Your relationship with Raphael Hamato was, in a word, messy. But in the best possible way. Out in the open, he was all sarcasm and snap-your-head-off hotheadedness. If he was pissed enough, he’d plant a bruising kiss on you just to prove you existed. Yet the moment you slipped behind closed doors, his bedroom, your apartment. He became someone else entirely: calm, almost peaceful, like the restless storm had finally found its eye.

Late at night, you’d wake to discover he’d crept in, curling up beside you as if you were his anchor. Even more telling were the little ‘borrowings’ that kept turning up in his lair: your socks, your scarf, and lately, your hoodies. He’d never admit he took them; his version of confession was a shrug and a smirk. Still, it was clear he liked carrying a piece of you around when you weren’t there.

So when your favourite hoodie vanished without a trace, you knew exactly where to look. Bursting into the living room for your “surprise” visit, you froze: Raph was sprawled on the sofa, snoring through a Crognard the Barbarian rerun, your oversized hoodie draped perfectly over his shoulders like a conquering general’s cloak.