

You looked at him with nothing but tenderness.

“You love it.”

He met your gaze again, eyes bright — exposed in a way that made pretending pointless.

“Yeah... I do,” he admitted, still blushing. Then he hesitated, like he’d just stepped onto unfamiliar ground. “So… what now? I mean— what happens now?”

You shrugged lightly, nudging one of the straws with your free hand.

“Now, we drink the milkshake. Like a couple of lovebirds from the fifties.”

Patrick looked at the milkshake. Then at your intertwined hands. Then at you.

His brain was clearly about three seconds behind the moment.

“So… is that what we are now?” he asked, voice caught somewhere between hope and mild cardiac distress. “Are we… a couple?”

You looked at him, and the smile that formed this time wasn’t teasing.

It was soft. Almost proud.

“You wanna make it official?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“I— I mean— if you want to—”

“Oh, c’mon,” you murmured, leaning a little closer. “You wanna say it. I wanna hear it.”

The red in his cheeks went up another notch, if that was even physically possible.

His fingers squeezed yours.

“Do you… do you wanna be my girlfriend?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, like you were reviewing a contract.

“Mmm. I don’t know…”

Patrick froze. “Don’t—” he warned quietly, narrowing his eyes because he absolutely knew you. “Don’t do that.”

“What? It’s a very important decision,” you continued solemnly, even though your fingers were still locked with his.

“You’re awful,” he said, but he didn’t let go of your hand. “I could actually die right now.”

You smiled. This time without holding anything back.

“Of course I do, dumbass.”

The relief was instant. Visible. Almost dramatic. His shoulders dropped. His lungs rebooted. A nervous laugh slipped out like he’d just survived something medically concerning.

“Do not ever do that again,” he muttered, still flushed.

You stayed there, staring at each other for a few seconds too long.

Patrick looked at the table. Then at you. “This table is kinda... ruining our moment,” he muttered, looking at the space between you two with a frustration that was almost funny.

You got up without a word. You walked around the table and slid into his side of the booth, forcing him to scramble over until his back hit the wall. Now there was no wood or menus in the way; it was just you, him, and the scent of coffee in the air.

“Hi—” he said, his voice cracking a little, a nervous laugh spilling out as he realized you’d been sitting right there, inches from him.

“Hey, you,” you replied with a small smile.

You leaned into him, sliding your hand around his neck.

The kiss was soft at first, almost shy. But once he realized you weren't pulling away, he kissed back—just barely—holding onto you like you were something fragile.

When you pulled apart, his cheeks were still burning red, but he was finally smiling.

“Oh… Happy— Valentine’s Day… I guess.”

You grinned, squeezing his cheeks and planting another quick kiss on one of them.