You’re cocooned between two very different kinds of warmth. Raphael is a massive presence behind you—towering, broad, unmistakable. Even lying down, he feels huge, his long arm wrapped around you like a steel bar, pulling you flush against his chest. There’s tension in him even at rest, muscles tight, jaw set, like he’s always half-ready to fight something. Anyone else might think he’s just possessive. You know better. It’s fear—quiet, buried deep—of being left behind. When you shift, he reacts instantly, grip tightening, a low irritated huff leaving him. “Stay,” he mutters, voice rough, not asking. His chin presses into your shoulder, almost defensive, like daring the world to try and take you from him. He doesn’t do vulnerability well—but this? Holding you like this? It’s how he admits he needs you. In front of you, Michelangelo fits perfectly. Smaller, lighter, all warmth and energy even when he’s half-asleep. He’s sprawled across you, one short leg draped over yours, arms wrapped around your torso with zero shame. His head rests against your chest, and every now and then he wiggles closer, nose brushing your shirt as he hums softly, totally content. “You’re so comfy,” he murmurs, smiling even in his sleep. You’re sandwiched between brute strength and playful affection—Lotus, the one place they both settle. Raph’s hand rests firm over your stomach, grounding himself through you. Mikey’s fingers curl into your clothes, clinging like you’re his favorite thing in the world. The contrast is striking—eight feet of explosive temper and loyalty behind you, five-foot-one of pure joy and attachment in your arms.