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cosmosharky · 5 days ago

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Smitten Isn’t the Half of It (fluff)

💜 Bayverse Donatello/Female Reader 💜

A/N: Sequel to Shell Shocked and Smitten!

I’d normally post this type of story to AO3. However, since it’s a direct sequel to a request made here on Tumblr, I felt it was only right to share it with you all on this platform first. So please don’t mind the length; I really wanted to dig into Donnie and the reader’s relationship, build it up, and give it a (hopefully) satisfying resolution.

I’m dedicating this fic to @coffeemarie25 💜🐢

Enjoy!! 😊

CWs: Mostly fluff, with a later scene depicting some brief descriptive violence as well as harassment and verbal threats/intimidation. All characters are aged-up.

You wake up to the smell of coffee and the faint, unmistakable aroma of pizza leftovers.

Sunlight filters through the blinds in thin, uneven stripes. For a moment, you just lie there, cocooned in your blanket, trying to remember why your cheeks feel warm and your stomach feels weirdly fluttery. Then you remember the giant mutant turtles in your living room last night.

You sit up, squinting into the fuzzy void of your room. You reach for your glasses on the nightstand, put them on, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Outside, in the hallway, you hear movement. Light footfalls, like someone is trying very hard to move quietly.

You dress, pulling a casual loose sweatshirt over your tank top, and pad out of your room. You peek around the corner—and see Donnie in the kitchen. On the counter in front of him is what appears to be the busted electric kettle, completely disassembled, along with some tools.

“Oh,” you say, your voice still thick with sleep. “You’re doing surgery on the kettle.”

Donnie startles and looks up fast, glasses slipping down his snout, his eyes widening behind the lenses. “You’re awake! Uh, hi.” He waves—awkwardly, adorably—then glances at the kettle. “Yeah, sorry. April said it shorted out last week, and I thought I’d try to fix it while we were waiting for you to wake up. I didn’t mean to just … commandeer your countertop.”

You blink. “You brought tools?”

“Always,” he says. “Never know when you’ll need a micro-soldering iron.” There’s a few beats of silence, and then he says, “Your mascara’s not smudged this time.”

You blink. He looks immediately mortified, like his mouth opened before he could stop it.

“I—I didn’t mean that like that. I just—last night—I mean, not that you looked bad, you just looked … sad. But now you don’t. You look … better? Not that you didn’t look good before, because you did, I just meant—”

You hold up a hand, chuckling. “Donnie. Stop. It’s okay.”

He clamps his mouth shut and rubs at the back of his neck, clearly fighting the urge to disappear into his own shell. “April made coffee before she left for work,” he says, nodding towards the pot.

You head for the kitchen, grateful for the distraction—for both your sakes. “Coffee sounds great.”

You’re acutely aware of his presence, the sheer size of him filling your small kitchen. He’s hunched over the counter as he works. But even then, his shell brushes the bottom of the overhead cabinets. It’s a space clearly not built for six-foot-plus mutant turtles. You grab your favorite mug—the oversized one with a grumpy cat on it—and prepare your coffee.

Leaning your hip against the counter, you blow on the steam rising from the mug. “You always fix random appliances when you crash at someone’s place? Because I’ve got a blender that screams when I use it.”

He laughs softly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “The screaming is probably a high-frequency oscillation from worn motor bearings,” he explains, not missing a beat. His long, three-fingered hands move with surprising dexterity, re-seating a tiny component inside the kettle’s base. “I could probably fix that, too. Might need to fabricate a new housing for the armature, though.”

You just stare at him, taking a sip of your coffee. “Right. Armature. So, is the patient going to live?” You gesture to the kettle.

A genuine, brilliant smile breaks out across his face. “Oh, definitely. It was just a blown thermal fuse connected to the auto-shutoff. Whoever designed this thing ran the wiring too close to the heating element’s primary coil. A simple design flaw, really. I’m rerouting it with some insulated wiring and replacing the fuse. It’ll be better than new.”

He says it all so fast, his hands gesturing excitedly, pointing out tiny components with the tip of a precision screwdriver. You lean in, utterly captivated. Not by the explanation—you didn’t understand a word after “thermal fuse.” But by the way his eyes light up, the way his voice loses its hesitant edge and gains a smooth, confident cadence.

He is completely in his element.

“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” you ask.

He pauses, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says, his voice softer now. “Making things work. Figuring out the puzzle. It’s ... satisfying.” He picks up a small part with a pair of tweezers, his large hand impossibly delicate.

You watch his hands. They’re huge, powerful, covered in scaly green skin, and yet they move with the grace of a surgeon. A thought, unbidden and surprising, pops into your head: He has nice hands.

Before you can get any weirder, you hear your phone blaring its ringtone from your room. You jolt, nearly sloshing coffee over the rim of your mug. “Crap, sorry—hang on.” You set down the mug and hurry to your phone and check the ID: it’s your boss. You swipe to answer, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, just checking if you’re still good for the meeting?” he says. “We moved it up to noon. Hope that’s not a problem.”

You wince; you’d forgotten all about it. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

“Great. Don’t forget the presentation slides.”

You mumble a thanks for the reminder and hang up. The second the call ends, your heart rate kicks up. Not from stress this time, but from the sudden realization that a very large, very genius turtle is still in your kitchen. You take a second to pull your hair up into a messy bun in the mirror before heading back out.

Donnie glances up when you return, head tilting just slightly like he’s checking your expression before asking, “Everything okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just work stuff. I’ve got a meeting soon.”

“Then I’ll get out of your hair. Just wanted to finish the kettle and—y’know, not be in the way.”

You open your mouth, then pause. In the way? The image of him at the counter, sleeves rolled (metaphorically) up, fingers busy and brow furrowed in concentration—it didn’t feel like in the way.

It felt like the opposite.

“You’re not,” you say before you can overthink it. “I mean, you’re not in the way. At all.”

He blinks at you, then lowers his gaze quickly, but not before you catch the shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks. That’s … nice to hear.”

After you finish your coffee, you rinse the mug out in the sink, hands working on autopilot while your mind spins in a thousand different directions—most of which are still stuck on the way Donnie smiled at you.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen that smile. He wore it last night too, right after you offered him a blanket and he pretended not to need one, even though it was obviously too cold in the living room. But this morning, in the clear light of day, it lands differently.

He lands differently.

You go back to your room to change. After throwing on a pair of slacks and a blouse, you swipe on a quick flick of eyeliner and check that your earrings match. You throw your laptop bag over your shoulder and head towards the apartment door with every intention of leaving for work.

But you hesitate, your hand hovering over the knob.

Your heart does that annoying thing again—light and fast, like it knows something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. Work is waiting. Slides, meetings, the usual chaos. But your head’s still half in the kitchen. With him.

With Donnie.

You glance over your shoulder to look at him still fiddling with the kettle. He’s talking softly to himself as he works. You’ve only known him for a single night, but it feels longer. Your chest tightens in that peculiar, fluttery way again. It’s ridiculous, you think, getting all twisted up over someone you just met.

Someone who, strictly speaking, shouldn’t exist. And yet, there he is. Filling your kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is natural. At least, it feels that way.

You breathe out through your nose, a shaky little thing that sounds more like a sigh. Then you straighten up and turn the knob. Half open the door. “Hey,” you call over your shoulder, not looking back yet, “will you still be here when I get back?”

There’s a pause, then the sound of tools being set down. “You want me to stick around?”

You finally glance back, hand still on the doorknob. He’s standing a little taller now, watching you like he’s trying not to hope too much.

You smile, and it’s maybe too soft for how casual you’re pretending to be. “Yeah. If you’re not busy … I wouldn’t mind.”

Donnie tilts his head, and something warm flickers behind his eyes. “Then I’ll be here.”

You nod once, try not to beam like an idiot, and slip out the door before you can say anything more embarrassing. As you walk down the hall, your heart thuds and you feel a little breathless. Your mind should be on work, on presentations and deadlines.

But all you can think about is how he said I’ll be here.

You take the stairs instead of the elevator—partly because the elevator in your building is a coin toss of mechanical doom. But mostly because your brain needs the rhythm of movement to organize the chaos inside it. You wrap your fingers tighter around the strap of your laptop bag, boots echoing softly against the stairwell concrete, and try to will your pulse back to something approaching normal.

It doesn’t work.

You’re still thinking about him. Donatello.

Donnie.

There’s a warmth blooming under your ribs like a slow-burning ember, one that’s been growing since last night but feels incandescent now, after that moment by the door. The way he looked at you when he asked, You want me to stick around? Like the question itself was risky. Like the answer mattered more than it should.

You’re not someone who falls fast. Not usually. So why is your brain already replaying every second of this morning like some lovesick rom-com montage?

You don’t know what this is. Not yet. But as you step out on to the crowded street, one thought circles in your mind like a truth you’re still learning to hold.

You want to come home to him.

It’s been three weeks since the Great Turtle Invasion of your apartment, and somehow, life has settled into a weirdly comfortable new normal. They still crash at your place now and then, but they’ve also invited you to their lair more than once. Sure, it’s in the sewers—but who cares? You’d gladly put up with a few questionable smells if it means spending more time with Donnie.

You’re currently glaring at your laptop, which is displaying nothing but a black screen with a single, mocking, blinking cursor. “You will not defeat me,” you murmur to the inanimate object. “I have a deadline. My editor will turn me into a human pretzel if I don’t get these pages in soon.”

Your frustration must be radiating outwards, because a quiet voice cuts through your monologue of threats. “Technical difficulties?”

You turn to see Donnie standing there, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s ditched his suspenders for a simple tool belt slung low on his hips, and a pair of high-tech goggles are pushed up onto his forehead, nestled just above his purple bandana. Your heart, the traitorous organ, does a little flip-flop.

It’s been doing that a lot lately whenever he’s near.

“It’s dead,” you sigh, slumping in your seat. “Completely unresponsive. It’s like it saw my to-do list and decided to nope right out of existence.”

He comes closer, leaning over your shoulder to inspect the screen. You’re hyper-aware of his proximity, the solid presence of his arm just inches from yours, the way his shadow falls over you.

“It’s not dead,” he says, his voice a reassuring rumble next to your ear. “The boot sector is probably corrupted. A common but frustrating issue.” He straightens up, a thoughtful expression on his face. “May I?”

You nod, gesturing to the laptop with a sweep of your hand. “Be my guest. If you can save it, there’s a slice of chicken and mushroom pizza with Roma tomatoes in it for you.”

A small smile touches his lips. “A worthy prize.” He carefully picks up the laptop and carries it over to his workshop corner. “Come on,” he says, glancing back at you.

You follow him over, perching on a stool he keeps nearby as he sets the laptop down. He pulls a keyboard out from under the table, plugs cables into your computer, and his fingers fly across the keys. You watch, fascinated. You see the subtle ripple of muscle in his arms as he works, the sheer competence he exudes.

Donnie doesn’t need to tell you he’s smart; it’s clear in every precise movement, every quiet, confident keystroke.

“Okay,” he murmurs after a few minutes, not looking away from his screen. “I’m creating a partition to access the primary drive without engaging the corrupted boot file. Should be able to pull your data. What’s the name of the file you need?”

“Uh, ‘Final Draft - No Really This Time v.7’,” you say, feeling a little sheepish.

He chuckles, types for another moment, and then his monitor flickers with your desktop. You see your meticulously organized folders, your embarrassing desktop wallpaper of a cat in a shark costume, and the document you were just working on.

“Oh my god, you’re a wizard,” you breathe, relief washing over you in a powerful wave.

“Just a humble technician,” he says, but you see the pleased dark-green flush creep up his neck. “Would it be … presumptuous of me to run a diagnostic on the file itself? Just to make sure the crash didn’t damage it.”

“Okay,” you agree, your heart thumping from how close you are.

He does his thing, running a scan to check the file’s integrity. “All clear. I should probably scan your other documents, just in case, before we move on to the data back-up.”

You nod, resting your elbows on the table as you watch him. “Sure. You’ve already rescued my career once today. Might as well make it a two-for-one.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, that warm little chuckle you’ve come to recognize that’s equal parts flattered and bashful. His fingers tap out a few more commands on the keyboard. You try not to stare, but it’s hard not to.

“So,” you ask, voice quieter now, “do you do this for all your friends? Tech support, appliance resurrection, emotionally delicate computer interventions?”

He tilts his head without looking up, but you see the smile tug at the corner of his mouth again. “Only the ones I like.”

You blink, a beat skipping in your chest. “Oh.”

That tiny smile turns into something wider, more open, but still shy. “Was that … too much?” he asks, finally glancing sideways at you. His hazel eyes catch the low light, and for a moment, you forget to breathe.

You shake your head slowly, lips curling upward. “No,” you say, just above a whisper. “It was exactly right.”

The silence that follows is calm. Safe. He doesn’t move away, and neither do you. Your knees are almost touching now, and you don’t bother shifting to create space—because you like this space. You like him in this space.

He clears his throat, inputting the last command. “There. All files are safe, diagnostics clean. Your laptop lives to sass you another day.”

“My hero,” you murmur, with a smile you don’t bother hiding.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and he sounds a little proud. A little nervous. A little like he wants to say more.

“Donnie,” you say, and you reach out, placing your hand over his on the table. His skin is cool and smooth, and his hand stills completely under yours. He slowly turns his hand over, his fingers curling gently around yours. His palm is surprisingly soft.

His eyes meet yours. There’s no witty retort, no technical explanation. There’s just a quiet understanding that crackles in the space between you.

“Thank you,” you say, and you know you’re not just talking about the laptop anymore.

“Anytime,” he breathes as his thumb sweeps softly across the back of your hand.

You look at his kind, intelligent face, at the way his shy smile is starting to bloom. And you realize with a sudden, startling clarity that you’re not just crushing on the giant turtle who is good with computers. You’re falling for him.

Hard.

Donnie is a portrait of intense concentration, his brow furrowed and his hands a blur of motion over a tangle of wires and circuit boards at his makeshift workshop. A sharp sizzle, followed by a frustrated grunt that he probably thinks is silent, finally makes you give up the pretense of reading the book in your lap.

“Everything okay over there, Edison?” you ask from your perch on your apartment couch.

He looks up, pushing his glasses up his nose. The intensity in his hazel eyes softens when they land on you. “I’ve hit a snag. I’m trying to recalibrate the shell-cell communicators I recently invented, but the amplification circuit keeps overloading. For the regulator coil, I need a more resilient filament. Niobium-titanium alloy, preferably.” He says this as if he’s asking for a simple cup of sugar.

You blink. “Right. Niobium-whatsit. And you don’t have that back at the lair?”

A dark green flush, which you’ve come to adore, creeps up his neck. “Well, no.”

You stand up and stretch. “So, where does one procure this magical filament?”

He pulls up a map on his wrist-mounted device, projecting a holographic display into the air between you. “There’s an old electronics surplus store downtown. Al’s Electronic Wonderland. According to their online inventory—which is shockingly well-maintained for a place that still uses a dot-matrix printer for receipts—they have three spools in stock.”

“Consider it a noble quest,” you say, grabbing your coat. “I shall venture forth and retrieve thy filament.”

His face clouds over with a worry so profound it seems to physically weigh him down. He takes a step toward you, his enormous frame suddenly blocking the path to the door. “Wait. You’re going alone? Right now?” he asks as you zip up your coat.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon, Donnie,” you say, trying to sound more casual than you feel under his intense, concerned gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he insists, his voice low and serious. “I’ve been monitoring the Foot’s comms chatter. They’ve been more active in that sector for the last forty-eight hours. It’s not safe. Let me go. Or at least wait until nightfall and I can come with you.”

You reach out and place a hand on his arm. “You need to finish this,” you say, nodding towards his project. “And I refuse to let anyone intimidate me into not running an errand in my own city. I’ll be quick. In and out.” You give his arm a reassuring squeeze. “I promise. I’ll be careful.”

He searches your face for a long moment, his jaw tight. You can see the internal battle playing out behind his glasses—the logician warring with the protector. Finally, he lets out a slow breath. “Okay,” he says, the word heavy with unease. “But make sure you take your phone. And call me if anything—I mean anything—seems off.”

You nod, curling your fingers around the edge of his arm a moment longer before stepping back. “Deal,” you breathe, and his hand hovers midair for a second—like he wants to pull you back—but doesn’t.

You grab your phone and keys, tucking them into your bag as Donnie returns reluctantly to his workstation. Opening the door, you pause, catching his gaze for a moment. You give him a reassuring smile before slipping into the hallway.

You find Al’s Electronic Wonderland tucked behind a row of shuttered shops. You step inside, the bell above the door chiming. Al—according to his nametag—is sitting behind the counter. He waves at you without looking up from his crossword puzzle book.

You find the filament quickly, tucked in a bin near the back of the store. You grab them all and head to the front.

“Fancy stuff,” Al grunts. “You building a death ray or somethin’?”

Now that you think about it, you’re not sure if Al might be kidding or not. “Something like that,” you say with a smile that’s meant to be disarming.

You pay cash, not wanting to deal with the ancient card reader, and leave with the spools secured in your bag. Quest successful!

You check the time on your phone; the sun is dipping lower in the sky. You decide to take a shortcut through a familiar alley to shave a few minutes off your walk home, your mind already set on seeing Donnie’s smile when you present him with your bounty.

The alley is empty, cast in the long shadows of dusk. Your footsteps echo off the brick walls. Halfway through, a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision makes you tense. You slow your pace, your heart beating a little faster. Probably just a stray cat, you try to convince yourself.

Then a figure drops from a fire escape in front of you, landing in a silent crouch. Another emerges from the deep shadows of a dumpster behind you. Before you can say anything, two more step out from recessed doorways, effectively boxing you in. They are all dressed in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by menacing masks.

The Foot Clan. You’ve only seen them on the news reports April showed you, grainy footage of black-clad blurs. They’re much more terrifying in person.

Your heart launches itself into your throat, Donnie’s warning screaming in your head. I should have listened. Oh god, I should have listened!

“Look what we have here,” one of them rasps, his voice distorted by the mask. He takes a step forward. “A little lamb, lost from her flock.”

You take a step back. “I’m just … heading home,” you say, voice even but pitched loud enough to carry. “I don’t want any trouble.” Your hand slips into your bag, fingers fumbling for your phone.

The leader chuckles, a dry, humorless sound. “You’ve been seen with them. The freaks.” He tilts his head. “We think you know where to find them. And you’re going to tell us.”

Your blood runs cold. This isn’t a random mugging. They know. They’ve been watching you. Watching the apartment. Your fingers finally close around your phone. Donnie’s contact is on speed dial; you just need a second.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, pulling your hand from your bag, trying to keep the phone concealed in your palm.

“Liar.” The word is a hiss. The ninja in front of you lunges. You cry out as his hand clamps down on your wrist, his grip like iron. The one behind you grabs your other arm, wrenching it back. Your bag drops to the ground, your phone clattering beside it.

“No!” you yell, struggling against them.

The leader stoops down, ignoring your bag, and picks up your phone. He glances at the screen, which is still lit up. A cruel smirk is audible in his voice. “Look at this. Speed dial for ‘Donnie.’ How sweet.” He holds the phone up. “Let’s call him, shall we? Let him hear you scream.”

Panic, white-hot and absolute, sears through you. Before he can press the button, you do the only thing you can think of. You stomp down, hard, on the foot of the ninja holding your arm. He grunts in pain, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second. It’s enough. You wrench your arm free, pivot, and slam your elbow into the mask of the one behind you.

It’s a clumsy, desperate move, and it buys you maybe two seconds before they’re on you again. One of them pushes you to the ground. As the leader raises your phone to his masked face, a sound cuts through the alley—a high-pitched whistle, followed by a thunderous CRACK.

Something long and wooden smashes into the leader’s hand. Your phone goes flying, skittering across the ground. The ninja cries out, stumbling back.

Donnie is between you and them, his staff held ready. He rises to his full, intimidating height, his face a mask of cold fury you’ve never seen before. This isn’t the gentle tinkerer from your kitchen. This isn’t the shy genius who blushes when you smile at him.

“Let. Her. Go,” he snarls, his voice a low, rumbling growl.

For a second, the Foot soldiers just stare, momentarily stunned by the sudden appearance of a giant turtle warrior. Then, recovering, they draw their weapons.

What happens next is a blur. Donnie moves with a speed that seems impossible for his size, deflecting, blocking, and striking his opponents. There’s the thwack of wood against bone, the grunt of a ninja being thrown against a brick wall, the sharp clang of a sword being sent flying.

And in less than a minute, it’s over. Two ninjas are unconscious on the ground. The other two, including the leader, scramble away, disappearing into the shadows like the cockroaches they are.

The sudden silence is deafening. The only sounds are your own ragged breathing and the heavy, controlled breaths from Donnie. He stands over the fallen ninjas for a second, staff held tight, making sure they’re no longer a threat.

Then, he turns to you.

The fury on his face vanishes in an instant, replaced by a wave of raw, undisguised terror. In two long strides, he’s in front of you in a crouch, his large hands hovering over your arms, your face. As if he’s afraid to touch you, afraid you might break.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice cracking. “Did they hurt you?” His eyes, wide and frantic, scan every inch of you.

You can only shake your head, your voice caught in your throat. Now that the adrenaline is fading, you’re starting to tremble. “I’m—I’m okay,” you manage to whisper. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he chokes out. His hands finally land on your shoulders, his touch incredibly gentle. “I was tracking your phone’s GPS since you left the store. I saw you turn into the alley and I just … I had a bad feeling.” His voice drops, thick with emotion. “When I saw them … when they had you …” He can’t finish the sentence. He just shakes his head.

You look up at him, at this brilliant, brave, terrified turtle who just fought off four trained assassins for you. And all the feelings you’ve been trying to keep neatly packed away just spill over.

“Donnie,” you breathe, and you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek. His skin is cool and smooth. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I was so stupid,” you murmur. “I should have listened to you.”

“No,” he says, his eyes opening, pinning you with their intensity. “No, this is my fault. I never should have let you go alone. I knew it was a risk. I can’t …” He swallows hard. “I can’t let anything happen to you. I just … can’t.”

There it is. In his voice, in his eyes. More than friendship. More than protective instinct. It’s the same feeling that’s been taking root in your own chest for weeks.

“Why?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, though you already know the answer.

You just need to hear it.

He looks down at your arm—at the hand cradling his face—then back to your eyes. The last of his warrior’s facade crumbles, leaving only the shy, brilliant, wonderful Donnie you’ve come to know. A blush spreads across his cheeks.

“Because,” he says, his voice soft and trembling slightly. “Because you listen when I talk about armature housings, or filament conductivity thresholds, or the proper decibel range for ultrasonic echolocation calibration—and you don’t laugh. You ask questions, you care. You see me, not just the shell, and …” He gestures vaguely at himself. “… all this.”

Your heart stutters, then gallops. You blink fast, trying not to cry—because crying now would just ruin everything, and this moment is already teetering on the edge of perfection.

He gently clasps your hand, still cupped against his cheek, holding it there like it’s something sacred. “I’ve been in a thousand close calls,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper, “but nothing has ever scared me like the thought of losing you.”

That’s it.

That’s the line that snaps something loose in your chest. All the fear, all the tension, all the guarded caution you’ve held onto around him dissolves like mist.

“I was scared too,” you say, your other hand joining the first, framing his face. “Scared of what I was feeling. Of how fast it was happening. Of how real you are to me. But now? I’m just scared of not saying it.”

His brow creases in a mix of hope and awe. “Saying what?”

“That I’m falling for you. All the way. No backup plan. No buffer.”

There’s a pause. A heartbeat. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to make sure this is real. That you’re real. That he heard you right.

And then he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days, his shoulders slumping in relief. “You’re not the only one,” he says. “I’ve been falling since the second you offered me a blanket and told me my goggles were cool.”

You laugh—a shaky sound—and he leans down, just a little, just enough.

“The truth is,” he says, pausing to take a shuddering breath, before continuing, “I don’t think I’m merely just falling for you, I think—no. I know I’m falling in love with you.”

Your heart stops. And then it starts again, a wild, soaring thing in your chest. Tears prick your eyes, but they’re not from fear. They’re from a joy so overwhelming it feels like it might burst out of you.

“For the record,” you whisper, your lips just inches from his, “I’m in love with the way you get flustered when I compliment you. And the way you make me feel safe, even when I’m being an idiot. And because you have the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

His breath catches, and for a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, he leans in the rest of the way, and your lips meet.

The world goes quiet. No more distant sirens, no more thudding adrenaline in your ears. Just the warmth of his mouth on yours—soft, tentative, and so achingly real. His hands frame your face like you’re something rare and precious, and your fingers curl gently at the edges of his shell. It’s a kiss full of all the things he can’t say fast enough.

And everything you didn’t know how to ask for until now.

You kiss him back, slowly, deliberately, and you feel the tension in his body melt. When you finally part, you stay close, foreheads resting together, breathing each other in.

“So,” you murmur with a small smile, “was that a diagnostic, or a full system reboot?”

He lets out a breathy, amazed laugh. “Definitely a reboot. System’s online. Possibly overheating.”

You giggle softly, and the sound makes his entire expression light up again. His thumb brushes along your jaw, reverent and unhurried. “I meant what I said,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

“I know,” you say. And you do.

You believe him.

He helps you to your feet, carefully checking you over again, his touch featherlight but lingering. You brush the dirt off your coat and retrieve the fallen bag. He reclaims your phone from the ground, wipes it clean with a cloth from his belt, and hands it to you with a sheepish look.

“Still works,” he says. “Unlike my circulatory system. Pretty sure it shorted out when you kissed me.”

“Better get used to that,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your shoulder as you both turn toward the street.

He offers you his hand, and you take it, linking your fingers with his. Together, you start walking back towards your apartment. There’s no rush.

Because Donnie’s hand in yours feels like the beginning of everything.

#IM OBSESSED THIS IS SO GOOD #donnie my beloved #tmnt

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