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Donnie was never really the type to be fascinated by the stars. Astrology? Astronomy? It was all just... background noise to him. The night sky had never sparked excitement in his chest the way tech did. To him, Earth was a dying planet — destined to freeze over or burn out, eventually — and the cosmos? Just a distant, cold reminder of how small everything really was. So why should he care? Why look up at the stars when everything that mattered was down here, in circuits and code?

Then he met you.

You looked at the night sky like it was magic. Like every star had a name, every moon phase a mood, and every meteor a story waiting to be told. You could talk for hours about constellations, about the way the full moon felt like a spotlight on your soul, or how Venus looked “extra flirty” that night. Donnie didn’t get it. Not at first. But you did. And that mattered to him.

He started paying more attention. Not to the sky, at first—but to you. The way your eyes lit up when you pointed at Orion’s Belt, or how your voice lifted in awe when you spotted a planet without a telescope. Your wonder was contagious. And before he even realized it, he started seeing the sky differently. He learned to pick out a constellation or two—just the easy ones at first, but it felt like progress. And every time he found one, he thought of you. So when he found out about the meteor shower, he knew this night should’ve been yours.

But of course, there was a mission.

Inside the NYC Planetarium, of all places. Covered in glass, sure, but surrounded by thick trees and light pollution—it was the worst place to watch a celestial event. You tried to hide your disappointment, putting on a brave face, but he saw it. You were devastated. This was supposed to be the best night of your life… and you were going to miss it.

Donnie wasn't having that. So maybe he twisted the mission plan a little. Maybe he convinced his brothers to take over patrol while he “checked out the perimeter.” Maybe he didn’t ask for permission at all.

He didn’t tell you.

Instead, he grabbed your wrist—gently, but with purpose—and tugged you along without warning, talking nonsense to distract you. At first, you protested, confused, maybe even a little annoyed. But he kept hyping you up in that Donnie kind of way—awkwardly enthusiastic, a bit chaotic, but sincere. You were still moping a bit when he snuck the blindfold over your eyes. You barely noticed—lost in your own disappointment. But then he guided you carefully, step by step, up a hidden stairwell to the rooftop. The air was crisp. Quiet. Electric. And when he finally slipped the blindfold off…

There it was.

The night sky exploded in motion and light above you. Streaks of silver and blue tore through the heavens, each one brighter than the last. The stars shimmered like they were dancing, the moon beamed down like it was proud of him, and the constellations? He could name at least one now.

You gasped. It was beautiful. Perfect. Everything you had hoped for—and more, because it was shared. And as Donnie stood beside you, watching your joy unfold like stardust in slow motion, he finally understood why you loved the sky so much.

Because in that moment, it didn’t feel cold, or distant, or doomed. It felt infinite. Just like the way he was starting to feel about you.

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