#the edible I took hours ago JUST now kicked in and T texted me back and

[heyitslapis]

Im gonna lose it I cant

[heyheydidjaknow]

Chapter 11

Guess who's back? Back again. Back three hours late, but back nonetheless. I'd feel more sorry if I was more sorry. This is officially the longest chapter as of now, so, yay. Someone challenged me to not swear for a chapter, and I believe I fulfilled that requirement. I'm just gonna go sleep.

Update: APPARENTLY, TUMBLR DOES THE TRANSFER FORMATTING THING ON LAPTOPS AND I HATE EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE RIGHT NOW SO MUCH. I usually do all my editing on my phone, so I knew no such luxury. I have never been more pissed. That is a lie, but my anger is still very genuine.

Chapter 11

“Where were you?”

The younger brother looks up at his senior. “Huh?”

“You were gone all night.” Leonardo leans against the door, crossing his arms. “Don’t look so surprised; I started getting up early to meditate.”

He shrugs in feigned nonchalance, already dreading the ensuing conversation. “Out.”

“And where’s ‘Out’?”

Donnie slides out of his chair, deciding his straining eyes need a break. “Just went to check on Y/N is all.” He rubs them with his arm, quietly noting the sounds of fighting in the dojo were starting to cease as he sits on the couch. His rounds of sparring with Leonardo were finished a little over an hour ago; a part of him is grateful it took him this long to corner him.

This got a raised brow. “You were checking on her for hours?”

He does not look him in the eye. “It’s not impossible.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It wasn’t that late,” he argues.

“Donnie,” he presses, “you didn’t get home until five in the morning. Where were you?”

He feels his face heat up. “I said.”

Leo leans down to look his brother in the eye. “Final answer?”

He swallows a yawn. “Look, I know it was stupid—”

“I didn’t say it was stupid.”

“No,” he snips, mildly irritable from a lack of sleep. “You implied it.”

The doors to the dojo slide open, the disgruntled look on Raphael’s face all the evidence the other two need to know who won.

Mikey dives onto the couch, sprawling out next to his slightly older brother. “Did you ask yet?”

“I did.” He glances at the disgruntled boy. “Donnie was, apparently, at Y/N’s all night.”

The reaction is immediate.

“Details!” The small victor sits up, leaning forward on his knees in usual attentiveness. “Was she good?”

“What did you—shut up, Mikey.” Raph’s attention snaps back to his tallest brother. “What did you do to her? Did you—”

“Wait, hold on!” Donnie’s face feels uncomfortably hot. “N-Nothing happened!”

“Yeah, sure.” The second eldest rolls his eyes. “You think we fell off the truck yesterday? Who stays with a girl all night in her room without something happening? Nobody,” he cuts him off before he can defend himself.

The youngest’s voice rises over his brother’s before he can continue. “Dude, big picture!” He gestures to his brown-eyed brother. “He got with a girl first! He has valid info or whatever he says and stuff!”

“What are you two even talking about?” He wrings his hands. “Look, nothing happened!”

“Then what were you doing at her house,” Raphael eggs. “You weren’t just sitting there, right?”

“… no.”

“Then what were you doing there?”

He pauses, the two excitable boys waiting on bated breath. “She wanted me to spend the night,” he explains carefully, “because she was having bad nightmares and didn’t want to sleep alone.” He leans back, tossing his hands in the air. “That’s all.”

Silence falls.

“So,” clarifies Raphael, “you spent however many hours in her room, in her bed, and you didn’t make a move?”

“I—look!” The conversation is taking a shift for the worse. “I was trying to be nice! The last thing she needed was me doing whatever you’re insinuating!”

“He has a point,” Michelangelo nods knowingly. “Brownie points are key.”

“When did I say I was doing this for brownie points?”

“Look,” the eldest interjects. “Regardless of whether or not he was doing the ‘smart’ thing—” air quotes, “my bigger concern is that you didn’t bother calling to let us know where you were. You could’ve—Raph, do you have something to say?”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you really gonna act like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing if it were you?”

The leader pauses. “Would you like to take this somewhere more private?”

“Sure.” A venomous smile curls Raph’s lips. “Dojo?”

“Bring it.”

As the two leave, Donnie looks back over at Mikey. “Okay,” he sighs, “did I miss something?”

A shrug. “Man," he grins brazenly, "bold of you to assume I follow half of the things you guys say.”

He pulls his T-Phone from his utility belt. “Do you think I did the right thing? Honestly?”

Another shrug. “I dunno.” He looks over his older brother’s shoulder, reading the text on the screen curiously. “Can’t have gone too bad, though, if you two’ve been textin’ all day.

He pushes his head away with his free hand. “It hasn’t been all day,” he corrects. “She just filled me in on this week’s episode and we just kept talking after that.” He smiles faintly. “Although, she did check to see if I got home alright.”

“Hey, that’s totally progress!” He grins encouragingly. “I mean, the bed thing was bigger progress, but this is also progress.”

You push through the turnstile with a bit of difficulty, hopping on your good leg as you pull the walker over the divider using your free hand with an embarrassing clatter. “Sorry,” you wince, feeling your face heat up as you slide down the railing. “I’m still getting used to—”

“Holy—are you alright?” The distress is apparent in the youngest’s voice as he sees you for the first time in a month. “You look like you—”

“I’m aware,” you cut him off dryly, holding a paper bag as you stumble over to the couch. “Whatever you’re about to say, I’m aware.” You put it down in Donnie’s lap. “Here.”

He blinks, picking it up as you regain your bearings. “What is it?”

“Not poison or snakes. Open it.”

“Yo,” Mikey interrupts, pointing at your banged-up leg, “can I draw on your white thing?”

It takes you a second to figure out what he is referring to. “Oh, you mean—yeah.” You lean your head back against the back of the couch. “Just know that I’ll take white-out to anything that could get me kicked out of school.”

“Deal!” He runs off to your room as his brother pulls the bag open, pulling the pastry from its confinement.

“What is it,” he repeats, icing already on his fingers.

“Cupcake.”

He fingers the wrapper, his brick stare seeming almost to dissect it. “What is it for?”

“Besides being messy?” You smile gently as you watch him try to figure it out, feeling your heart swell. “It’s food.”

“How much of it is edible?”

“Everything except the paper bit.”

He peels the liner back. “And how do you eat it, exactly?”

You lean forward on your arms. “The goal is to eat the frosting and the cake part at the same time, so however you accomplish that.”

He smiles sheepishly, eyes softening as he looks back at you. “Is it possible to eat it without the frosting getting on your face?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He tentatively holds eye contact with you as he takes a bite, unsurprisingly getting icing sticking to the space around his upper lip. You wait tentatively as he licks the excess off, blinking in delighted surprise. “What’s in this, exactly?”

You feel yourself beam at his tone. “It’s nothing too special,” you shrug nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement. “It’s a personal favorite; red velvet with cream cheese frosting.”

He takes another bite. “Do you have more? Follow-up question,” you note his speech quickening, “can you make more?”

“Totally,” you nod in agreement. “I wanted to make you something as thanks for—”

“Back!”

Donnie shoves the rest of it in his mouth as soon as you two hear him.

“Sorry for the wait; I couldn’t find my stuff.” He plops down with a cardboard box filled with various discarded art supplies. “I’d use spray paint, but he—” he nods to his brother, currently trying to choke the rest of the cupcake down—“said I’m not allowed because of fumes or somethin’, so.”

“Fair.” You allow him to drape your calf over his legs, digging into the cardboard box he was carrying and pulling out a pencil. “Got any plans?”

“You’ll see,” he grins, starting to sketch shapes out.

The taller of the two wipes the excess frosting off his fingers. “Oh,” he snaps his fingers, “when you two are done with that, Y/N, I still gotta do that physical.”

“Physical?”

He clears his throat in preparation for a very redundant explanation. “A physical,” he explains calmly to his over-excited brother, “as in a physical examination, not whatever you’re thinking of.”

He blinks. “Like a doctor’s visit?”

“Donnie was asking about my recovery time,” you add helpfully. “Apparently, it’s weirdly long, but I don’t have any weird medical problems, so he wanted to see what the deal was.”

“That, and your comment about how ‘insanely high��� we jump, apparently.”

“Do not air quote that!” You lean your head back to look at him, hair falling onto his lap. “Not when you guys put high jumping to shame.”

He adamantly avoids eye contact, face warming. “It’s not that high,” he mumbles. “Especially if we’re bringing a sport like high jumping into this.”

“I respectfully disagree.” You lay your head down properly, looking up at him from his thighs. “Considering your falling form, it is a miracle you still have working hips.”

“What’s wrong with my form?”

“It doesn’t include a parachute.”

“Okay,” Mikey interjects, “it may not last unless you cover it with something. Just, FYI.”

You lean your head up to look at him. “Noted,” you nod. “I’ll pick up varnish or something on my way home.”

He nods. “Oh,” he asks innocently, “mind turning over? I have to get the other side and I don’t want to hurt you.”

For some inexplicable reason, the boy you are currently laying on looks as though someone has put a gun to his head.

You do as asked with a bit of difficulty, bringing your knee closer to your chest as it is now closest to the back of the couch. “Like that?”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

You look up at Donnie. “Let me know if you need me to move,” you smile. “If your thighs go numb or anything.”

His voice is oddly tight. “You’re good.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Sure? You sound very uncomfortable.”

“Never better.”

“He’s alright,” Mikey reassures you, shooting a thumbs up at his brother behind your back.

“...Alright.” Your eyes focus absentmindedly on what you thought was a couch cushion; upon further inspection, it appears to be a repurposed training mat. You bring the arm not currently pinned to your side under your head, humming an earworm softly.

The boy currently under you is silently panicking as your fingers squeeze gently around his knee, making a conscious effort to stare at the television and only at the television with his hands hovering awkwardly over you. Surprisingly enough, out of the corner of his eye, he does not catch his younger brother trying to stare at you weirdly, sincerely focused on drawing.

You feel him, eventually, resting his hands down, one resting in between your shoulder blades, the other in your hair, twisting a lock of it around his fingers gently. “Still alright,” you ask.

His voice is almost airy, now. “Mhm.”

‘This is nice.’ You trace little designs into the mat as your mind begins to wander, the boys starting to talk about something you struggle to pay attention to. This is not the closest you have been to him physically, but it is nice not to be crying this time around. "Domestic, almost, even if he doesn't think so.’

‘I should learn how to braid.’ Braiding is not something he has necessarily needed to know how to do in the past, but as he wraps the fibers around themselves, curious about the texture, he wishes that he knew; using your hair as a material of sorts would certainly be interesting, and he knows he has the dexterity for it. Admittedly, the conversation is less of a conversation and more of a speech on his brother’s part, but he tries to pay attention.

“So,” Mikey continues, digging into the box and pulling out a pencil sharpener, “he’s watching this guy all stealth-like, right? The guy’s out here, giving out his plans like they’re candy or whatever, and he’s just kinda recording it on one of those little tape recorders you used for that one thing a couple weeks ago-- you know the ones, and-- you don’t mind spoilers-- long story short, the guy gets caught, and when the crew got there, he was totally messed up.”

“Sounds like Batman,” you mumble sleepily-- ‘He really is warm.’

“Huh?”

“Your story.” You hoist yourself up, looking over your shoulder back at him. “Sounds like this Batman cartoon.”

“Batman?”

“Universe…” you stifle a yawn. “My universe has this thing called Batman, and there's a crossover thing in a different iteration of this universe. I guess you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

“Different iteration?” Donatello looks down at your head in his lap, desperately in need of a cold shower.

You feel Michelangelo bend your leg forward. You nod in confirmation, trying to will yourself awake. “Didn’t I… did I?” You lay your head back down properly. “You guys are, like… mega-famous down-- back-- there.”

“I’m not sure if you did.”

“Well,” you giggle sleepily, “you are.” You try to count on your fingers. “You’ve got the original comic, the old cartoon, the two-thousand three animated show, the CGI movie, this one, the two live-action movies, the twenty-eighteen animated one-- gorgeous animation by the by that I have to show you later, Mikey-- that crossover movie with Batman, the live-action show, the other, older live-action movie, the IDW comic series, that weird one with the hats-- there’s a ton.”

“Dude, that is sick!” The resident artist grins. “I bet they were awesome.”

You consider telling him about the IDW comic. You quickly decide against it.

“How long have we-- as a property-- existed, exactly?”

“I dunno.” You shrug. “The first animated show was the eighties, I think.”

“...huh.”

You notice him fiddling with your hair, finally. You don’t mind.

“It’s been too long.”

You freeze, suddenly very awake and painfully aware of your current position.

One of the few good things about having your own apartment: you seem to have forgotten the fear of being walked in on.

“Please, relax.” You hear his smile. It does not help matters. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

The other two, astonishingly, do not seem nearly as anxious as you are.

You look up at him from your spot on his son’s lap. “You look as healthy as ever.” ‘I miss my grandpa. Is Grandma okay?’ You were unable to find your relatives on your father’s side through social media-- they could be dead for all you know.

“No thanks to my diet,” he chuckles. Yoshi walks out of your field of view. “Don’t mind me; how long have they been in the dojo?”

“Half an hour?” You hear the jostling of the box and the snap of an uncapped pen.

You hear him sigh. “Let’s just hope nobody’s died,” he mutters, walking into the dojo.

The three of you strain your ears to-- unsuccessfully-- hear what is going on. The door snaps open as the two brothers leave together in heated silence.

Mikey shakes what you can now identify as a paint pen. “Who won?”

“Nobody.” Leo’s voice, snippy. “Is she out?”

“She is not.” You turn your arm awkwardly to wave back at him.

“Then,” he shrugs, “nice to see you.”

“Likewise.”

“So,” Raph interjects, apparently very interested in the current situation, “can someone please explain what, exactly, is going on here?”

“I’m painting her white thing.”

“Of course. Donnie?”

The mortification would be apparent if you were looking at him.

“Nothin? Okay then.” You shut your eyes as he sits down on the other side of you. “You look terrible. Nice scar.”

“I am too close to very sensitive areas for you to give me a hard time, Raphael,” you warn.

“Whatever.”

“I’m heading out.” Leo nonchalantly bounds the steps, hopping over a divider.

“Tell her I say hi,” you call back. “Remember, consent is key, yellow roses lead to friendzoning, and to always use a condom.”

“... No comment.” He runs off.

“I have so many questions.”

“Ask me later.”

It takes him about twenty more minutes to finish covering the entirety of your cast in brightly colored characters and objects; if you have to describe it, you will say that the style is contemporary pop illustration with composition reminiscent of the renaissance period if the single art class you have taken is serving you right.

“This,” you smile, a little misty-eyed for some reason, “is absolutely gorgeous. Thanks, Mikey.”

He beams. “You’re totally welcome! If you ever get more white things, I’ll draw on those too, if you want.”

“Dude, for sure.” You nod in agreement, looking back at Donnie. “Isn’t it cool?”

Donatello has been quietly jabbed at for the past twenty minutes and is mostly desensitized to the quality of his brother’s art; frankly, it is not his area, and he cannot judge it one way or the other. Despite this, he gives his brother a thumbs up. “Very.”

“Don’t stroke his ego so much,” teases their older brother. “Donnie’ll get jealous.”

“Hate to steal her from you all,” he interrupts, “but I still have a physical to do, so if you would be so kind as to shut up, that would be great.”

‘Green with envy. Is that racist? No clue. Pretty colors.’ Donnie is talking to you. “Huh?”

“I asked if you were still on board.”

You nod. “Mind grabbing my walker?”

He shoots his snickering brother a glare. “Want me to just carry you to the lab?”

Panic. Immediate panic. “You sure you can carry me?”

He shrugs, smiling. “It’s only a few feet. Besides,” he points out, “aren’t you the one always going on about how strong we are by normal standards?”

You do not have a rational way to explain why the idea of being off of solid ground, held up by someone who can potentially drop you, is distressing. You also do not want to insult him in any shape, way, or form. “Promise you won’t drop me?” Your stomach turns.

“Swear it.”

“Can I paint your walker while you guys are doing that?”

“Of all the things you could've chosen--”

“Lay off.” He offers his arms. “You can trust me, I promise.”

You pause. The statement is entirely true, but your gut is screaming at you not to do that. The same gut told you that slamming your body into the person driving the car you were tied up in was a good idea.

You latch your arms around his neck, burying your eyes in the crook of his neck as to not see when and in what direction he is moving you. “Please,” you mumble, trying not to blatantly beg, “do not drop me.”

He does not exactly understand why you are clinging to him so tightly, but he is hardly one to complain. He slides an arm under your knees, picking you up.

Raphael is heckling you. You are more concerned with your body inaccurately telling you that you are going to die from this. Tears prick your eyes as you try to breathe.

He looks down at you, mind wandering as he walks away from his brothers. You look so sweet to him, shaking like a leaf in his arms. Cute. He had thought the same thing when you had started clinging to him during that movie forever ago, when you held his hand last night and pulled him back onto the bed with you. You are not normally openly vulnerable and, although he is hardly one to talk about vulnerability, it is always a sight to behold.

“Please don’t drop me.” He is not exactly sure if you are aware of your own, almost silent begging as you repeat the phrase over and over. ‘You trust me.’ His heart melts.

It takes no time to get you to his lab. He sets you down on a chair, but you do not seem to understand that as you still cling tightly to his neck.

He chuckles nervously. “I need my body to perform the physical, Y/N.”

You were not aware he had put you down. Your eyes snap open as you let your shaking, iron grip relax. “Sorry,” you mumble, face going a gorgeous shade of pink.

“No prob.” ‘Prob?’ His face changes color to match yours.

“So.” He claps his hands together just a bit too hard, slamming the door closed when he hears his brothers’ snickering. “Let’s get started.”

--

You sit on your couch, applying another coat of varnish to your cast as you listen to a cooking show because something something exposure therapy. Also, listening to people scream at one another about food textures is soothing.

Your results were not surprising to you; by the standards of humans in this universe, you are a walking talking coma patient. It was a bit funny, watching him freak out about a blood pressure that you knew-- through the help of google-- was completely normal. You are fine for the most part, if he was using the tools given correctly, and so, you are currently preoccupied with making sure the gorgeous painting on your fiberglass prison is going to stay gorgeous. The only thing he had insisted on, really, was that you not cook, after seeing your crudely applied bandages on your fingers.

You lean back into an actual couch, pulling out your phone and scrolling through pictures of gloves again. You are determined to find a good pair; the deep scars on your hands are not fading any time soon.

You can hear the window slide open. “If you’re planning on killing me--” you stop when you look up to see the look on Donnie’s face. “Something up?”

He says absolutely nothing, leaning his staff against the wall, closing the window in a daze and he stands next to the sofa. “Are you busy?”

“No.”

“Good.” His eyes glance at the space next to you. “Can I stay here for a bit?”

“As long as you like.”

He lays his head on your lap as he sits down, staring blankly at the television screen. He immediately understands why you like this-- your thighs are incredibly soft.

You immediately understand why he was awkward. You have no idea where to put your hands, but you eventually settle on his head as you turn the volume down. “What’s up?”

He takes a deep breath, licking his teeth as he sighs. “I,” he explains, “just realized what my reality is right now and I-- okay, I know this sounds stupid--”

“Not at all.”

“It does,” he insists. “I know it sounds stupid because I realized it did when I was working it out, but I just-- hear me out, okay?” His voice oozes exhaustion.

“I’m hearing you.” You listen to him, laying your phone face down on the coffee table. “Hit me.”

He takes another breath. “I just fought a giant… thing.” He rolls over, looking up at you. “Mikey called it Jacob or something, and it was about twenty feet tall and it looked like something out of a monster movie and it destroyed us in a fight.” You hear his voice rising, and you just nod along, letting him talk. “It wiped the floor with us. And the only reason it existed was that Leo, apparently, got a girlfriend named Karai-- you know her?”

“Hot alt chick with the wicked eyeshadow and eyeliner that could kill?” You nod. “Yeah, I’m familiar.”

“Her-- wait, should I…?” He trails off, shakes his head. “Another time.” He covers the side of his face with his hand, gesturing animatedly with his other. “Anyways, apparently he met this girl because she wanted to do a heist with him-- this girl, working for the Foot, of all people-- sixteen or whatever-- she goes and just touches a button to mix the DNAs of all the creatures an alien race could find on Earth, and then bails.” He realizes he is shouting, lowers his voice. “The alien creatures, in case you forgot, that look like brains and waddle around on tentacles which, by the way, makes no evolutionary sense whatsoever, decided to create a button that mixes the entirety of their samples of DNA together in a smorgasbord of wrong, okay?”

“Uhuh.” You nod along. You know what he means, even if the word he used was technically not correct.

“This thing,” he continues, officially ranting, “destroyed a building! It set the whole thing on fire, which was probably only Kraang, but also maybe had normal people in it, which is concerning.” He rubs his eyes aggressively. “So, to recap, an alienish creature named Jason or whatever got created by Leo’s crush and destroyed a building and that was just what happened today!” He raises his hands in the air, almost accidentally hitting you in the face. “I didn’t bat an eye at this!”

“Man, I feel you.”

“And I understand,” he continues, “the irony of telling you this, considering I am a giant, talking turtle created by the very same mutagen that created Justin or whatever its stupid name was, was taught ninjutsu by my ninja master father who is also a rat, and that you have already previously died--”

“All very bizarre things,” you agree.

“-- but this is just…” he sighs. “My life is getting so… weird? It was already weird, I know, but more so than I thought it reasonably should be.”

You wipe a bit of oil you notice on his cheek off with your thumb. “This world is a weird one,” you admit.

His voice is lower now as he follows your hand with his eyes. “I…” He takes breath. “I just wish we were more normal, you know? That our lives were more normal, that our existences made more sense, you know?”

You cup his face in your hand gently, remembering how your mother used to do the same for you. “I do.”

You feel him leaning into your touch. “I wish,” he mumbles, almost to himself, “that I was a normal, human teenager who went to school and didn’t know how to use a bo staff and had three, normal brothers who could try to get girlfriends without worrying about whether or not they wanted to kill them.”

You sigh, running your thumbs along the edge of his eye socket, feeling the soft skin shift under you. “You’re very well adjusted for a teenager trained in the art of assassination,” you joke softly.

He chuckles dryly, closing his eyes. “My mother is an empty canister in a locked cabinet in the kitchen.” He exhales slowly. “My stepmom was murdered by a man now actively trying to murder me and my entire family because of a decades long feud. Well adjusted is probably the highest compliment you could give me.”

“I’ve given you higher.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” You glance up at the television screen, then back at him. “You’re holding up better than I am, and you’ve been fearing for your life since you were real little.”

“Apples and oranges.” He rests his hand on yours.

“Look,” you shrug, “the way I see it, life is a series of events that all string together to the present.”

“Butterfly effect.”

“Exactly.” You smile down at him. “And if things didn’t happen exactly as they did, we never would’ve met, the world would be totally screwed, and we would be missing out on one of the greatest minds on the planet.”

He looks to see if you are being serious.

You are.

“You also wouldn’t have a broken leg and messed up hands,” he points out ruefully.

“Meeting you was worth it.”

He reaches up, running his fingers along the scar on your face. “I disagree.”

“It’s my body, and my physical detriment. It doesn’t matter if you’re stupid enough to think it wasn’t worth it.”

You feel his body relax

You two shut up for a bit, watching the show absentmindedly.

After a while, he pipes up. “It’s alright if you say no,” he starts tentatively, “but is it alright if I stay here again tonight?”

“Will your brothers mind?”

“They don’t care so long as I’m home before sunrise,” he shrugs. “I just like it here. Smells better.”

You smile brightly. “Sure,” you agree easily. “I sleep better with you here, anyways; I don’t worry about people sneaking in through the window.” You check the varnish. “I just have to wait for this to dry the rest of the way, first. You’re free to go to bed without me, though.”

In all honesty, you’re just happy not to be alone.

He nods, standing up and drawing the curtains. He sits down on the bed, untying the mask behind his head. ‘I could get used to this.’ He smiles slightly, slipping a hand into his utility belt and texting his brothers where he was to avoid his brother’s scolding in the morning. He slips that off too, dropping both onto the side of the bed and starting on the wraps on his feet and hands; he had learned his lesson when he had gotten up morning before, having gotten a few hours sleep at home, to large, noticeable indentations in his flesh where the foreign objects had been.

You glance over. “Do those go in the wash?”

He looks back. “Not usually, no.”

“Do you want me to wash them?”

‘You are too considerate.’ He shakes his head. “It’s alright.”

You shrug, putting your hands up. “Suit yourself.” You cross your hands across your stomach, staring absentmindedly back at the screen. “You can use the shower in the morning, but please do not use all of the hot water. Fridge is open if you need breakfast.”

“Nah,” he sighs, slipping the clothes into his utility belt. “I’ll eat at home.”

You nod in acknowledgement.

It occurs to him as he sets his knee and elbow pads with the rest of his things that, technically, he is stripping in front of you, and you are not batting an eye. As soon as that clocks, it also dawns on him that you are showing the most skin he has ever seen-- an A-shirt and gym shorts-- which had not even registered until he was laying in your bed. You are relaxed and in your warm apartment, watching a television program with him in your bed. You are awake and absolutely gorgeous and you feel safer with him of all people.

His heart swells as he slides under the blankets, the sound of the television white noise at this point.

You glance back at him, the phrase “Snug as a bug in a rug," coming to mind as you look over at him, struggling to keep his eyes open. “You gonna fall asleep?”

His face warms. He nods. "It's been a really long day," he admits.

“Then goodnight,” you smile. “Sweet dreams.”

He smiles sleepily. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he shuts his eyes.

You swallow.

You forgot how much you missed this.

Table of Contents

Chapter 10

Chapter 12