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You squint at your mattress, at the slivers of moonlight and the horizontal shadows of your blinds. Laying on your stomach, you stare at your outstretched arm; it cuts through the stripes of dark and light. In your hand, your phone screen goes black. Too exhausted to even lift the damn thing, you've missed another call.
The soft tap of rain on the window is nice. The sound of the window handle being jimmied open is even better.
You know it's Donatello by the little humph he gives at the sight of you. By the heavy drop of his jacket and boots as he strips himself of his wet outerwear before climbing onto the bed beside you.
He's mindful of his weight as he drapes an arm across your back. He hitches his knee over your legs, but being held down by his weight is nothing like being trapped in the fog of your thoughts. This is grounding. You were lost in that fog, but this feels like being found. Your shoulders jump with a silent, tearless sob. Donnie's found you again--he always does.
You haven't turned toward him. But he snuggles closer. He tucks his face into your trembling shoulder and presses his lips to your shirt. It isn't a kiss; it lasts longer than a kiss would. Donnie just kind of rests there, with his lips on you. He breathes you in as he lies half on top of you, and he waits.
He waits for you to find your way to him.
Donnie doesn't say anything in words you understand, but he vocalizes clicks and coos in the language he shares with his brothers. You know the turtles hardly use it now and it warms you to have him share such an intimate family connection with you.
You start to feel your limbs again. Once leadened and numb as you lie down overwhelmed by the day, by the world, your body now tingles with the ghost of Donnie's breath on your skin.
When you turn to him, Donnie's smile is patient and pleased. His hand slowly drifts up and down your spine as your eyes focus on his.
"There you are," he whispers, his lips still pressed against your arm.
You still don't have the energy to speak, but you manage a weak nod.
Donatello understands. "That's great," he mumbles into your shirt. "I'm here, too."