⚘ seafoam phantom 𖤐

BLUSH!!

Most to least amount:

Raph

Donnie

Leo

Mikey

—

Raph:

How he blushes

This boy will sometimes go full face red, but most of the time it’s all in his cheeks. They go rosy red all the time and his shoulders will blush too. IK IT LOOKS LIKE I PUT SOME ON HIS PLASTRON BUT I DIDN’T REALLY MEAN TO??? 😭😭 when he blushes he absolutely can not look you in the eye, he’s mumbling, stuttering, doing calculations of how to get out of the situation, (kinda like he did when locking up Ms. cuddles) and will start to back up if you get closer. Yk his lil nervous laugh? His lil “hAhAAHH..”? That’s his go-to reaction if you say anything about his actions (which you’re bound to) or if you brush your hand on his arm.

Why he blushes

It’s pretty easy to get Raph to blush, he just feels so lucky to be with you and the surprise that you love him too doesn’t fade too fast through your relationship. In like the first 6 months he’s like this, so when you give him a kiss on the cheek he’s an absolute MESS. And Mind Raph makes sure he knows it, feeling horribly embarrassed about his stuttering. This also goes on for a while before that insecurity calms down, allowing him to feel more comfortable in his own shell.

When he’s more comfy, even then he’s easy to fluster. If you catch him staring at you, he’s already embarrassed. He’s looking away with a slight blush, avoiding you— but if your gaze is steady, still staring at him - now he’s real flustered. Laugh playfully and he just might explode.

He likes to cradle you in his arms, he’s always wanted to be a protector and you put him at peace. He feels pure serenity when you’re near, and he adores cuddles. However, when you ask him for snuggles— he’s burning up, stammering through trying to say “I’d love to” , “my pleasure” , and “yes please” at the same time. “My yes… eh— pleased to— wait- yes the please.. my love to!! Oh god..” (he’s face palming fr.) Although, when you finally get situated— with his racing heart, he’s wide awake. He isn’t going to sleep until he can stop focusing on your face snuggling into his plastron, acting as a ball of warm sunshine to drown out his sleepiness.

Spoiler Alert: he pretty much just waits for you to fall asleep first.

—

Donnie:

How he blushes

Donnie feels like the type to have a nose blush— and also I dunno why but I could see his shell blushing??? Even if only at the edges, It just seems so canon to me. His fingers go pink when he’s nervous, but those aren’t exactly a giveaway because they also freeze when he’s cold. He feels his mouth go dry when he blushes, thats how he knows he’s turning red, so he starts fiddling with the edge of his purple mask, trying to act natural while he pulls it down further over his blushing snout.

In this state, he’s really overstimulated, even the slightest chair creek would prick his nerves, so if you give him any attempt at physical contact he’s either short circuiting or smacking you away, unable to process the feeling. (It’s mostly the latter) ESPECIALLY IF ITS A NOSE KISS!!! He usually melts into your hands, but if he’s overstimmed, he will not hesitate to ATTACC.

He apologizes after, embarrassed that he bat you away.

Why he blushes

Easy, you outsmarted him. He’ll be throwing on his emotionally unavailable bad boy image, strutting his stuff, bantering with you — and then you will throw in a flirty comment that makes him have to just process for a minute. Usually he can bounce back, but if it’s something reaally flirty, then he’s just like 😀 … FOR LIKE 5 MINUTES HFJDHDJEB GIVE HIM A SECOND HE’LL FIND A COMEBACK

After he does so, he gives a small smirk, kinda proud that you were able to stun THE Donatello, smartest, bravest, most courageous turtle of all time— if only momentarily. “You won for once..” he marvels, “huh— I’m impressed.”

Also you doing something really cute, like doing an equation wrong but looking at him with absolute glee at getting through it— waiting for his approval. he is LOSING. HIS. M I N D. He’s trying not to squeal because “LOOK AT MY PARTNER. LOOK. LOOK LOOK LOOK LOOK AAAAAA OH MY GOD” but the last thing he wants to do is flaunt the way Leo of all people does— he’s more civil than that. (Imagine how a badass villain shows off their partner.) if anyone says anything about “pff what an idiot” when you’re doing something he thinks is absolutely adorable— he is pulling out his disposal unit immediately. He considers it the highest offense when someone insults his intelligence, so the same goes for his partner.

—

Leo:

How he blushes

Leo doesn’t really blush in his face, no— the red marks on his face will occasionally glow with heat, but the real place he blushes is his neck. It goes beet red and he’s trying to cover it up because he’s embarrassed. Not only does he blush, but his hands get real clammy, and he’s constantly trying to pretend they’re not. He WILL avoid holding your hand if you’ve made him flustered. if you’re insistent on it, he’s wiping his hands on a shirt he’s wearing or tries to play it off that he was exercising.

Why he blushes

It is really hard to fluster THE Neon Leon. He may melt into your warm hands or blush a little when you’re being cute— he’s definitely capable of being soft, HOWEVER!!! As someone who is so bent on keeping up a carefree persona, it would take a lot to get under his skin. Mikey says so himself in the Lair Games, “nothing gets to Leo.”

He panics when a one-liner doesn’t work. He’ll make a few more with complete confidence, but If you don’t like his flirting, he’s shifting on his feet, rubbing his neck, and slowly backing himself up into a corner. He has a similar reaction when you catch him in a lie, he panics— but he brushes it off with somewhat ease. You’d have to try really hard to get him flustered. Such as, well— He likes the little things about people, because he likes to figure people out, and he’s got a soft spot for you, so say… a blue flower in your hair, formal wear, having that edge of confidence, staying in close proximity while holding onto his arm and gently sprinkling in praise to the conversation…

His brain is frying, slowly but surely!! Be prepared for a jumpy and stuttering Leo.

—

Mikey:

How he blushes

Contrary to popular belief, I don’t think Mikey would visibly blush. Sure he gets that lil buzz in his cheeks and they feel warm when he’s flattered— but they don’t go red. Out of all his brothers, since he’s the smallest, I feel like he’s the most cold-blooded. and due to this, he doesn’t have much blood rush to his face, and he’s got the COLDEST FUCKING HANDS YOU EVER DID SEE. How those hands threw a skyscraper we will never know— but they are only warm when he’s cooking something bc of the heat from the oven.

(SIDE NOTE— HE NEVER??? BURNS HIMSELF??? Doesn’t matter if he scrapes the side of the hot ass cookie sheet he’ll just go “ow?” Check it, and be like “we’re good :)” DRAXUM MADE THEM FOR WAR AND HE’S OVER HERE LIKE “hehe I almost burned myself oopsie”)

Why he blushes:

I’m sorry sweetie, but you can’t fluster Mikey. The most you will get is flattery, and he feigns shyness because he’s a lil shit. He will unabashedly laugh and giggle when you do something cute and is the most clingy lil shit to ever exist. He will rant about all the reasons he loves you for hours, just because he can’t hold in the excitement. If you get embarrassed by it, that’s just a bonus for him!! He’s cooing over you and hugging you tight, swaying back and forth gently.

You’re beginning to wonder if he can feel embarrassment at all— you’ve tried everything. He’s just happy to be with you no matter what, and you are the only thing that could make him sit still for more than 5 minutes. So no, sorry, Mikey doesn’t get flustered ♡

The only way he would actually get flustered is if you lied about something to make him look stupid. Then he’s tearing up, betrayal in his eyes as he tries to explain in a panic. But you would never do that to him, right? .. right?

—

Hand holding!!

Coldest to warmest hands:

Mikey

Leo

Donnie

Raph

—

Raphie:

Idc how big you think your hands are, Raph’s hands ENGULF yours. If you hold onto just one finger he will probably combust on the spot. He just thinks it’s so sweet!! Will probably baby you if you do that. His hands are a gentle lukewarm, but don’t seem to drop colder. It’s really nice during the summer months since neither of you have to worry about being all hot and sweaty. He squeezes your hand when he’s nervous, if you pet his knuckles he will melt into your grasp once more. IF YOUVE GOT FRECKLES/BIRTHMARKS ON YOUR HANDS, HE WILL KISS THEM!!!! THAT IS A THREAT!!!! He does it because he thinks they’re pretty— If you get all blushy then he’s backing up, a familiar rose dusting his cheeks. He didn’t realize it was a big deal, he was just appreciating them!!

He holds your hand often, it lets him know you’re safe and that he doesn’t have to worry as much. As someone with horrible object permanence, holding your hand is a great way for him to know where you are— especially since he feels ‘too big’ and doesn’t want to bump into you. He worries about his spikes, so when he knows you’re right by his side, he can relax a little. If you’re in a crowd, he does the mom thing where he holds your hand so you don’t get lost— losing sight of you kicks off his fear of being alone, so there is no way he is letting you get lost in the crowd.

—

Dondon:

Donnie isn’t a fan of hand holding. He’ll take a hug and will hold you in his lap but he doesn’t usually find himself with his hand in yours. It’s quite overstimulating at times, so when he does, it’s mostly because he’s trying to guide you somewhere or apologize for something. He gently grasps your wrist, his thumb sometimes rubbing in small circles.

Most of the reason he doesn’t hold your hand dead-on is because of the temperature difference. If your hands are warm he doesn’t like the sweat and if your hands are cold— well he’s cold blooded of course he wouldn’t like it 😭😭 Your wrist is the perfect temp in his opinion, and nothing will stop him from taking advantage of that. (ESPECIALLY IF YOUR LOVE LANGUAGE IS PHYSICAL TOUCH!!! He does it to tell you he loves you, even if he can’t say it aloud.) he rarely holds your hand unprompted, unless he did something stupid or was hyperfixating for so long that you got bored and left his lab. When you leave he can tell, getting upset that he can’t feel your presence anymore. “Dove?” He’ll turn in his chair, trudging out of his room at realizing you disappeared. He grabs your wrist gently, his head on your shoulder as he sulks— silently begging you to return.

—

Mikester:

It doesn’t matter how he does it, he’s intertwining his fingers with yours. He doesn’t care if it feels uncomfortable, but if you do, he just gently cups your hand with his. Randomly when holding your hand he’ll pulse his grip in little patterns— sometimes it’s to the song in his head, other times it’s just on the fly. If you copy his rhythm, you’ll quickly find yourself in a memory game where you have to match the beat— the terrapin slowly making it harder to remember. Every time you pass a ‘level’, he gives you a quick peck on the cheek!

He loves to hold your hand, no matter how cold yours are, his is always colder— so he adores the warmth!! If you complain about his cold hands, he’s giving a mischievous smirk, and suddenly you find yourself constantly defending from his devilish torment. You can’t escape him now, every time you go up to him for a hug or snuggle, his cold hands sneak up to your neck, freezing you instantly. He laughs like a little boy with his first balloon every time it happens, apologizing sweetly before going to freeze you again. HE HAS A KILLER DEATH GRIP, DON’T TELL ME HE DOESN‘T. If you try to let go of his hand he grabs it back and looks at you with an evil cheeky smile, whatever you had to do with that hand you’ll just have to do while he’s holding it.

—

Leoser:

May or may not have gotten some inspiration from @pianocat939 BUT ANYWAYSSSS

Leo likes to pet your knuckles when he holds your hand, as well as give it a chaste kiss whenever he feels like it. He definitely does the prince thing where he gets on one knee, it makes him feel so gentlemanly and if you laugh that is a huge bonus. He is more of a hug-person, wanting to be close to you at all times, but he will hold your hand a lot more often if you don’t like PDA. HE DEFINITELY SWINGS HIS ARMS WHILE YOU HOLD HANDS DON’T TELL ME HE DOESN’T.

He splits your four fingers in half when he holds your hand, mostly so it’s more comfortable for the both of you. He whines if you let go of his hand, even if it’s something small like an itch on your face. He pretends his hand is floating away when you let it go, chuckling if you panic and grab it back/being dramatic and holding a ‘funeral’ for his hand if you let it ‘die’. His hands get calloused from holding his sword all day, but he does manicure them, so texture depends whether he’s done them recently. He thinks your hands are the softest thing ever, and constantly asks for your ‘routine.’ HE WILL PAINT YOUR NAILS!!! refuses to paint them anything but shades of blue, saying you’ll have to find someone else if you want to betray him anything different.

—

A/N: THIS . THIS IS THE REASON I HAVE BEEN SO HELD BACK WITH REQUESTS. THIS MF!!!!!! >:((((

Nah I’m just playing I loved writing it and I promise I’ll get back on track now ♡

The green couch in the lair protests as you shift, folding your legs beneath you.

The familiar sounds of Mikey mashing buttons on a video game controller and Donnie tapping away at a keyboard form the usual background noise. Your best friend April is beside you, scrolling through something on her phone, occasionally showing you a meme that earns a quiet chuckle. Across the room, Leo practices katas, his movements fluid and focused.

And then there’s Raph.

He’s in the dojo, punching a training dummy with a ferocity that makes the worn canvas groan. You think of him for a moment and grin; it’s been a while since the two of you properly sparred. Even though you’re happiest curled up with a book, you’ve always been deceptively strong. And you were never, ever intimidated by Raph’s bluster.

It’s been years since that first chaotic night you and April tumbled into their lives. And the first time Raph tried his usual tough-guy routine on you, you’d instinctively blocked his mock-lunge and used his momentum to flip him onto his shell. The stunned silence, followed by Donnie and Mikey’s howling laughter, had cemented your place in the group.

You and Raph clicked in a way that surprised everyone. He saw past the quiet bookworm facade, and you saw past his anger to the fiercely loyal, protective turtle underneath. You became his go-to sparring partner, someone who could actually give him a challenge without him having to hold back too much.

He also, surprisingly, became a confidant. Like April, you told him things. Which was why he knew, almost from day one, about your massive, hopeless crush on Leo. You’d spilled your guts to them countless times, dissecting every fleeting glance and interaction. Hoping for something that wasn’t there.

Raph listened patiently, offering gruff but surprisingly insightful advice and occasionally threatening to smack Leo upside the head for being oblivious—even as a brief flicker of something else resided in his own eyes when he looked at you. You noticed it sometimes but always brushed it off, your heart stubbornly set on the blue-masked leader.

Then came Mona Lisa. Y’Gythgba. Fierce, strong—and Raph fell hard. One glance at the Salamandrian warrior, and he was utterly smitten. You saw the way he looked at her, the genuine, unguarded joy in his eyes. You watched him navigate the giddy highs and awkward lows of his first proper relationship. And wouldn’t you know it? That was exactly when the fog around your Leo obsession finally lifted.

You began to see Leo clearly: a dedicated leader, a good friend. But not the romantic hero you’d built up in your head. And as those feelings faded, you started noticing Raph differently. The way he’d check if you were okay after a rough patrol, the low rumble of his chuckle when you made a dry joke, the fierce protectiveness in his eyes that wasn’t just for his brothers anymore. A new, tentative warmth bloomed in your chest, aimed squarely at the red-masked turtle.

Timing, you thought bitterly back then, was decidedly not on your side.

But you were nothing if not loyal. Seeing Raph happy was paramount. So you buried those burgeoning feelings deep, plastered on a supportive smile, and became Mona’s friend, too. You championed their happiness. Compartmentalized. It hurt, a dull ache behind your ribs, but it was the right thing to do.

Years pass. Things change. Raph and Mona called it quits a few months back. The official story was amicable. Different worlds, different paths, the usual long-distance relationship struggles amplified by intergalactic distances. You suspect it was more complicated, but Raph hasn’t elaborated, and you haven’t pushed.

Raph’s been quieter, withdrawn, throwing himself into training more. He’d muttered something to Donnie last week about being done with relationships altogether, that maybe he was just better off alone. He sounded so cynical, so bruised. Your heart had clenched at that. Because, inconveniently, those feelings you buried years ago? They’re still there, stirring beneath the surface now that he’s single again.

Which brings you to now.

It’s late. Leo, Donnie, and Mikey have retired to their rooms for the night. April returns from the kitchen and hands you a mug of tea before sitting back down next to you.

“Seriously,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I just feel like an idiot. All that time pining over Leo, and then when I finally see sense, Raph’s head over heels for Mona.”

“Hey now, you’re not an idiot,” April says sympathetically, squeezing your shoulder. “You couldn’t help when your feelings shifted.”

“And now … now he’s single, and I’m thinking maybe—just maybe …” You trail off, shaking your head. “Part of me, this stupid hopeful part, is wondering if there could be a chance now. But then he says stuff like he’s better off alone, and I just … I don’t know. Maybe it’s not meant to be.”

Neither of you notices the figure frozen just outside the main living area, near the entrance to the dojo. Raph was heading towards the kitchen for water when your lowered voices caught his attention. He’d stopped, hidden by the archway, not meaning to eavesdrop, but then the words hit him.

“I was so hung up on his brother that maybe I missed the window entirely. And then he found someone else. I stepped back because he was happy.” You sigh, tracing a pattern on the couch fabric. “It all felt like bad timing.”

His breath catches in his throat. You had feelings for him? Back then? After Leo? The friend he confided in, the one he’d had that stupid, persistent crush on before Mona swept him off his feet?

He remembers how you were always there, pushing him in the dojo, listening to his rants, never flinching from his temper. Remembers the pang he felt sometimes when you talked about Leo, a pang he’d initially dismissed as protective friendship. How supportive you were of him and Mona, never showing a hint of anything else.

Because you were being a good friend.

Because you had feelings you were hiding for his sake.

And now, you’re hoping again—while he’s busy convincing himself he’s destined to be alone?

His mind reels. This changes … everything. And nothing. He can’t process it. It’s too much, too complicated, layered over years of history and missed signals and bad timing. His first instinct is to run, pretend he heard nothing. Shove it away.

He forces his feet to move, backing away from the archway and retreating towards the dojo, his thirst forgotten. He needs to hit something. Hard.

“You don’t know unless you …” April starts, but trails off as she spots a shadow in the corner of her eye. “Raph?”

Your heart pounds, a heat rising to your cheeks as you see him. He’s frozen mid-step, eyes wide, fixed somewhere between you and the opposite wall. Did he hear everything?! April gives you an ‘oh crap’ look. And you—you just want the floor to swallow you whole.

Raph’s expression shifts. He replaces the shock with a carefully constructed neutrality, maybe a little too quickly. He clears his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. “Uh … I was just getting some water,” he mumbles, turning abruptly without looking at either of you.

“O-oh, okay,” you manage, your voice barely a squeak as he disappears back into the dojo.

He didn’t hear. He couldn’t have. You try to convince yourself, clinging to the desperate hope that maybe he only caught the tail end. You stare at the entrance to the dojo, your face burning. Your mug of tea feels suddenly heavy in your trembling hands.

“Okay,” April says, “deep breaths. Maybe he didn’t hear.”

“Maybe?” you echo, the word strangled. “April, he was standing right there. How long was he there? Did you see when he stopped?”

“No, I just caught the movement when he turned to leave,” she admits, chewing on her lower lip. “But he looked … startled?”

“Right,” you say, clinging to that shred of hope even though your stomach is doing backflips. “Maybe he just heard us talking and didn’t want to interrupt. Or maybe he heard the last part, about bad timing, and thought we were talking about … I don’t know, a TV show?” The rationalization sounds weak even to your own ears.

“Exactly!” She tries to sound convincing. “He probably zoned out after training, anyway. You know how he gets.”

You nod numbly, wanting desperately to believe her. But the way Raph’s expression had instantly changed, that too-quick shift to neutrality—it felt like a defense mechanism kicking in. The kind he used when he was blindsided or feeling vulnerable. You know that look. You’ve seen it countless times over the years.

Meanwhile, in the dojo, Raph slams his fist into the training dummy. The canvas rips slightly under the force, sand trickling onto the mat. He ignores it, hitting it again and again.

You had feelings for him?

The thought bounces around his skull, colliding with years of memories re-contextualized in a blinding flash.

Because you were being a good friend.

Because you were hiding feelings.

He’d been so wrapped up in his own perceived heartbreak over Mona, so quick to wallow in self-pity and declare himself doomed to solitude, that he hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t even considered the possibility. He thought he was the one nursing a secret, hopeless crush back then, before Mona. He thought he’d successfully buried it, moved on. And now …

Now she’s hoping again.

Just as he’d convinced himself romance was off the table for good. Just as he was starting to genuinely believe he was better off alone, that he wasn’t cut out for it.

He stops punching, leaning his forehead against the battered dummy, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His knuckles ache. His head aches. He feels like an idiot. A colossal, shell-plated idiot. For missing it back then. For being oblivious now.

You were always loyal. To a fault. Loyal enough to bury your own feelings for his sake. The realization hits him with the force of another punch, this one internal. He’d confided in you about Mona, leaned on you, oblivious to the cost.

And that flicker he used to see in his own eyes when he looked at you? He hadn’t imagined it. It had been real. An ember he’d deliberately snuffed out when Mona arrived, convinced you only saw him as a friend, a surrogate brother.

He straightens up, rubbing his temples. What now? Keep pretending he didn’t hear? That would be the easiest thing. The cowardly thing. Maintain the status quo. But could he? Knowing what he knows now?

He glances towards the dojo entrance, towards the common area where you still sit with April. He’s not sure what to do. His instinct is still to retreat, to protect himself from more potential hurt. But another part of him, a part he thought had died down with his cynicism, feels a flicker of something else.

Trepidation?

Hope?

“He looked like he’d seen a ghost,” you murmur, setting the mug down before you spill it. Then you bury your face in your hands. “Oh god, this is a nightmare. How can I even look at him now?”

“Whatever he heard,” April says softly, rubbing your back, “Raph won’t think anything less of you. Don’t worry.”

“I know he won’t,” you sigh, lifting your head from your hands as you hear the rhythmic thudding sound starting up in the dojo again. “But knowing he might know—it changes things. And how can it be the same if he knows I’m sitting here, hoping for …” You can’t even finish the sentence.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be the same?” April suggests gently. “Maybe it could be … different?”

You shake your head, a fresh wave of self-deprecation washing over you. “Right. Different like ‘awkward and painful’. He just broke up with Mona. He’s talking about being alone forever. The last thing he needs is me suddenly looking at him with heart eyes.” You sigh. “Best-case scenario, he didn’t hear. Second best, he heard, and he’ll pretend he didn’t. For both our sakes.”

“And worst case?” she prompts.

“Worst case he heard, and now everything’s going to be weird, and I’ve just piled more emotional baggage onto him when he’s already dealing with his own stuff.” You close your eyes, trying to calm yourself. “I should probably just go home. Pretend this conversation never happened.”

But even as you say it, you know you can’t. You can’t just leave him in there, potentially reeling from what he overheard, beating up a sack of canvas because he doesn’t know how else to process it. He retreated there, just like he always does when things get too complicated. And you—

—you always follow.

“No,” you say after a few moments, surprising yourself with the sudden firmness in your voice as you stand. “I can’t just hide. That’s not fair to him.” You glance at April, trying to project a confidence you definitely don’t feel. “I’m going to go check on him.”

April raises an eyebrow but nods slowly. “Okay. You sure? Want me to come?”

“No,” you blurt. “This is … this is something I need to do. Alone.” You take a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. “Wish me luck?”

“Always,” she says, giving you an encouraging squeeze on the arm.

With leaden feet, you walk towards the dojo. The rhythmic impacts grow louder, punctuated by Raph’s harsh exhales. You hesitate at the entrance, the same spot where he’d been standing just minutes before. Peeking around the corner, you see him.

He’s attacking the dummy with renewed, almost desperate, intensity. His shell is turned slightly towards you, but he hasn’t registered your presence yet. Tightly coiled muscles strain beneath his gleaming skin in the dim light. Each punch, each kick, lands with a force that seems less like training and more like punishment—directed either at the dummy or himself.

You step fully into the dojo, the soft padding beneath your feet silencing your approach until you’re only a few yards away. “Hey,” you breathe, your voice barely carrying over the sound of his next blow.

Raph freezes mid-strike, his fist hovering inches from the dummy. He stays like that for a beat, shoulders hunched, head down, before slowly lowering his arm. He doesn’t turn around immediately. “Thought you left,” he finally rumbles, his voice rough, still facing away from you.

“Not yet,” you reply, keeping your tone even. Neutral. You try to ignore the frantic fluttering in your chest. “Heard you … uh … training.”

He finally turns, but he doesn’t meet your eyes, his gaze fixing somewhere over your shoulder. His expression is carefully blank, that neutral mask back in place, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the slight flicker in his eyes that betrays the turmoil underneath. He looks cornered.

“Yeah,” he says curtly. “Just blowin’ off steam.”

There’s a strained silence. The training dummy stands between you like a silent, battered witness. You shift your weight, clasping your hands behind your back.

“That dummy looks like it owes you money,” you attempt, trying for a light tone, the kind you used to tease him out of a mood. It falls flat.

He grunts, finally flicking his gaze towards you, then away again. “Somethin’ like that.”

His curtness isn’t unusual when he’s brooding, but this feels different. Sharper. More defensive. He’s deliberately keeping distance, putting up walls you haven’t seen directed at you in a long time. The knot of anxiety in your stomach tightens.

He definitely heard.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, taking a hesitant step closer. “You seemed upset earlier. And you’ve been hitting this thing pretty hard.”

Raph’s hands fall to his sides, clenching into fists as his gaze drops to the floor. “I’m fine.”

“Is it about Mona?” you press gently, unable to stop yourself. “Or just … things?”

He flinches almost imperceptibly at the mention of her name. His head snaps up, and this time, his gaze meets yours directly. There’s a storm in his eyes—confusion, hurt, maybe even a flicker of anger, though not aimed at you. It’s the look of someone completely blindsided, trying desperately to regain control.

“It’s nothin’,” he bites out, the words clipped. “Just… stuff. Don’t worry about it.” He turns back towards the dummy, presenting you with his shell again. A clear dismissal.

“Raph.” Your voice is firmer now, imbued with years of refusing to be shut out by this exact maneuver. “You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is.” You pause, your heart hammering against your ribs. Do you dare continue? “I heard what you said to Donnie the other day—about being better off alone.”

He stiffens. He doesn’t turn, but you see his hand grip the edge of the dummy’s stand, his knuckles white. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “Maybe I am.”

The finality in his tone, the sheer weariness, hits you harder than any punch he could throw. Your heart breaks for him. “You don’t really believe that,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. But he hears it.

He whips around, his carefully constructed neutrality finally cracking. “And what if I do?” he challenges, his voice rising slightly, frustration and something raw lacing his tone. “Maybe some people just ain’t cut out for all that stuff. Maybe trying just makes everything messier!”

He locks his eyes on yours now, searching, demanding. It feels like he’s not just talking about himself anymore. Is he asking you? Accusing you? Warning you off? Your breath hitches. The confession hangs unspoken between you, a tangible thing in the air. He knows.

He has to know.

You stare back at him, unable to look away, caught in the intensity of his gaze. All your carefully planned words, your gentle probing, evaporate. There’s only the raw truth simmering just below the surface, threatening to boil over. The years of friendship, the hidden feelings—it’s all right here, compressed into this single, loaded moment.

“Maybe,” you manage, your voice trembling slightly, “maybe sometimes the timing is just … really, really bad.”

His expression flickers again. The anger drains away, replaced by something harder to read. Resignation? Regret? He holds your gaze for another long moment, the silence stretching taut. Then he breaks eye contact, scrubbing a hand over his face with a heavy sigh. “You, uh, wanna go a few rounds?”

You nod, trying to keep your expression neutral, trying to pretend your stomach isn’t doing terrified flip-flops. He didn’t hear, you tell yourself again, even as the way he’s looking at you screams otherwise as he settles into his stance.

You take your usual sparring position opposite him, feet planted, hands ready. Normally, the friendly challenge would override any lingering awkwardness. But today, the air hangs heavy. The fight is about to begin—and neither of you knows who’s going to win.

“Ready?” he grunts, flexing his fingers. His voice is carefully neutral, maybe too neutral.

You nod, swallowing hard. “Ready.”

You circle each other, years of practice guiding your muscles. You feint left, jab right. Standard opening. Raph blocks easily, but there’s a hesitation you rarely see, a split-second delay before his forearm comes up. Odd. And your own blocks feel clumsy, your usual confidence slightly shaken.

His gaze keeps finding yours, not in the assessing way of a sparring partner looking for tells. But in a searching, almost vulnerable way that makes your breath catch. You see the conflict warring behind his pupils. He lunges, and you parry, twisting away, using the momentum to attempt a leg sweep. Though he anticipates it, his eyes never leaving yours.

The rhythm picks up. Blocks become sharper, strikes land with more force, though neither of you is aiming to truly hurt the other. Sweat beads on your forehead, mirroring the sheen on his skin. Your breaths come faster, mingling in the space between you.

He breaks through your guard, hand darting out not with a weapon, but to grab your wrist. The contact sends a jolt straight through you. You react instantly, using his grip for leverage, twisting your body to throw him off balance. You expect him to resist, to counter with his usual brute force. Instead, he lets his balance shift, pulling you down with him.

You land awkwardly, your hand splayed on his plastron, his on your back holding you momentarily close. The world narrows to the space between your faces, mere inches apart. His breathing is heavy, rough. You can feel the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm, faster than it should be from exertion alone.

His eyes lock onto yours, fierce and vulnerable all at once. The guarded expression cracks. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” he rasps, the question rough, torn from him.

Your breath catches. “Say anything about what?” You try to wiggle away. But his grip tightens. Not painfully, but firmly, keeping you there.

“About before,” he clarifies, his voice low, strained. “When I was with Mona. You … you felt something for me then?”

Ice floods your veins, followed immediately by a burning wave of embarrassment. He heard. Your stomach plummets. “Raph … I …”

“Overheard you talking to April,” he admits bluntly, the muscle in his jaw tightening. He looks away for a second, a flicker of his own discomfort showing before his gaze snaps back to yours, demanding. “Is it true? You were into me? After Leo?”

There’s no point denying it. Trapped in his intense gaze, pinned beneath him on the dojo floor, the truth feels like the only option. You swallow hard, nodding mutely at first. Then, finding your voice, you whisper, “Yes.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, processing. When he opens them again, something else mixes within his gaze—something suspiciously like pain. “And you didn’t say anything? You just let me fall for Mona? Watched us?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Your voice gains a little strength, fueled by a surge of defensiveness. “Burst in and say, ‘Hey, sorry to interrupt your newfound happiness, but I just got over your brother and realized I like you now’? You were happy, Raph. Happier than I’d ever seen you. I wasn’t going to ruin that. I couldn’t.”

His expression softens. He understands putting others first, even when it hurts. He loosens his grip slightly, though he doesn’t let you go entirely. “And now?” he asks. “You’re … hopin’ again?”

The question hangs heavy between you. This is it. The point of no return.

You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away now. “Maybe,” you admit. “Yeah. A little. But then you were talking about being done with relationships, and I figured … maybe it’s just bad timing. Maybe we’re just not meant to be.”

A low growl rumbles in his chest, a sound of pure frustration. “Bad timing,” he repeats, bitterness lacing the words. “Story of my life.” He shifts, pushing himself up slightly, so he’s leaning over you, his hands now bracketing your shoulders. “You think I haven’t been thinkin’?” he demands, his voice regaining some of its usual force, but edged with an emotion you can’t quite place. “You think hearing that didn’t screw with my head?”

He leans closer, the intensity radiating from him making your heart pound against your ribs. “All those years ago,” he says, his voice dropping again, rough and intimate. “Before Mona. I … I liked you, y’know? But always thought you were too busy moonin’ over Leo.” He shakes his head, a self-deprecating huff escaping him. “Then Mona came along, and I thought … well, that was that.”

He pauses, his gaze searching yours, deep and unwavering. “Turns out,” he murmurs, his voice thick with resurfacing emotion, “maybe it wasn’t.”

His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes. The air crackles, thick with years of unspoken feelings, missed chances, and the sudden, terrifying possibility of a future you’d both given up on. He reaches out, his hand hovering near your arm, hesitating.

“I’m still messed up from Mona,” he admits, his voice raw. “And I swore I wasn’t doing this again.” He looks lost, conflicted, but the way he’s looking at you— “But hearing what I heard, I can’t just ignore it. I can’t pretend things are the same.” He finally lets his fingers brush against your arm, a feather-light touch that sends sparks racing up your skin.

“Me neither,” you whisper.

His touch, tentative at first, grounds you even as it sends shockwaves through your system. The air around you practically vibrates. “I meant it when I said about being done. About not wanting the mess. But you … you’re makin’ things complicated.”

You manage a shaky laugh. “You think I’m making things complicated? Try being in my head for the past few years.”

He closes his eyes for a brief second, as if fighting a war within himself. When he opens them again, his other hand comes up, grasping your jaw. His touch is careful, reverent almost, despite the intensity burning in his eyes. You lean into it instinctively, your own hand rising to rest hesitantly against his plastron.

“Maybe …” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on your mouth. “Maybe some messes are worth making.”

And then there’s no more space between you.

He closes the distance, his mouth crashing down onto yours. It’s not gentle. Or tentative. It’s years of pent-up frustration, missed opportunities, unspoken longing, and overwhelming emotion pouring out. His grip tightens on your jaw, tilting your head back slightly as he deepens the kiss.

You gasp against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck. Pulling him closer, meeting his fervor with your own stored-up ache. It’s clumsy and raw, fueled by adrenaline and the shock of this finally happening. You feel the slight roughness of his skin, the solid muscle beneath your hands, the power he holds carefully in check.

It’s everything you secretly wondered about, everything you pushed down and denied yourself. It’s Raph, not just the friend, not just the sparring partner—but the turtle you fell for, the one whose happiness you prioritized over your own feelings.

And he’s kissing you like you’re the only thing that matters, like he’s been wanting to do this forever.

He groans, a low, guttural sound, pulling you tighter against him, molding your body to his. The world narrows to this single point of contact, the roar of blood in your ears, the frantic beat of two hearts hammering against each other. The entire world outside this moment fades away.

Finally, gasping for air, you break apart, though he keeps you close, his forehead pressed against yours. His breathing is ragged, and you can feel the tremors running through him. You’re trembling too, breathless and overwhelmed, your lips tingling, your mind reeling.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his own wide and searching, mirroring the storm of emotions you feel swirling inside you. “Okay,” he breathes out. His gaze flicks down to your lips again, then back up. “So … that happened.”

“Yeah,” you manage. “It did.” You lift a hand tentatively, your fingers tracing the edge of his mask near his temple, a touch you wouldn’t have dared to initiate minutes ago. He doesn’t flinch; if anything, he leans infinitesimally closer.

“I, uh …” he starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face again, clearly struggling for words. “Look, I meant what I said. I’m messed up. This is … complicated.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He slowly pushes himself up further, helping you sit up properly before rising to his feet and extending a hand down to you. You take it, his grip strong and warm, pulling you easily to your feet. You stand facing each other.

He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “This ain’t gonna be easy to navigate. People are gonna notice somethin’s different.”

“Let them,” you say, surprising yourself with the firmness in your voice. You meet his gaze, holding it. The fear is still there, fluttering beneath the surface, but it’s overshadowed by something else—a fierce, fragile hope you thought you’d buried for good. “Raph, we’ve spent years tiptoeing. Hiding things. For each other. Maybe …” You trail off, taking a breath. “Maybe it’s time we stopped.”

Raph’s grip tightens on your hand as he exhales slowly, a long breath that seems to carry years of frustration with it. “Yeah,” he finally agrees, his voice low and gravelly as he smiles. “It’s about time we did.”

You’re not like Casey. That’s been obvious since the day you showed up with a duffel bag and an awkward little nod, fresh from somewhere outside the city where things were quieter. You don’t crash into the lair like you own it. You don’t joke with Mikey or argue with Raph or challenge Leo.

You hover. You listen. You exist gently.

And somehow, that’s exactly what pulled Raph’s attention in the first place.

Casey tosses his bag aside and heads toward the kitchen, already shouting for Mikey about leftovers. You hesitate in the middle of the room, clearly unsure where you’re supposed to go now that your human anchor has wandered off.

Raph clears his throat. “Hey.”

You flinch, just a little, and look over at him. Your eyes widen when you realize he’s looking directly at your face, not past you.

He jerks his head toward the bench near the training mats. “Sit.”

There’s nothing sharp in his voice. No edge. Just steady expectation. You obey, perching on the edge of the bench with your hands folded together, fingers twisting around each other like you don’t know what to do with them.

Up close, the bruises are impossible to ignore. He wants to know how dense your cousin actually is to miss them.

Raph crouches in front of you so he’s not towering, forearms resting on his knees. He doesn’t reach out. Doesn’t crowd you. He just stays there, grounded and solid, like a wall you can lean against if you need to.

“Who did that,” he says quietly.

You tense immediately, shoulders rising. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. Just studies you, eyes narrowing slightly, not in anger at you, but at the answer.

“You don’t look fine.”

The gentleness in his voice makes your throat tighten. You swallow. Look down at your hands. For a second, you consider lying again. You’re good at that. Or at least… practiced.

“…It hurt,” you admit instead.

Raph exhales slowly through his nose. He stays still, but something shifts in him. A tightening, a restraint. “Yeah,” he says. “Looks like it.”

Silence stretches between you. It doesn’t feel rushed. It doesn’t feel awkward. It feels like he’s giving you space to decide what you want to say next.

You take a breath. “I don’t really fit in here,” you say quietly. “Outside. I mean. I keep my head down, but people still notice. I guess I make it easy.”

Raph’s jaw tightens. His hands curl briefly into fists before relaxing again. “That ain’t on you.”

You glance up at him, uncertain. “You don’t even know what happened.”

He meets your eyes, expression unshakable. “Doesn’t matter.”

That’s when it hits you. He’s not waiting for details. He’s not judging whether you handled it “right.” He’s already decided where he stands.

“You don’t deserve to be messed with,” he continues. “Not for bein’ quiet. Not for bein’ different.”

Your shoulders sag, tension draining out of you like you’ve been holding it together with sheer willpower all day. You suppose he's been dealing with people that assume things about him for just being different his whole life. It's refreshing to share this with someone who understands. “…I’m not good at standing up for myself,” you admit. “I freeze.”

Raph lets out a soft huff of breath. “Yeah. I noticed.” Then, almost immediately, he adds, “Ain’t a bad thing.”

You look at him again, really look this time.

He shifts slightly, hesitating. Like he’s choosing his next move carefully and then rests his hand on the bench near yours. Close enough that you can feel the warmth through the air between you.

“You don’t gotta be loud,” he says. “You don’t gotta throw punches or talk big. That’s not who you are.”

Your fingers relax, unknotting one by one.

“And that’s okay,” he adds.

Something settles in your chest at that. Something heavy, but in a good way.

“If anyone gives you trouble again,” Raph continues, voice lowering just a touch, “they’re dealin’ with me.”

You hesitate, then shift your hand slightly, enough that your fingers brush against his knuckles. It’s barely anything.

Raph freezes.

His heart kicks hard against his ribs, loud enough that he’s pretty sure you can hear it. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all.

You don’t move either.

For a moment, the lair noise fades into the background. Mikey’s laughter, the hum of Donnie’s equipment, Casey’s shouting, Leo's Space Heros show playing at almost max volume. All of it feels far away.

Sitting there, bruised and quiet and closer to Raph than you’ve ever been, you feel something unfamiliar but steady take root.

Safe. Seen. Like maybe you’re not as alone in this city as you thought.

And Raph stays right there with you, guarding the silence like it’s something worth protecting.

You walk past endless racks of clothes in Sparrow & Spool, a department store so vast it feels like its own borough.

You’re idly flipping through a rack of stylish jackets when a blur of orange and green nearly bowls you over. “Whoa there, buddy!” you yelp, steadying yourself.

Mikey skids to a halt, a bright pink feather boa wrapped around his neck and a pair of sparkly cat-eye sunglasses perched on his head. He grins, sheepish but undeterred. “Sorry!”

You laugh, shaking your head. “What’s with the fashion statement?”

He strikes a pose, boa flaring out dramatically. “Gotta keep my look fresh.”

“Where are the others?” you ask, scanning the immediate area. This place is a labyrinth.

He points over his shoulder. “Leo’s trying to convince Donnie that sequined capes are ‘tactically distracting’ for villains. And Raph’s in the men’s section. Said he needed new pants.”

You chuckle. “Sequined capes. Of course.” Deciding your boyfriend might need some moral support—or at least a second opinion—you say, “I’ll go find Raph. Try not to buy out the entire accessories department, okay?”

“No promises!” Mikey calls, already heading back towards a display of oversized novelty glasses.

You navigate through racks of shirts and sweaters, finally spotting a familiar, incredibly broad-shouldered silhouette in the aisle dedicated to pants. He is standing stock-still before a rack of jeans—and when he turns, with a pair in hand, his tight-lipped expression speaks volumes.

Pretending to inspect some brightly colored hoodie a few aisles over, you observe him. He’s already yanked several pairs of jeans and athletic pants off the hangers, disappearing into the changing rooms, only to emerge moments later with a frustrated huff. The largest sizes the store stocks are clearly not cutting it.

You decide it’s time to intervene.

You approach slowly, not wanting to spook him. “Hey, Raph.” Your voice is soft, but it catches his attention immediately. He turns, the fire in his eyes dimmed a little. “You okay?”

He grunts, holding up the latest pair like it personally offended him. “They call this an XXL? What, for toddlers?” Then he huffs, flinging the jeans back on the rack with a little too much force. “I just wanted one pair that fit. Is that too much to ask?”

You give his arm a reassuring pat. “Department store clothes weren’t designed for mutant turtle muscle.”

He side-eyes you, half-amused despite himself. “Not exactly comforting.”

“Okay, fair. But it is the truth.” You purse your lips, tilting your head. “You’re … impressively proportioned.” You give his bicep a light, appreciative squeeze. A tiny smile quirks his lips, though the frustration still shadows his eyes.

“Yeah, well, ‘impressively proportioned’ doesn’t help when I’m trying to find something that won’t rip the second I try to breathe,” he grumbles, though some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He nudges a discarded hanger with his foot. “It’s always just … annoying.”

You step closer, placing your hand gently on his shell as you look up at him. He’s towering over you, as always. But right now, that confidence he usually carries in every massive inch of him feels dulled. “Annoying and unfair,” you agree, “because I see nothing wrong with you. The problem’s with the clothes, not the guy trying to wear them.”

Raph shrugs, but it’s half-hearted. His eyes drop to the pile of rejected pants. “It’s not just pants,” he mutters. “It’s everything. Always gotta modify stuff, stretch it out, pray it doesn’t split when I move. And then—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

A snicker cuts through the air from the end of the aisle. A duo is openly staring, their eyes flicking from the mountain of discarded pants at Raph’s feet to Raph himself.

“Dude, no wonder,” the man says, loud enough for you both to hear, elbowing his companion. “He’d need a tent, not pants, for that butt.”

The woman giggles, covering her mouth.

Anger flares in your chest. A deep, embarrassed flush crawls up Raph’s neck, his shoulders hunching even further. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and for a horrifying second, you think he might march over to them and lay them out. Instead, he just looks down, his entire frame radiating shame.

Despite you wanting to tear those assholes a new one, you keep calm for Raph’s sake and slide in front of him, your much shorter form standing between him and the rest of the world. “They’re idiots. And cowards too, if they’re only brave enough to make fun of someone from a distance.”

“It ain’t just them,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Feels like I always take up too much space. Can’t fit in booths, break chairs …” He trails off again, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “Sometimes I just wish I could shrink down. Be easier to be around.”

Your heart breaks for him as you reach up and gently place your hands on either side of his face, though he still doesn’t make eye contact. “Raph,” you say, voice low and steady. “Listen to me. You are strong. You are built to protect people; that’s why you are the way you are. Because you carry the weight of your family on your shoulders every single day.” You move a hand to press your palm flat against his plastron. “You don’t need to be smaller. The world needs to be bigger to deserve you.”

Finally, he looks at you, eyes widening. But you’re not done.

“Being big? It’s not a flaw. You’ve held off ten Foot goons at once without breaking a sweat. You’ve caught me mid-fall like it was nothing. And you give the warmest hugs in this entire city.” Your voice softens. “And yeah, maybe you don’t fit in a pair of discount jeans. Who cares?” You continue, grabbing his hands as you gaze up at him. “You’re not some ‘too-much’ mistake, Raph. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

A breath shudders out of him like he’s been holding it for years. “You’re just sayin’ that,” he mumbles.

You shake your head. “Nope. Not just saying it. I mean every word.” With a grin, you playfully poke his chest. “You own your space. You don’t have to apologize for it.”

His gaze, which had been fixed somewhere around your chin, finally lifts to meet yours fully. He seems to search your face, looking for any hint of insincerity, but finds only the steady affection you always offer him. “Easy for you to say, shorty,” he rumbles, the familiar nickname for you a little rough around the edges, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips now.

You just smile wider. “Maybe. But I’ve got a good view from down here. And what I see is pretty amazing.” You give his large hand a squeeze.

He lets out another slow breath and glances over your head, towards where the snickering shoppers are. He subtly straightens up, but doesn’t glare at them. Doesn’t say a word. The pair exchange a nervous glance and quickly busy themselves with a rack of belts, their earlier bravado vanishing.

Then he looks back down at you, a small, almost shy smile finally breaking through. “Thanks,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “I … I needed that.”

“Anytime, big guy,” you reply softly. “That’s what I’m here for.” You look at the pile of rejected pants. “So, department store denim is a bust. Official verdict?”

“Yeah, you can say that again. Guess I’m stickin’ to my custom-made stuff or, y’know, things that stretch. A lot.” He gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Donnie’s been talkin’ ‘bout some new kinda super-durable, flexible fabric he’s workin’ on …”

“Sounds promising,” you say, already picturing Donnie’s enthusiastic, probably overly complicated explanation. “But for tonight? Maybe we skip the new pants mission and focus on something else?”

“Yeah,” Raph agrees, a visible wave of relief washing over his features. “Good call.” He tugs your hand gently. “C’mon. Let’s wait for the others.”

You let him lead you, his hand engulfing yours, warm and reassuring. You can tell he’s still carrying some of that self-conscious weight—old insecurities don’t just vanish with a pep talk, after all—but it’s lighter now. Manageable. His posture is taller. Shoulders back, head held a little higher.

As you stop near the exit to wait for the others, you rise onto your tiptoes, pecking his cheek. “If it’s any consolation, I like the way you fill out your pants. The view’s kinda unbeatable.”

He flushes red, a deep crimson spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “Babe!”

“What?” you say innocently. “Just appreciating art.”

He ducks his head, the flush deepening as a bashful rumble escapes him. “Aw, c’mon, stop it.”

“Why? It’s true.” You trace a thumb over his knuckles, feeling the familiar rough texture of his skin. “You think I spend all that time admiring your … strong back for no reason?”

He grumbles something unintelligible, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers curl a little tighter around yours. The tension that had him practically vibrating with frustration earlier has eased into a much softer, more Raph-like simmer of embarrassment.

“Hey, guys! There you are!”

Mikey bounces over, holding several shopping bags, each one threatening to spill an assortment of clothes. The feather boa is still in place, now accompanied by a ridiculously tall top hat adorned with plastic flamingos. Leo saunters up behind him, looking remarkably pleased with himself. Donnie trails after them, appearing thoroughly unimpressed by the retail experience.

“So,” Leo begins, “did the quest for leg-coverings prove fruitful, oh mighty brother of mine?”

Raph grunts. “Store’s a flop. Nothin’ fits.”

“Tragically,” you interject smoothly, giving Raph’s hand a supportive squeeze, “their selection failed to accommodate a hero of his epic proportions.” You shoot Leo a pointed look, which he meets with an amused smirk.

“Indeed,” Donnie pipes up. “Based on my calculations of Raphael’s current dimensions versus standard human sizing charts, the probability of finding suitable trousers in a non-specialty establishment is approximately 2.6%. The structural integrity required is simply beyond their manufacturing capabilities.”

“Thanks for the math, D,” Raph mutters.

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Leo says. “I’m craving pizza.”

Raph walks a little taller as you exit the store. As you leave, his arm a comforting weight around you, you know this insecurity won’t vanish forever. But for now, tucked securely against his side, you also know he believes you; that’s more than enough.

She sleeps on her back, posture controlled even in rest, one arm folded over her stomach like she’s still guarding herself even when unconscious. Her hair has come loose from its usual tight style, light and dark strands spilling across the pillow. Without the armor of discipline and sharp expression, she looks softer.

But even now, even asleep, she is not careless.

You can tell by the way her breathing is measured. The way her body is positioned so she could sit up quickly if she needed to. The way one of her hands rests near the edge of the bed, close enough to reach the small knife she keeps hidden between the mattress and the frame.

You learned about it by accident once.

She hadn’t been angry when you noticed. Just quietly watching your face, as if waiting to see if you’d fear her.

You hadn’t, of course.

You simply reached out, took her hand, and told her she was safe here.

It had taken her a long moment to respond.

But she’d stayed.

The morning light creeps across the sheets slowly, painting the room in pale gold. You stir first, blinking against the brightness, and immediately register warmth beside you.

Karai is still asleep.

For a second, you just watch her.

There’s something almost surreal about seeing her like this. Someone who moves through the world like a blade, precise and dangerous, now curled into the most human version of herself. She looks peaceful, in a way she probably wouldn’t allow anyone else to witness.

You reach out carefully, fingertips brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek.

Her eyes open instantly and she quickly grabs your wrist.

You freeze.

Karai stares at you for half a heartbeat, then recognition softens her gaze. The tension in her shoulders release, subtle but noticeable, and she exhales as she lets go of you.

“…Good morning,” she says quietly, voice slightly rough from sleep.

You smile. “Good morning.”

She studies you for a moment longer, as if making sure you’re really there, then shifts closer. Her hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers threading together with a slow certainty.

It’s affectionate, but still cautious like she’s learning how to do softness without losing herself.

You squeeze her hand gently.

Karai’s eyes narrow a little, amused. “You are awake earlier than usual.”

“I could say the same about you.”

She hums. “I am always awake. Even when I am asleep.”

You snort softly. “That sounds exhausting.”

Karai’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “It is.”

You roll onto your side, facing her fully. The space between you is small. Your knees brush, your shoulders nearly touch. Close enough that you can see the faint marks on her hands from training, the tiny scar near her knuckle that she never talks about.

Karai’s gaze flickers to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

For a moment, she hesitates like she’s deciding whether she’s allowed to want this.

Then she leans forward and presses her forehead lightly to yours.

It isn’t a kiss, not exactly. It’s something quieter. Something intimate in a way that feels uniquely hers.

A promise.

You close your eyes and breathe her in. She smells faintly like clean soap and the night air.

When she pulls away, she sits up immediately, blanket sliding down her shoulders. Her posture straightens like she’s putting armor back on, but she doesn’t move away from you. Instead, she reaches out and tucks the blanket around you again, firm but gentle.

“You will catch cold,” she says.

You blink. “You’re literally the one uncovered.”

Karai rises from the bed without another word and crosses the room with quiet grace. She grabs your hoodie from the chair and tosses it onto the bed.

It lands on your face.

You laugh, muffled. “Karai!”

“I solved the problem,” she replies smoothly, already heading toward the bathroom.

You hear the faucet turn on. The soft sound of water running. Then the familiar quiet rhythm of her morning routine: the brushing of teeth, the rinsing, the calm precision of someone who never wastes a movement.

When she comes back out, her hair is gathered back neatly, and her expression is composed again; except for the faint warmth in her eyes when she looks at you.

She pauses beside the bed.

“You are still lying there?” she observes.

“You’re still staring at me?” you counter.

Karai’s brows lift slightly. “…Fair.”

She turns and walks into the kitchen, and you finally drag yourself out of bed, slipping into the hoodie she threw at you like a blanket.

The apartment floor is freezing.

Karai is already opening cabinets with quiet familiarity, pulling out ingredients like she lives here, which she does, in a way, even if she never calls it that.

She moves around your small kitchen like she’s learned the layout by heart. The rice cooker clicks on. A pan warms. She cracks an egg with one hand without even looking.

You lean against the doorway, watching.

“You’re cooking?” you ask.

Karai glances over her shoulder. “You forget to eat when you are stressed.”

That hits a little too accurately.

You straighten slightly. “I do not.”

Karai’s stare says you absolutely do.

You surrender. “Okay. Maybe sometimes.”

She hums, satisfied, and continues cooking.

Breakfast is simple: rice, miso soup, a small portion of grilled fish, and sliced fruit. It’s the kind of meal that feels grounding, like it ties you to the day instead of letting it run away from you.

You sit at the table while Karai places the dishes down neatly, one by one, like she’s setting up a ritual.

When she sits across from you, she doesn’t start eating immediately. She watches you pick up your chopsticks first, watches you take the first bite.

Only then does she begin.

It’s subtle, but you’ve noticed the pattern: Karai relaxes when she knows you’re okay. When she can see it.

After breakfast, you both clean up together.

You wash, she dries. You bump elbows once and apologize automatically. Karai doesn’t apologize. She simply shifts closer, wordlessly adjusting so you fit together better in the space.

It’s domestic in the strangest way.

The kind of normal you never expected to have.

Later, you walk with her through the city.

Karai keeps her hood up, though she doesn’t truly hide. She just blends. She moves like she belongs here. Like Tokyo itself is an extension of her body. You, on the other hand, still occasionally hesitate at crosswalks, still look up at signs to confirm directions.

Karai notices.

She always notices.

Her hand brushes yours briefly as you walk, a quiet guiding touch. Not possessive. Not controlling. Just reassuring, like she’s reminding you that you don’t have to navigate everything alone.

You stop at a small shop you like, the one that sells little trinkets and sweets.

Karai watches you browse with a faintly curious expression. “You enjoy these places.”

“They’re calming,” you say. “Plus, they have cute stuff.”

Karai picks up a small charm keychain shaped like a fox and examines it. Her gaze is unreadable, but there’s a softness there.

“…It resembles you,” she says finally.

You blink. “A fox resembles me?”

“Yes,” Karai replies calmly. “Quiet. Clever. Hard to catch.”

Heat rises to your face.

Karai places the keychain back, as if she didn’t just say something that would live in your head for the next month.

The day continues like that.

Small moments.

Karai correcting your scarf when it slips. Karai standing slightly closer when a crowd gets too tight. Karai buying you a drink without asking because she knows which one you like. You teasing her for acting like a bodyguard. Her pretending she isn’t.

When evening finally comes, the city lights turn the streets into gold and neon. The apartment feels warmer when you return, like it missed you.

Karai removes her shoes neatly at the door. You flop dramatically onto the couch.

Karai looks at you like you’re a creature she still doesn’t fully understand.

“You're tired?” she asks.

“I’m relaxed,” you correct.

Karai pauses, then sits beside you; careful, controlled, but close enough that your shoulders touch.

For a while, neither of you speak.

You can hear her breathing. You can feel the quiet steadiness of her presence. Outside, Tokyo keeps moving, alive and endless, but in here, time slows.

Eventually, Karai’s hand finds yours again.

Her fingers curl around yours, firm and warm.

“You are safe,” she says softly.

Not a question. Not a reassurance for you.

A vow.

You turn your head slightly, smiling. “So are you.”

Karai’s gaze lingers on you for a long moment.

Then she leans in and kisses you. Its brief and controlled, but undeniably tender.

When she pulls back, her expression is calm, as if she hasn’t just unraveled your entire heart with one small gesture.

“…Good,” she murmurs.

And you realize something then.

Karai may never be loud with her love.

She may never be careless with it.

But she gives it to you the way she gives everything important. Fully, fiercely, and with absolute intention.