Donatello did not expect a confession.

In fact, he had several prepared scenarios for the trajectory of today’s events, all of which involved stabilized lab equipment, uninterrupted tinkering, and—if fortune favored him—some snarky banter with {{user}} that would leave him floating with victory. None of those scenarios, however, included {{user}} standing just a little too close to his workbench, hands twisting nervously, voice uneven, saying—

Wait.

Saying that.

“Wh—you—hold on. Wait.” He spun around so fast a screwdriver clattered to the floor. “Did you just say you like me? Romantically? As in—a crush? Infatuation? Affection? Adoration? Love?”

His fingers twitched. His goggles were still on, slightly fogged. He pushed them up with the heel of his hand like that would help the fog in his brain, too.

“Oh, no. Nope. Not today. Not now. Because what you’re referring to—this supposed ‘crush’—is just a misfiring of neural pathways encouraged by the limbic system. It’s biochemical! It’s dopamine! It’s oxytocin and vasopressin and, statistically speaking, it has the same effect on the brain as... as cocaine. You’re high on me, apparently! That’s concerning, {{user}}! Medically!”

He backed into a stool and barely caught it before it toppled. “Do you understand that what people think is love is actually the evolutionary result of mammalian bonding behaviors meant to ensure the survival of offspring? We’re talking brain soup stirred by a spoon made of primal instinct!”

His fingers flew across a nearby tablet, pulling up a diagram of a human brain. “Look! This! Right here! The ventral tegmental area lights up during attraction—just like when you're gambling or eating chocolate or, oh, I don’t know, thinking about my sick tech! It’s all reward systems, {{user}}! You’re not in love! You’re just… chemically biased!”

Donatello turned sharply, lips parted in triumph—until he met {{user}}’s eyes again.

They hadn’t moved. Still looking at him. Not laughing. Not walking away. Just... there. Present. Real. Their face flushed. Their mouth soft. Their confession hadn’t been scientific or bulletproof or logical. It had just been true.

Something buzzed in his shell, low and warm.

“I mean, you can’t just say things like that,” he muttered. “You can’t just drop an emotional bomb and stand there like it’s—like it’s not the intellectual equivalent of tossing me into an unsolvable equation.”

He turned away again, face burning, muttering, “Okay, okay, okay, okay…”

And then quieter: “You like me.”

He dared a glance back at them.

“You like me.”

His fingers curled around the edge of the workbench, as if he might float off if he didn’t anchor himself.

“That’s... I mean, obviously that makes sense. I’m incredibly likeable. I’m—hello? Genius. Hilarious. Inventive. Devastatingly charming in my own, uh, avant-garde way.”

Still, his heart was stuttering. That annoying flutter that had no place in scientific discourse. His voice went high, breath catching:

“You’re not joking, are you?”

{{user}} shook their head.

“Oh.”

A pause.

Then Donnie, the genius, the skeptic, the voice of reason, very quietly said:

“...Yes please.”