Raph doesn’t realize his feelings at first, writing off his sudden protectiveness as just “looking out for you.” Though you’re just a civilian caught in their world, the more you’re around, the more his tough-guy guard flinches.

You make him laugh in short, surprised bursts. He normally tries to hide it behind a smirk or a snort, but around you, he forgets to hold it back.

He shows his interest through protective rage. If someone gives you a hard time, he doesn’t offer comfort; he clenches his fists and snarls, “Give me their name.” You constantly have to talk him down from retaliation, though you know it’s his way of saying, “No one is allowed to make you unhappy.”

He’s sometimes gruff with you. Not out of anger, but because he’s scared by how much he’s starting to care. Raph isn’t used to wanting someone so much it physically aches.

He watches you with feigned indifference until someone flirts with you, then the tension is palpable. He’ll ask casually, “Who was that guy?” When you reply, “Just someone I met,” he’ll scoff, “Yeah. Whatever.” His sharp tone can’t hide the jealousy in his eyes.

The confession is an accident, bursting out when you confront him about his hot-and-cold behavior. Cornered, his defenses crumble into a frustrated yell: “BECAUSE I LIKE YOU, ALRIGHT?! HAPPY NOW?!” He immediately looks horrified, turning away to hide his sudden vulnerability, and the silence that follows is the most terrifying thing he’s ever faced.

He shares his interests by challenging you. He’ll shove a controller in your hand and say, “Bet you can’t even last one round,” but he doesn’t actually care if you win. It’s just an excuse to be near you. After you lose, his smug grin is immediately followed by, “Alright, two outta three,” just to keep you by his side.

He gives you a gift, and it’s the most Raph-like gift imaginable. It’s not flowers or jewelry. It’s something practical and protective. Maybe it’s a can of pepper spray, a portable flashlight for your keychain, or an enforced lock for your door. He presses it into your hand, muttering, “Here. Don’t be an idiot and actually use it.” It’s his way of trying to keep you safe when he can’t be there.

Raph’s idea of romance is adrenaline-fueled. His idea of a perfect date isn’t a candlelit dinner but speeding through empty city streets on his motorcycle or sitting on a ledge of a rooftop. He loves sharing the thrill of being alive and being on the edge with you.

He insists on teaching you self-defense. “Harder,” he’ll grunt as you practice, not because he’s a harsh teacher, but because his worst nightmare is you being unable to defend yourself. Seeing you grow stronger under his guidance makes him incredibly proud.

He doesn’t call you “babe” or “sweetheart.” He calls you by your name, or some gruff nickname like “trouble” or “smartass” with surprising affection. But when he slips out a quiet, “Hey, baby,” it melts you.

You roast him constantly, and he lives for it. Call him a meathead and he grins. Call him a softie and he rolls his eyes—then pulls you into his lap and purrs, “I dare you to say it again.”

Physical touch is his love language. He is always seeking contact: a hand on your waist or pulling you into his lap. He’ll let you trace his scars, a history of his life that he only trusts you to touch. Your hand in his is his anchor.

He picks you up just because he can. It’s playful. You could be walking through the lair, and suddenly you’re over his shoulder. “Put me down!” you say. His reply, with a teasing smirk: “Say please.”

He introduces you to his version of a “spa day.” It involves the two of you working on the Shell Cycle. He’ll hand you a wrench and give you simple tasks, explaining what each part does. There’s grease, the smell of oil, and classic rock blasting from a speaker. It’s loud and messy, but it’s his happy place, and he’s letting you in.

Raph hates feeling jealous. When someone flirts with you, he goes quiet and broody. Then he pulls you closer, glaring daggers, making it crystal clear you’re taken. He doesn’t admit it right away, but it’s fear—because he’s scared someone else will come along, someone “normal.” Someone who doesn’t live in a sewer or fight Foot ninjas. You have to remind him: He’s it for you.

Seeing you hurt unleashes his worst fears. “What the hell happened?” he’ll demand, his voice all panic. He’ll hover over you, his hands trembling as he scolds you through a cracked voice, “I told you to stay behind me.” Even when you say, “I’m okay, Raph,” his fear remains: “You could’ve not been.” That night, he barely lets you leave his side. He sleeps on the floor next to the couch just to be near you. When you wake up, you find his hand still wrapped loosely around yours.

You are the only person he is truly soft with. He lets his guard down for you, sharing fears and thoughts that he even hides from his brothers, especially after a tough night.

He hides his pain by shutting down or relentlessly punching the training dummy, but you know the signs. You approach gently, promising, “You don’t have to talk, but I’m not going anywhere.” That’s all it takes for his shoulders to drop. He’ll sit beside you and finally admit, “I hate how much I feel sometimes. But you make it better.”

He only lets out his verbal affection at night. When his guard is down, he’ll pull you close and whisper, “I ain’t ever felt like this before. You get that, right?” He’ll wait for your nod before kissing your head and confessing, “Good. ‘Cause I don’t wanna feel it with anyone else.”

He gets into fights for you, but only in secret. If he overhears someone catcall you, he’ll circle back after you’re gone. That person might later find themselves hanging from a fire escape with a gruff warning to be more respectful and to stay away. You just notice that, after a while, creeps on your block give you a wide berth.

You become his reason. On the worst nights, when a mission goes wrong, and he’s beaten and bruised, thinking of you is what gets him back on his feet. He fights harder, pushes himself further, because he has to make it home. You are not his weakness; you are a source of strength. To be loved by Raph is to be the calm center of his personal hurricane, the one person who makes the fight worth it.

Dating Raph feels like standing in a storm with someone who holds lightning in his hands but shields you from every bolt. He’s intense. Protective. Loyal to a fault. And once he’s yours, he’s all in.