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The music pulses through you.
In the studio mirrors, your movements are sharp and fluid. You and your crew are perfectly in sync, doing justice to the K-Pop choreography you’ve spent weeks perfecting. It’s muscle memory now, but your heart still races with every move.
Though unbeknownst to you, someone else’s heart is racing just as fast …
Mikey watches your livestream on his laptop, eyes glued to the screen and grinning. You’re leading your crew through a razor-sharp routine as a bass thumps from the tiny speakers. He watches the way you hit every beat, the effortless fluidity of your movements, the sheer joy that radiates from you.
He’s seen every video on your channel at least five times. He knows many of the choreography routines by heart. But he watches them like it’s the first time, every time. Because to him, you’re not just dancing; you’re creating something beautiful.
And he’s mesmerized—so much so that he doesn’t register the door to his bedroom opening.
“Hey, Miguel. Whatcha watchin’?”
Leo’s voice, smooth and laced with easy-going mischief, slices through Mikey’s concentration. In a move of uncharacteristic panic, Mikey slams the laptop shut. His head whips around, a blush already coloring his cheeks a darker shade of green.
“Nothing!” he yelps, his voice cracking and jumping an octave. He shoves the laptop away as if it’s hot.
Leo leans against the doorframe, brow ridge raised in a perfect, knowing arc. “Nothing, huh? Suuuure. Looked an awful lot like that dancer—you know, the one you’ve been watching for …” He taps a finger on his chin in mock thought. “The past three weeks straight?”
Mikey’s blush deepens to a furious, hot scarlet. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Dude,” Leo begins, crossing his arms, “it’s not the first time I’ve caught you watching her.”
Mikey looks like he wants to melt into his hoodie. “Shut up …”
“You’ve got it bad. What’s her name again?”
“Does it matter?” Mikey mutters, pulling his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself. “She’s human.”
Leo shrugs. “So?”
“So,” Mikey groans, “she’s incredible and normal and I’m a mutant turtle with ‘chuck skills and an art obsession. What if she sees me and just … thinks I’m a freak?” The word comes out small and wounded, a fear he rarely shows.
Leo’s expression softens. “You know that’s not true anymore. Things are different now. The world knows about us—about yokai, mutants, the whole underground scene. And yeah, not everyone’s cool with it yet, but plenty are.” He goes over to his younger brother and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Look, if anyone has a shot at making a human fall for them, it’s you. You’re smart, kind, talented—and don’t even get me started on your mad dance skills.”
Mikey’s eyes widen. “You think I can dance?”
“I’ve seen you dance,” Leo says, grinning. “You vibe with the music like it’s an extension of your soul. You and that girl? You’ve already got something in common. And besides, she’s got all kinds of people in her classes. I saw a fish-man and a girl with fox ears in the back of one.”
Mikey hesitates. “You really think I should talk to her?”
Leo smiles. “I think you need to. Worst case, she doesn’t feel the same. Best case? You walk out with a new friend. Or maybe more. But either way, you’ll never know if you don’t try. Go for it.”
Mikey chews on the inside of his cheek, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his hoodie. “But … what would I even say?” he mumbles. “I can’t just message her like, ‘Hey, I’m a giant turtle and I think your dance moves are fire. Wanna hang out?’”
Leo chuckles. “Hey, stranger things have happened. You saved the world like, what? Twice? I think you can survive this.” He gives Mikey a thumbs-up before he leaves.
Mikey opens the laptop slowly, heart thumping in his chest. The livestream is over now, replaced by the still thumbnail of you stretching and laughing with your crew post-practice. His eyes soften at the sight.
There’s a link in your bio to your studio’s website. There, in clean fonts and bright colors, was the class schedule—your name listed as the choreographer for the Saturday afternoon “Open Level K-Pop Fusion” class. And lucky for him, that was tomorrow.
He takes a deep breath, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his mattress, his heart thudding in sync.
“Okay,” he whispers to himself. “I’m doing this.”
Today is a bad day.
You’re standing at the front desk of your studio, the polished wood cool and solid beneath your forearms—and you are trying very hard to maintain your professional composure.
“Sir, my studio is open to everyone who wants to dance,” you say, for what feels like the tenth time.
The man in front of you is red-faced, his fists clenched at his sides. He’s the father of a student who quit last week, and he’s decided today is the day to air his grievances. “Everyone? You let those monsters in here! Around normal kids! It’s disgusting!”
You stiffen, an icy knot forming in your stomach, but you keep your spine straight. “The students I accept are not monsters.”
“They’re not human!” he spits, jabbing a finger toward the main dance floor. You can see the student he’s talking about through the glass door: a young Kappa girl named Kiko. She’s only twelve, and she’s trying to make herself small in the corner, her usual bright-eyed enthusiasm completely gone. “They’re revolting and should go back to wherever they came from!”
That’s it. Your patience, already frayed, snaps clean in two. “You,” you say, your voice dangerously low, “should get out of my studio. Now.”
His face twists in a sneer of rage. He takes a step forward and leans towards you, invading your personal space. “You people who coddle them are just as bad.” And then he shoves you.
It’s not a hard shove, but it’s enough to knock you off balance. You stumble backward, hitting the wall with a soft thud, the wind knocked out of you more by shock than by force. Before you can even form a response, an unfamiliar figure appears, seemingly from nowhere.
He’s tall, his shoulders broad under a large, bright orange hoodie that obscures his face in shadow. He simply steps between you and the angry man, an imposing wall. “I think,” a voice comes from under the hood, “you should leave.”
The angry man sputters, puffing out his chest to argue. But then he seems to truly see the size and three-fingered hands of the person in front of him. The man’s bravado deflates like a punctured balloon, a squeak of genuine fear escaping his lips before he turns and practically flees the studio.
The hooded figure stays still for a moment, then slowly turns to you. “Are you okay?”
You’re still a little shaken, but you nod, pushing yourself off the wall. “Yeah. I’m fine. Thank you.” You glance back into the studio, where Kiko is peering out with wide, watery eyes. You give her a small, reassuring smile before turning your attention back to your rescuer. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
He fidgets with the drawstring of his hoodie, a nervous energy radiating off him as he shuffles his feet. “It’s okay. He was way out of line.” There’s a few beats of silence before he continues, “I, uh … I came because I … well, I’ve fancied myself a bit of a dancer.”
The statement is so earnest and so wildly unexpected that it coaxes an actual smile from you, chasing away the lingering ugliness of the confrontation. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He seems to gain a sliver of confidence from your smile, and he finally lifts his head. The shadow of the hood falls away, and you find yourself looking at the kindest, most expressive face you’ve ever seen. “I’ve also, um, seen your videos online.” He blushes, his gaze flitting to the floor briefly before returning to you, his expression full of unvarnished awe that makes your heart do a little flip. “You’re … amazing.”
You look at this nervous, sweet-faced hero who just defended you and your students without a moment’s hesitation, who calls you amazing, like it’s a simple, undeniable fact of the universe. You see scared little Kiko, and then you see him—and it just reaffirms that the ugly, angry man was wrong about everything.
Your studio is for everyone. For Kiko.
And maybe for him, too.
A warm, genuine smile spreads across your face, easing the last of the tension. “Well, Mr. Fancies-Himself-a-Dancer,” you say, teasing gently, gesturing with your head toward the polished floors and mirrored walls behind you. “Want to come in?”
He halts, mouth slightly open, like his brain short-circuited trying to process the invitation. Then, with a slow blink and a shaky breath, he nods. “I—I’d love to.”
You lead the way back toward the main dance floor, and he follows. Kiko spots him from across the room, her eyes still wide, but now tinged with curiosity. Mikey offers her a gentle smile and a small wave. To your surprise, Kiko waves back.
Once inside, you clap your hands to regain everyone’s attention. “Okay, everyone, let’s reset from the top. Take five if you need to. And we have a new dancer joining us today.” You look at him. “This is …?”
He straightens when you introduce him. “Michelangelo,” he finishes. “But you can just call me Mikey.”
“Mikey,” you repeat with a smile. “He’s here to dance, so treat him like you would anyone else.”
A couple students nod and smile; one girl with bunny ears offers him a cheerful thumbs-up. Mikey visibly relaxes, his shoulders lowering slightly as he realizes no one’s screaming or running for the door.
You pull up the track you were working on earlier and glance at Mikey. “Wanna jump in, or warm up first?”
He grins sheepishly. “I’ve, uh … practiced this one. At home. A lot.”
That sparks something in your memory; you recall seeing a username in your livestream chat that kept popping up in the replays. “MagicMike2018?”
Mikey blushes. “That’s me.”
You laugh, bright and delighted. “Knew I recognized your name!”
“Wasn’t expecting to be recognized,” he mutters, half proud, half mortified.
“Wasn’t expecting to get rescued by a fan,” you reply, stepping closer and lowering your voice. “But I’m glad you came.”
And then you start the music.
He’s incredible.
You’ve been dancing with professionals, training for years. But the way Mikey moves is something else. It’s raw, instinctive. Like he doesn’t just follow the beat, he communicates with it. He’s not just mimicking steps. He feels them. Lives them.
In every session since he’s started coming, people fall into rhythm, syncing around Mikey’s vibe without even realizing. He’s got a gravitational pull. Every time he hits a step with just a little extra flair, there’s a ripple of energy through the room. You can’t help watching him. Every turn, every pop, every smooth slide—it’s like discovering your own routine all over again, but through someone else’s eyes.
At the end of the song, the room explodes with claps and whoops. Mikey maintains his end pose, panting, beaming bright enough to light up the whole borough.
“Bro,” one student says, breathless, “that was sick!”
“Where’d you learn that?” another chimes in.
You grin. “You know, I’ve got space on the performance crew. We’re prepping for a summer showcase.”
Mikey goes still. “Wait, are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” you affirm.
He looks around at the students nodding and smiling and accepting him—and then back at you. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes, like this moment might be the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time.
“I’m in!”
The rest of the class goes by in a blur of laughter, music, and movement. Mikey blends right in, cracking jokes during water breaks, sharing high-fives with the other students, and nailing the choreo so hard that even the shyest dancers open up.
You catch Kiko watching him with wide-eyed admiration, clearly inspired.
When class finally winds down, the students trickle out, sweaty and glowing, still buzzing from the high of the session. Mikey lingers, hovering awkwardly by the mirrors as you pack up.
“Hey,” he says, quietly enough that you almost miss it.
You glance up. “Hey yourself.”
There’s a nervous pause, and he fidgets. “Thanks for letting me join.”
“No regrets,” you say honestly. “You kind of light the place up, Mikey.”
His face brightens, bashful but proud. “That’s cool. Really cool.” Then he hesitates, and his gaze flicks to the door before returning to you. “Would it be weird if I … helped with other stuff? With the studio? Like designing posters, providing snacks and refreshments—whatever you need.”
Slowly, you set your things down. “You don’t need to earn your place here. You already have one. But if you want to be more involved?” You smile. “I’d love that.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day. “Cool. Okay. Awesome.”
Then, from the door, Kiko’s small voice calls out, “Bye, Mikey!”
He turns, waves big and bright, and she beams before disappearing into the hallway with her mom.
You step closer. “She didn’t talk to anyone for the first three weeks she came here.”
Mikey’s grin softens into something quiet and full of wonder. “She reminds me of someone I know. Kinda brave in her own way.”
You study him for a moment—he who could’ve hidden from the world but stepped into it instead to defend it. “Wanna grab boba with me?” you ask.
His laugh is pure sunshine. “Yeah, I’d like that!”
You grab your bag, and he pulls his hoodie up again—not out of shame, but out of habit. Still, you catch the edges of his smile underneath, and the way his hand subtly brushes yours as you walk side by side.
The boba shop is located on a side street a block away. Inside, glowing paper lanterns in the shapes of jellyfish and sea turtles cast a warm, multicolored light over a mix of human and yokai patrons. The air smells sweet, of brown sugar and brewing tea.
“Okay, you gotta trust me on this,” he says, his eyes sparkling as he scans the sprawling menu on the wall. “Taro milk tea with strawberry popping boba and lychee jelly. It’s a work of art.”
“That sounds less like a drink and more like a science experiment,” you laugh. “But I’ll trust your judgement on this one, Michelangelo.”
Using his full name makes him startle, then grin. “My brothers call me that when I’m in trouble.”
“Are you in trouble?” you ask, leaning an elbow on the counter as he orders for you both.
“The jury’s still out on that one,” he says with a wink as he hands you the vibrant purple drink.
You find a small booth in the back corner. For a moment, you just sip your drinks in a comfortable, if slightly charged, silence. You catch him occasionally sneaking glances at you over the rim of his cup, but you pretend not to notice.
“So,” you begin, swirling the tapioca with your straw. “MagicMike2018. Where’d the name come from?”
He nearly chokes on a boba pearl. “Oh, man. You’re not gonna let that go, are you?” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s—it’s dumb. My brother Leo helped me come up with it. I do art, you know? He said, ‘You’re like magic with a marker, Mike!’ and then … yeah.” He shrugs.
“Oh, speaking of art, I’d love to see some of yours sometime.”
His eyes snap back to yours. “Really?”
“Of course, really,” you affirm, taking another sip of your drink. “You said it yourself. You’re magic with a marker. I want to see the proof.”
A brilliant grin spreads across his face. He fumbles in the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out a heavily customized phone case covered in vibrant stickers and what looks like his own painted doodles. With a few swift taps of his thumb, he turns the screen toward you.
There are sprawling graffiti-style murals that seem to leap off the screen, filled with swirling letters and dynamic characters. Detailed sketches of cityscapes, capturing the energy of New York in a way you’ve never seen before. There are also character designs: yokai and humans and creatures you can’t even name, each one bursting with personality.
And then you see it: a sketch of a dancer, mid-leap, silhouetted against a splash of watercolor sunset. The pose is familiar. It’s from one of your routines.
You feel a blush creep up your own neck. “Wow, Mikey. These are …” you trail off, genuinely stunned. “They’re like your dancing. Full of energy. They make me feel things.”
He pulls the phone back, his gaze soft as he looks at the screen, then back at you. “That’s the best compliment anyone’s ever given me about my art.” He says it so quietly, so sincerely, that you believe him completely. “I just … I see things, you know? And I have to get them out. On a wall, on a canvas, in a sketchbook. Or on the dance floor.”
“I get that,” you say, a sense of deep understanding passing between you. “It’s a language, isn’t it? When words aren’t enough.”
He nods eagerly, his eyes bright. “Exactly! My brother Donnie, he has tech. Raph has his fists. Leo has his … well, his mouth,” he says with a fond eye-roll. “I have this.”
The casual mention of his brothers piques your curiosity. You’ve only heard about Leo, the one who encouraged him to come to the studio. “So, there are four of you?”
“Yep,” he says, popping another boba pearl into his mouth. “I’m the youngest. Raph’s the oldest, the big brother, literally. He’s huge and acts all tough, but he’s secretly a giant teddy bear. Then there’s Donnie, our resident super-genius. He builds all our stuff. And you’ve heard about Leo.”
You smile. “It sounds like you guys are close.”
“We drive each other crazy,” Mikey says with a shrug and a smile. “We’ve been through a lot, but we’ve always got each other’s backs.”
A comfortable silence settles again, and you find yourself just watching him. Watching the way he taps his fingers on the table, the way his expression shifts through a dozen micro-emotions a minute. You’re struck by how open he is, how much he feels and how little he tries to hide it.
“So,” you venture, feeling a little bold. “What do you and your brothers do, exactly? When you’re not, you know, being artists or tech geniuses?”
He freezes. It’s a subtle shift, but you notice it. The rhythmic tapping of his fingers stops. His easy-going posture tenses up. He looks down into his drink, suddenly fascinated by the lychee jelly at the bottom.
“We, uh …” he starts, stalling. “We have a sort of … family business. We help people. You know. Around the city. It’s complicated.” He looks up, and there’s a guardedness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, a flicker of the weight he carries. “It keeps us busy.”
You realize you’ve stumbled onto something he’s not ready to share. And that’s okay. He saved you from a screaming bigot and dances his heart out in your studio; he’s allowed to have his secrets. You offer him a gentle smile, letting the topic go. “Well, the city’s lucky to have you.”
The tension in his shoulders eases, and he gives you a grateful look. He knows that you know he evaded the question, and he appreciates that you didn’t push.
You both finish your drinks, the conversation drifting back to safer, lighter topics: favorite music, the best pizza places in New York (a topic on which he has very strong opinions), and plans for the performance crew’s showcase. Before you know it, an hour has passed and the boba shop is emptying.
“I should probably get going,” he says, though he doesn’t sound happy about it.
You stand and gather your things. “Thanks for the boba.”
The two of you leave the shop. You walk together for a couple of blocks until you reach the corner of your street, then you stop.
“Well, this is where we part,” you say.
“I, uh, I go this way.” He gestures vaguely toward an alleyway that leads down toward the subway. For a second, he rocks on his heels, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. He looks like he wants to say a thousand things at once. Instead, he just says, “I had a great time.”
“Me too,” you say, and you mean it more than you’ve meant anything in a long time.
He takes a half-step forward, and for a wild second you think he’s going to hug you. But he seems to second-guess himself and pulls back, holding up a fist instead. “See you at practice?”
You smile and gently bump his fist with your own. “You can count on it, Magic Mike.”
He groans, but he’s smiling as he turns and jogs toward the alley, giving you one last wave before he disappears into the shadows. You stand there for a moment, your hand still feeling the faint impression of his. You shake your head and start going home, a silly grin on your face.
In the weeks leading up to the summer showcase, Mikey’s at the studio practically every day. Sometimes he shows up early with fresh mochi donuts he made for the crew. He designs eye-popping, graffiti-style posters you plaster all over the neighborhood. Often, he stays overtime to help you reset the floor or walk Kiko to her mom’s car.
And you? You fall into rhythm with him so easily it’s almost scary. Or it would be—
—if it didn’t feel so right.
He leaves little doodles on sticky notes on your laptop: a smiling turtle giving you a thumbs-up, or a quick sketch of a new dance move he’s thinking about. During practice, you guide him, your hand lightly on his arm to correct a line, or on his shoulder to adjust his posture. You feel the solid weight of his shell, the surprisingly gentle strength in his three-fingered hands, see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs.
Especially recently, you both remain at the studio well into the night. You call it ‘late-night rehearsal,’ but everyone can see it’s more than that. Even when the lights are low and the rest of the crew’s gone home, you stay. You and Mikey, alone, the Bluetooth speakers playing music low.
Tonight is one of those nights.
It’s the last rehearsal before the showcase. Everyone else has already packed up and left for the evening. You’re stretching out a sore calf muscle while Mikey is fiddling with the playlist on his phone. A slow, soulful track begins to drift through the room, the bass a soft, steady pulse like a slow-beating heart.
It’s not one of your practice songs; it’s something softer, more intimate.
He turns from the speaker and holds out a hand to you. No words, just an offering. Your heart gives a little lurch. You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. It’s warm and steady as he settles a hand on the small of your back, his other still holding yours. You place your free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle there.
You move, a slow sway that has nothing to do with choreography—and everything to do with the magnetic pull between you. You rest your head against his plastron, feeling the deep, steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear. It’s faster than it should be. You realize, with a jolt, that it matches the frantic rhythm of your own.
He dips you gently, and when he brings you back up, your faces are inches apart. His bright, expressive eyes search yours in the dim light, full of a question he seems too nervous to ask. The music swells, a tender melody that wraps around you both.
You can see the blush on his cheeks, the slight tremble in the hand holding yours. The air crackles. The entire world seems to shrink until it’s only this space, this song. Him.
He leans in, slowly, tentatively, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You don’t. You can’t. Halfway, you meet him, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips meet yours.
It’s softer than you ever could have imagined. It’s sweet and shy at first. A gentle press, a question. You answer by tilting your head, deepening the kiss just a fraction. A soft, surprised sound escapes his throat. His hand slides from your back up into your hair, cupping the back of your head as he pulls you closer.
The kiss ignites, no longer shy but full of all the unspoken things from the past few weeks: the shared glances in the mirror, the lingering touches, the smiles. Your fingers curl around his arms, holding on tight.
The kiss ends slowly, reluctantly, like neither of you want to let the moment go. But eventually, breathlessness wins out. You part just far enough to look at each other, your foreheads still touching, the world a little hazy around the edges.
His eyes are wide and dazed and unbelievably soft, like he still isn’t sure this is real. “Whoa,” he breathes, and you smile because same.
You rest your forehead against his, your voice barely above a whisper. “You okay?”
He laughs, quiet and breathless. “I don’t think my brain works anymore. Like, at all.” He pulls back enough to look you fully in the face, his expression shifting. Still soft, but a little more serious. “You’re not freaked out?”
Your brows pull together. “By what?”
He lifts one hand, gesturing to himself. “This. Me. Turtle-y-ness.”
Your heart clenches a little. You reach up, brushing your fingers gently along his jawline. “I’m not freaked out, Mikey. I’m … honestly kinda overwhelmed. In the best way. You’re—” You falter, then grin, “—extraordinary.”
He exhales like that’s something he’s been waiting a long time to hear. His arms slip around your waist, drawing you in again, and you go willingly.
The music fades into another track, but neither of you moves to follow the beat this time. You just hold each other, swaying lazily, caught in the afterglow. Eventually, you break the silence.
“So … what happens now?”
His brow furrows slightly. “Like, us?”
You nod.
He bites his lower lip, his thumb tracing light, nervous circles against your side. “I wanna see where this goes. I mean, if you do.”
You lean in and kiss his cheek, just above the corner of his mouth. “I do.”
His whole face lights up, and he lifts you slightly off your feet in a spontaneous, dizzy little spin before immediately setting you down with a sheepish, “Oops, sorry! Got excited.”
You laugh and glance towards the speaker. “One more dance before we call it a night?”
He nods, already reaching for your hand again.
The stage lights are blindingly hot, but you don’t feel them.
All you feel is the music, a living thing that flows from the speakers, into the floor, and up through the soles of your feet. You and the crew move as one entity, a perfectly oiled machine. In the roaring dark of the audience, you can’t make out individual faces, but you can feel their collective energy.
Your eyes find Mikey. He’s right beside you, a blur of orange and green, hitting every single move. He catches your glance mid-spin, and his grin is so wide and bright it could rival the spotlights. In that split second, a silent, electric communication passes between you: We’re doing it!
The final beat drops. You all freeze in your final pose, chests heaving, sweat dripping from your temples. For one suspended heartbeat, the world holds its breath—then the crowd erupts. The sound is a physical force, a wall of applause and cheers that washes over you. It’s the most incredible feeling in the world. And you’re gloriously, completely high on it.
The world backstage is a chaotic, joyful blur of elated hugs, shouted congratulations, and giddy laughter. Adrenaline is still singing in your veins, making everything feel brighter. You’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe as one of your crew members recounts a near-miss with a prop. Then you feel a hand wrap around your wrist, pulling you from the orbit of the group with a gentle but insistent tug.
It’s Mikey. His eyes are practically glowing, and he’s vibrating with a kinetic energy that makes the entire room feel like it’s crackling. “Did you hear them?” he asks, leaning in close for you to hear him. “They went insane!”
“We were insane!” you reply over the din, gripping his hand tightly. “You were incredible!”
“You were a goddess!” he counters, his expression a stunning mix of awe and pure, uncontainable happiness. He pulls you away from the crush of people, guiding you into a slightly less crowded corner behind a stack of equipment cases.
You’re both still panting, high on the performance and the roaring applause of the crowd. He hasn’t let go of your hand and uses it to draw you a half-step closer.
“I can’t even …” he starts, shaking his head as if he can’t find the words in any language. “That was … being up there, with you …”
“Mikey,” you breathe, and the sound of his name on your lips is the only thing needed to detonate the charge that has been building between you for weeks.
He surges forward the same moment you do, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your cheek. The kiss is fierce, hungry, and desperate. You don’t just kiss him back; you devour him, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting to erase any space left between you.
His lips are demanding against yours, and you meet his energy with your own. He groans your name against your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver straight down your spine and pools, hot and heavy, in your stomach. And when you finally break apart, gasping for air, the world feels tilted on its axis.
“Whoa,” is all he can manage, his voice a low, throaty rasp.
You rest your forehead against his, your chests rising and falling in perfect sync. “Yeah,” you agree, your own voice barely a whisper.
He looks at you, his eyes dark and wide in the dim light, searching your face for something. Whatever he finds there makes his expression soften, a dazed, utterly besotted smile spreading across his lips. He lifts his hand from your jaw, his fingers gently tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch sending sparks across your skin. The noise behind you fades into a meaningless buzz.
And the only thing that feels real is him, right here, right now.
He doesn’t ask if you want to leave. He doesn’t have to. The question is there in his eyes, in the gentle pressure of his hand on your skin. You give him a small, almost imperceptible nod, your heart hammering against your ribs.
He leads you away, his hand finding yours again, your fingers lacing together like they were always meant to. You slip out a side door, leaving the noise and the lights and the rest of the world behind. The cool night air is a shock against your skin, but his hand is a warm, steady anchor as you head to his home.
The first thing you register is the light. It’s not the harsh morning sun, but a soft, colorful glow filtering in from somewhere to your left. You blink your eyes open slowly; you’re not in your own bed.
The ceiling above you is a chaotic and beautiful canvas of glow-in-the-dark star stickers interspersed with swirling, vibrant artworks. You push yourself up onto your elbows, a faint soreness in your muscles reminding you of the showcase—and the other things you got up to last night. You’re wearing one of Mikey’s shirts, which smells so much like him, you can’t help but grin like a doofus.
The door creaks open, and Mikey peeks his head in. He’s already dressed, and he offers you a smile that makes your heart do a little flip. In his hands, he’s holding two steaming mugs; he offers you one.
“Morning,” he says softly, his voice still a little gravelly with sleep. “I made coffee.”
A warm smile spreads across your face. The adrenaline of last night is gone, replaced by a comfortable silence that settles over you like a warm blanket. He pads into the room and hands you a mug, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment longer than necessary.
“Morning,” you say, taking a sip.
You look around the room: at the art supplies spilling out of boxes, the well-loved skateboard leaning against the wall, the half-finished canvas on an easel in the corner. You look at him, now sitting on the edge of the bed. He watches you with an expression so open and full of soft affection it takes your breath away.
Then the door slams open.
“Rise and shine, little brother! I see you had a … successful showcase.”
Another mutant turtle stands in the doorway. He takes in the scene—you, in Mikey’s hoodie, in Mikey’s bed—and his smirk widens into a full-blown, triumphant grin. You instinctively pull the blanket up to your chin, nearly sloshing the coffee off the side of the mug, a furious blush creeping up your neck.
Mikey, on the other hand, goes from zero to mortified in half a second, his face flushing a dark, blotchy green. “LEO!” he yelps, jumping to his feet. “GET OUT! What are you doing?!”
“What am I doing?” Leo says, holding his hands up in mock innocence as two more figures appear behind him. “Just checking on my favorite little bro after his big debut. Wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
The tallest one looks less smug and more profoundly awkward, his eyes wide as he avoids looking directly at you. “Uh, morning,” he mumbles, his deep voice sounding somehow uncharacteristically small. “Glad the … show went well. For you. Both of you.”
Next to him, another of Mikey’s brothers is holding a tablet, brow raised.
“OUT!” Mikey all but shrieks, grabbing a pillow from his bed and hurling it at the doorway. Leo dodges it with a dancer’s grace, laughing.
“Alright, alright, we’re going! Sheesh.” Leo looks at you. “Nice to meet ya, officially.”
He pulls a still-stammering giant turtle and the tablet holder out of the doorway, sliding the door shut behind them—though you can still hear his muffled laughter from the hallway.
Silence descends on the room again. Mikey stands frozen for a moment, his back to you, looking like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. He runs a hand over his face with a groan.
“I am so, so sorry about them,” he says, finally turning around. His face is still flushed.
You can’t help it; a small giggle escapes you. Then another. Soon, you’re laughing, a real, full-bodied laugh into your coffee mug.
Mikey watches you, his mortified expression slowly melting away, replaced by a sheepish grin. He sits back down on the bed, shaking his head.
“They seem nice,” you comment between laughs.
“They’re the worst,” he says, but there’s no heat in it, only fondness.
He looks at you, his eyes soft again, the light from his lava lamp catching the gorgeous flecks in his irises.
“What?” you ask.
He just shakes his head, taking the mug from your hands and setting it on the nightstand beside his own. He grabs your hand, his thumb stroking softly over your knuckles. “This is real, then?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “As real as it gets, Magic Mike.”
You tug the blanket up over both your heads, your little cocoon from the rest of the world. He curls in closer, his arms around you like a shield, and you sigh into the warmth of him.
“You’re my favorite dance partner,” you murmur.
He nuzzles your hair. “You’re my favorite everything.”