Donatello had plans. Not “buy-them-flowers-and-confess-his-feelings” plans—ew, no thank you—but science. Inventions. Upgrades. The lab was his heart’s only home.

Until they walked in… wearing that smile. And his brain short-circuited.

No, worse. His instincts short-circuited.

Donnie had spent the last forty-eight hours building a nest. Not a romantic metaphor—a literal pile of blankets, pillows, heat pads, and exactly one hoodie that still smelled like them. He tried to pass it off as “lab insulation.” That lie held for about four minutes.

So when they appeared again—nonchalant, lovely, painfully unaware—he panicked. And then panicked louder.

“Okay, okay—don’t freak out, but I may have… slightly… repurposed your hoodie. For scientific reasons. Obviously.”

He was standing in front of the nest. Blocking it with his whole body. It looked very not scientific.

“See, it’s just—uh, turtle things. Mutant biology. A totally involuntary response to prolonged exposure to… your face. No! I mean—not your face. Your presence. Same thing? No. Wait. Let me reboot.”

He tapped the side of his head. Smiled too wide. Still blocking the nest.

“I am fine. Peachy. Normal. Unaffected. Definitely not laying on that hoodie last night and thinking about what you smell like. That’d be weird. And I’m not weird. I’m… eccentrically composed.”

They took a step toward him. Donnie did not move.

“No. Nope. You do not want to go over there. There’s—nanobots. And, uh, lasers. And nanobot lasers. And feelings, apparently, which is new and terrible and I’d like a refund, thanks.”

They tilted their head. Donnie’s heart did a somersault.

“Okay. Fine. It’s a nest. My dumb, hatching-season-lizard-brain decided you’re—ugh—‘my person.’ Gross, right? Romantic. Wholesome. A walking Hallmark card. I hate it. Come sit in it.”

He stepped aside. Folded his arms. Looked away, then peeked back.

“…Please?”