BabaBooby

The lair is quieter at night.

You sit cross-legged across from Leo, palms on your knees, breath slow. His eyes are closed, the slope of his shoulders relaxed but always vigilant. You admire that about him. How he can be so peaceful and yet alert at the same time, like a coiled spring that chooses restraint over release.

You don’t remember exactly when it started—when your presence began to fit so naturally beside his.

Maybe it was these late nights in the dojo, when the others had already drifted off and you stayed behind to stretch and meditate. Or maybe it was the quiet companionship the two of you had forged over books, over tea. Over a silence that never felt empty.

You open your eyes to steal a glance. Just a second. Just enough to drink in the shape of him—the rise and fall of his chest, the steady furrow between his brows.

He’s beautiful.

You’ve thought it a thousand times. And it never gets easier.

But you close your eyes again. Because if you look too long, your chest tightens and the butterflies take over, and then your breathing’s shot and Leo always notices when you’re off. He doesn’t say it, but you feel the shift in his posture. Always attuned. Always watching.

You inhale. Hold. Exhale.

“I can feel you looking at me,” he says softly, with the faintest upward tilt to his voice. Not quite teasing. Not quite scolding.

You crack one eye open. “I was meditating … with curiosity.”

That earns you the ghost of a smile. “Curiosity is the enemy of mindfulness.”

“And yet,” you hum, “you always let me get away with it.”

His eyes open then, the warm glow of the training room lights reflecting faintly in that deep blue gaze. And for a second, you forget how to breathe.

You’ve always admired how composed he is. But sometimes, you wonder how much of that control is armor. You’re not afraid of it. In fact, you respect it. But more and more, you want to be the one person he doesn’t have to wear it for.

“You’re improving,” he says, rising fluidly to his feet. You follow suit, stretching your arms overhead.

“That’s high praise coming from Sensei Leonardo,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your elbow. His arm doesn’t budge, of course. He’s a wall of muscle, but he allows the nudge. Even leans into it a little.

“I mean it,” he says, more seriously now. “Your form is solid. Breath work, too. You’re … centered.” He looks at you a second longer than necessary. “You have a good heart. A strong one.”

Your cheeks warm, and you can’t help the grin that slips out. “Careful. You’re going to make me think I’m your favorite student.”

“You are my only student,” he replies dryly.

“But am I your favorite?”

Leo’s eyes, those deep blue pools, hold yours for a beat longer. The playful challenge in your question seems to catch him off guard, stripping away a layer of his usual composure. A muscle ticks almost imperceptibly in his jaw. He doesn’t smile, not quite. But the sternness around his mouth softens, just a fraction.

“You,” he starts, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the quiet dojo, “make the late hours more bearable.”

It’s not a direct answer. And not the effusive declaration your teasing heart might have playfully hoped for. But coming from Leo, it’s a canyon-wide admission. Your own smile softens, your gaze dropping to the tatami mat for a moment, a warmth spreading through your chest.

When you look up again, his expression is more guarded, the leader facade back in place. But there’s a new awareness in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the current pulling you both.

“High praise indeed,” you murmur, deciding not to push further.

The air is thick enough as it is, charged with everything unsaid. You can feel the thrum of it, a delicate, almost painful tension that you’ve both learned to navigate, to live within. As you grab your water bottle, he moves to the corner where a small, worn bookshelf stands. You follow, knowing the unspoken invitation.

He retrieves a leather-bound copy of The Art of War while you fish out a book of poetry from your bag that you’ve been slowly making your way through. You settle onto the worn cushions near the edge of the dojo, a comfortable distance apart, yet deeply aware of each other’s presence.

This is your sanctuary, a world away from the chaos of the city above. Away from the boisterous energy of his brothers. Here, you are simply you, and he is simply Leo. And sometimes, that feels like everything. But the peace is fragile.

Because the unspoken always hovers.

Just as you’re losing yourself in a poignant verse, a burst of energy shatters the calm.

“Leo! Dude? You in here?” Mikey’s voice, loud and cheerful, bounces off the walls as he pokes his head in. He spots you, and his grin widens. “Oh hey, didn’t see ya there … or did I?” He winks, an unsubtle gesture.

You feel the familiar warmth creep up your neck. Leo, beside you, stiffens slightly. His focus, which had been softened by the reading, sharpens, his leader-mask slipping firmly back into place.

“What is it, Mikey?” Leo’s tone is patient, but with an underlying edge that you recognize as his ‘on-duty’ voice.

“Just wonderin’ if you two needed a chaperone,” Mikey says, waggling his brows. “Or, you know, some snacks? Maybe a single plate of spaghetti to share? Lady and the Tramp style?”

You can’t help but let out a small laugh, quickly covering your mouth.

Leo, however, does not look amused. “We’re reading.”

“Riiiiight,” Mikey draws out the word. “April was asking if you guys were gonna, like, officially announce your book club or something. She’s got t-shirt ideas.”

Leo closes his book with a quiet, definitive thud. “That’s enough, Mikey.”

His voice is low, a clear warning. There’s no anger, not really, but a weariness that tugs at your heart. You know he hates being put on the spot, especially about anything personal.

Mikey, sensing he’s pushed the boundary from playful to potentially irksome for his leader, raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Just tryin’ to liven things up. You two are so quiet. It’s like a library in here.”

He glances between you and Leo one last time, a hopeful glint in his eyes, before disappearing as quickly as he arrived.

The silence he leaves behind is different now. Heavier. The comfortable quiet has been disturbed, replaced by a lingering awkwardness. You risk a glance at Leo. His jaw is set, and he fixes his gaze on the closed book in his lap. You want to say something, to ease the tension, but the words catch in your throat.

“He means well,” you finally offer, your voice softer than you intend, almost a whisper.

He doesn’t look at you immediately. Instead, he lets out a slow, controlled breath, the kind you’ve seen him use before a difficult training spar. When he finally turns his head, you see his troubled eyes. The playful warmth from earlier is gone, replaced by a familiar guardedness that always makes your chest ache a little.

“Mikey is … Mikey,” he says, his voice low. It’s an echo of your own sentiment, yet it carries a weight of resignation. He looks away, toward the dojo entrance, as if expecting another interruption. “He doesn’t always think.”

“No,” you agree, a small, hesitant smile playing on your lips. “But his heart’s usually in the right place. Even if his delivery is … theatrical.” You’re trying to inject a little levity.

He gives a curt nod, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. He pushes himself to his feet, the abruptness of it making you still. The unspoken message is clear: the quiet interlude is over.

“It’s getting late,” he states, not looking at you directly, but at some point over your shoulder. His voice is flat, devoid of the earlier softness.

Your heart sinks a little. You understand. He’s retreating, rebuilding his walls. Mikey’s teasing, however well-intentioned, has touched a nerve, exposed something Leo clearly wants to keep hidden, controlled.

So you nod, trying to keep the disappointment from your voice. “Yeah, you’re right.” You slowly close your own book, the words on the page now a blur.

You rise and grab your bag. He stands by the dojo entrance, waiting. It’s a polite gesture, but it also feels like he’s eager for you to leave, to restore the order Mikey disrupted. When you reach the doorway, you pause, looking up at him. You want to say something more.

But the words die on your lips when you see the conflict in his eyes. It’s a fleeting glimpse, quickly masked, but you see it.

“Thank you for the … reading time,” you manage, your voice a little too formal.

“Anytime,” he replies, his tone equally stilted. But then, for a fleeting second, as your eyes meet, his gaze briefly softens. And he gives a small, almost hesitant nod. “Get home safe.”

It’s the leader speaking, the protector. Not the Leo who shares knowing glances with you, who bonds with you over poetry and strategy.

Your smile is small. “I will. Goodnight, Leo.”

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, his eyes following you as you turn and head out of the dojo, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on your shoulders. You can feel his gaze on your back until you round the corner.

As you walk through the quieter common area of the lair and pass by the kitchen, you hear a voice.

“So, book club over for the night?”

It’s Raph, a smirk playing on his lips.

You sigh, a genuine, tired sound this time. “Something like that.”

“Mikey get under his shell too much?”

You manage a wry smile. “Mikey gets under everyone’s shell eventually. It’s his special talent.”

“Yeah, but Leo’s got that ‘leader on duty, do not engage emotions’ sign up permanently these days,” Raph observes, his head tilting slightly. “Especially when you’re around.”

Your breath catches and you look down, suddenly finding the pattern of the floor fascinating. “I don’t … I mean …” You fiddle with the strap of your bag, shifting your stance uncomfortably as heat rises to your cheeks.

“Relax,” Raph says, and his voice, surprisingly, loses some of its edge, softening into something almost gentle. For him, anyway. “Not blamin’ ya. Just sayin’. Guy’s wound up tighter than his own sword wraps.” He pauses, then adds, “He actually looks … less like he’s carryin’ the whole damn world when he’s with you. Even if you’re just readin’ old books and not sayin’ a word.”

His words land like a balm on the fresh sting of Leo’s withdrawal. It’s a confirmation, from an unlikely source, that your quiet presence offers him some solace—that it’s not just your wishful thinking.

“He …” you start, then stop, unsure how to articulate the complex knot of hope and anxiety in your chest. “He needs his focus. His responsibilities are huge.”

Raph scoffs. “He needs to let someone else share the load sometimes. And not just the ‘end of the world’ kind of load.” He gives you a significant look, one that speaks volumes about shared burdens beyond fighting Krang or Shredder. “Anyway,” he continues, “don’t be a stranger just ‘cause he gets all constipated with his feelings.”

“I won’t,” you promise, offering a small, genuine smile. Raph’s gruff brand of support is unexpectedly comforting, cutting through the ambiguity.

You make your way out of the lair, the sounds of the city growing louder as you ascend. The cool night air feels good on your warm cheeks. Still, Raph’s words echo in your mind, mingling with the lingering image of Leo’s troubled eyes.

His words offer a fragile shield against the disappointment. You know things are not that simple—because Leo’s life is a maelstrom of duty and danger. And you … you’re just you. But Raph saw something. Mikey sees something, as well as Donnie and April. Hell, even Casey noticed.

It’s just Leo, the one who matters most in this equation, who seems determined to keep it at arm’s length.

Back in the dojo, the silence Leo usually craves feels oppressive.

He stands where you left him, by the entrance, long after the echo of your footsteps has faded. His fists clench and unclench at his sides—before he forces himself to move. His movements are stiff, mechanical as he slots his book back into the shelf.

He thinks of you. How you deserve sunlight, laughter without the shadow of his world. A life unburdened by the secrets and dangers that define his. And yet, the thought of you not being here—of that quiet space beside him remaining permanently empty—sends a sharp pang through him, colder and more cutting than any blade.

“The quiet in here is … different tonight, Leonardo.”

Leo spins around. Splinter stands in the doorway, his gaze soft but unnervingly perceptive.

“Master Splinter,” Leo manages, his voice rougher than he intends. He clears his throat. “I was just … finishing up.”

Splinter hums, walking further into the dojo, his eyes sweeping over the cushions where Leo and you had been sitting. “She has left her book.”

Leo hadn’t noticed. His gaze flicks to where it lies beside the cushion, a fresh wave of something akin to longing washing over him. “Oh. I … I’ll make sure she gets it back.”

“She is a calming presence, is she not?” Splinter continues, his tone conversational, yet Leo feels the gentle probe behind his words. “A kindred spirit, as you once described her to me.”

Leo nods, unable to meet his eyes, and focuses instead on straightening a weapon on the rack. “She understands the quiet. It’s rare.”

“Indeed.” Splinter strokes his beard thoughtfully. “And you, my son? Do you understand the disquiet she leaves in her absence? The kind that is not born of loneliness, but of … something more profound?”

Leo finally turns to him, a frown creasing his brow. “Master, I have responsibilities. A team to lead. Distractions are a luxury I cannot afford.” The words sound hollow even to his own ears, the well-rehearsed excuse of a man trying to convince himself.

“Ah, yes. The dedicated leader,” Splinter says, his eyes twinkling, though his expression remains serious. “The one who believes he must carry the world’s burdens alone, lest he falter. Is her presence truly a distraction, Leonardo? Or is it, perhaps, a steadying hand in the storm you so often navigate?”

Leo remains silent, the truth of Splinter’s words unsettling him. He thinks of your calm focus, the way your quiet strength seems to mirror his own, yet also balances his intensity with a gentle resilience.

“She possesses an inner fortitude,” Splinter continues, his gaze softening. “Much like you, she finds solace in stillness. Yet, when she is comfortable, her spirit shines brightly. Does this not complement your own more measured nature?”

“She is … good,” Leo finally admits, the word feeling inadequate. “She’s kind and strong in ways most people aren’t. She deserves a normal life. Not … this.” He gestures vaguely around the dojo, encompassing the shadows, the weapons, the constant threat that is his reality.

Splinter steps closer, his gaze unwavering. “And who are you to decide what life she deserves, or what she is capable of embracing? Do you believe her spirit is so fragile that it cannot withstand the realities of your world? Or is it your own heart you seek to protect?”

His question hits its mark, and Leo flinches internally. The armor he wears, the control he prizes, feels suddenly constricting. “I need to be focused. Controlled. My emotions—they can be a liability.”

“Or they can be a strength,” Splinter counters gently. “Love, compassion, connection—these are not weaknesses, my son. They are the wellspring of courage, of loyalty, of the very protective instinct that makes you the leader you are. To deny them is to deny a part of yourself.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “She does not ask you to be less of a leader. Perhaps she even helps you become a better one, by grounding you, by reminding you of what you fight for.”

Leo looks at him, the conflict warring within him plain on his face. His Master’s words dismantle his carefully constructed arguments one by one.

“You fear,” Splinter says, “the pain of loss, the vulnerability of opening your heart. These are understandable fears for one who has seen so much hardship. But a life lived in fear of what might be lost is a life half-lived.” He places a gentle hand on Leo’s arm. “Your discipline is a virtue, Leonardo. But do not let it become a cage that keeps out the very light that seeks to enter. She is a kind soul. And you … you seem more at peace, more truly yourself, when she is near.”

His hand drops from Leo’s arm, but his gaze holds his. “Consider this, my son. Sometimes, the greatest responsibility a leader has is to allow himself moments of happiness. Do not let this opportunity for connection pass you by out of a misplaced sense of duty or fear.”

He gives Leo a small, knowing nod, then turns and pads silently out of the dojo, leaving him alone once more. He remains rooted to the spot, his gaze drifting to the book you left behind. In his mind, he replays his brothers’ teasing, April’s knowing glances. Because, it seems, they all see it.

Though the only one actively fighting it, it seems, is him.

The next evening, you make your way back to the lair.

The place is hushed, most of its occupants likely asleep or engrossed in their own late-night pursuits. Your footsteps echo slightly as you head towards the dojo, your heart thrumming a nervous rhythm against your ribs. You tell yourself it’s just for the book. A quick retrieval.

But somehow, you know it’s more than that.

You pause at the threshold. A single lamp casts its warm, inviting glow. And there, standing in the center of the room, is Leo. He’s not training, not meditating. As if your mere presence is a tangible thing, he turns. His eyes—those oceans you so often find yourself lost in—cause the air to leave your lungs in a rush.

The guardedness is gone. In its place is a raw, aching vulnerability that you’ve only ever glimpsed in fleeting moments. It’s startling, disarming, and it makes your own carefully constructed composure crumble.

In his large, three-fingered hand, he holds your poetry book. “You … you forgot this,” he says.

You step fully into the dojo. “Yes,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper. “I … Sorry about that.”

He doesn’t respond to your apology, his eyes fixed on you. Instead, he takes a slow, deliberate step towards you, then another, the space between you shrinking. Your heart hammers against your ribs as he stops just in front of you.

“I’m glad you came back,” he says, and the simple words hang heavy, laden with a significance that makes your breath catch.

“Leo?” you breathe.

He glances down at the book in his hand, as if it holds some profound answer, then his gaze lifts back to yours, a muscle working in his jaw.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he begins, his voice gaining a touch more strength, “since you left. About … us.”

Us.

The word hangs in the air, a fragile possibility.

His free hand lifts, hesitates, then ever so gently, his fingers brush against your cheek. The touch is feather light, yet it sends an electric shiver down your spine. “For so long, I’ve told myself that I can’t … that I shouldn’t.” His eyes flick down to your lips for a heartbeat, then back up. “That my responsibilities, my duty, means I have to keep my focus absolute. No distractions. No … vulnerabilities.”

You see the internal battle raging within him. And you want to reach out, to reassure him. But you remain glued to the floor, allowing him the space to voice the thoughts he’s held captive for so long.

“I told myself you deserve a normal life,” he says, his voice thick with a profound, aching sincerity. “Away from all of this.” He gestures vaguely with the hand holding your book. “Away from me.” His expression is pained, heartbreakingly honest. “And I still believe you deserve every good thing. Every moment of peace.”

Your heart constricts at his words, at the depth of the sacrifice he’s always been willing to make, the burden he carries. “Leo …” you begin, your voice choked with emotion—but he gently shakes his head, not to silence you, but to ask for a moment more.

“But I was wrong,” he says, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate, “about one thing.” His eyes, if possible, grow even more intense, more focused on you. “You’re not a distraction. You’re …” He searches for the words, his gaze softening. “You’re the calm in the middle of the storm. You’re the quiet I never knew I needed until you were here, sharing it with me.” A ghost of that rare, beautiful smile touches his lips. “You’re my kindred spirit.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring his image. You bite down hard on your lower lip, a desperate attempt to keep them from falling, to hold on to some semblance of composure.

“Being with you,” he continues, his voice a low, earnest rumble, “it doesn’t weaken my resolve. It strengthens it. It reminds me of what I’m fighting for.” He takes a shaky breath, the sound loud in the stillness. “You make me better. More grounded. More … myself.”

He reaches out again, his large hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin. “I can’t … I don’t want to push you away anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, laced with vulnerability. “I’ve been a fool. So afraid of what could go wrong, of not being strong enough, of failing you, that I almost missed …”

“Leo,” you breathe, your own voice trembling. You can’t hold back the tears any longer; one escapes, tracing a warm path down your cheek. He catches it with his thumb, his touch achingly gentle, reverent.

“I am deeply, incredibly, in love with you,” he confesses, the words tumbling out, a torrent of pent-up emotion and unspoken feelings laid bare at your feet. “I think I have been for a very long time. And it terrifies me.” His gaze holds yours, pleading for understanding, for acceptance. “But the thought of not telling you, of not trying … that terrifies me more.”

The world seems to tilt, to narrow and focus entirely on the space between you, on the profound truth he has just spoken. All the unsaid words, the lingering glances, the quiet moments of shared understanding—they all converge into this single, breathtaking point.

You look into his eyes, seeing the depth of his feelings mirrored there: the fear, the hope, the undeniable love. And your own heart, so full it feels as if it might burst from your chest.

“Oh, Leo,” you whisper, a watery smile breaking through your tears, your hands instinctively rising to frame his face. Your thumbs stroke the firm line of his jaw, feeling the slight tremble beneath your touch. “I love you too. So much.”

The relief that washes over his features is profound, chasing away the last shadows of doubt and fear. His broad shoulders, which always seem to carry the weight of the world, visibly relax. A genuine, breathtaking smile—the kind you’ve only dreamed of—finally breaks through his stoicism. Transforming his face, making him look younger. Lighter.

Freer.

He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a moment as a shuddering breath escapes him. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, the words a warm caress against your skin, “how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that. How long I’ve fought telling you.”

“We’ve both been idiots,” you breathe, the words laced with affection.

He chuckles, a melody you never knew you were missing until now. “Yeah,” he agrees, pulling back just enough to look into your tear-filled eyes again, his own shining with a fierce, protective tenderness. “We have.”

“This won’t be easy,” he says, his innate sense of responsibility still present. “My life is complicated. Dangerous.”

“I know,” you reply, your voice steady. “And I’m not afraid. Not when I’m with you.”

You mean it with every fiber of your being.

His smile widens, radiant and full of love. “Then,” he says, his voice lowering to a husky whisper, his gaze fixed on yours before it drops to your lips, “can I …?”

You don’t need him to finish the sentence. Your heart soaring, you lean in, and he meets you halfway, closing the last bit of distance between you.

The first touch of his lips to yours is tentative, achingly soft, a question in itself. It’s a whisper of contact, a breath shared. And in this moment, you feel the tremor that runs through him, the culmination of his long-held restraint finally giving way.

The dojo, the city above—it all fades away, receding into a distant hum. Because there is only this: the press of Leo’s lips, the feel of his powerful arms around you, the overwhelming, soul-deep certainty that this is right.

Reluctantly, he breaks the kiss. “For the record,” he murmurs, gently touching your lips with his thumb, “you’ve always been my favorite student.”