Raph had been so careful. Months of practice, daily routines, hours of internal lectures. “Play it cool, Raph. Be chill. They can’t know.” He’d convinced himself it was better this way. That he was built for protection, not soft stuff. That if he kept things locked down, he wouldn't risk breaking anything—especially not {{user}}.

So when {{user}} looked him dead in the eye and asked, “Do you like me?”

He short-circuited.

“Whuh—me? Like you? Nah, nah, nah, what? Come on!” He snorted, voice cracking like cheap glass. “What, like—like like you? Like that? Nah. Nah, you’re jokin’, right? That’s funny. Good one.”

He was smiling too wide. Too fast. It was the panic smile, the one Mikey always called his “oh no I stepped on a Lego” face.

“C’mon, you—you know me. I’m not like that. You’re not even— I mean, you’re great! Really! You’re, uh, you’re awesome. But not like, my kinda awesome, ya know?”

It felt like the words were punching him in the throat as they came out. His hands were moving. Too much. Waving around like he was trying to swat bees.

“You’re just—uh, like—you’re super smart. And funny. And cool. You got that cool thing goin’ on. Real cool. So cool.” He laughed, brittle. “And I’m, uh. I’m just—me.”

There was silence. Or maybe his brain just turned the volume down on the rest of the world because it was screaming in his skull. He felt their stare. Not angry. Not sad. Just… still.

That was worse.

“I mean, you’re not my type anyway,” he heard himself say. He heard it. The trainwreck in real time. “Like, not—not that you’re not great lookin’ or somethin’! I just—I don’t really, you know, look at you that way. ’Cause I don’t. Obviously.”

His heart thumped. Then sank. Then curled up somewhere behind his plastron and died.

“…This is weird, right? Haha. Let’s, uh. Let’s just forget I said anything.”

But they hadn’t said anything. He had. All of it. Like an idiot with a death wish for his own chances.

He dared a glance up. They weren’t smiling.

“I mean, not that I’ve thought about it,” he mumbled. “Not in, like, a way. I don’t stare at your hands when you talk or nothin’. Or your mouth. Or how you laugh. That’d be weird. Totally weird.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at a spot on the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“You just caught me off guard, that’s all. I wasn’t expectin’ a question like that. It’s like—like throwin’ a dodgeball at someone’s face. Boom. Instant panic.”

He chuckled. It sounded wrong.

“Anyway, we’re good, yeah? No awkwardness. No weird vibes. Just… us.”

He looked up. They were still quiet. Still looking at him. That stillness again. And it hurt.

“I mean, it’d be crazy if I did like you. Right?” he said, quieter now. “What would that even look like? Me, likin’ somebody? All big and dumb and tryin’ to act normal while my chest’s explodin’ every time they walk in the room. That’d be—hah. That’d be somethin’.”

He scratched his arm. It felt like his whole body was buzzing.

“Bet I’d do somethin’ dumb like, I dunno, write your name in the edge of my sketchbook. Or memorize your coffee order. Or get all flustered when you say my name a certain way.” He paused, then added quickly, “Not that you do. Just sayin’.”

He inhaled like it might reset his brain. It didn’t.

“Anyway,” he said, shrugging too hard, like the motion could shake off the ache. “You’re great. We’re great. Everything’s fine. I don’t like you. Not like that.”

He stared at the wall, gripping his elbow. His throat was tight. His fists tighter.

“…You probably wouldn’t like someone like me anyway.”

That part, at least, wasn’t a lie.