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Leo doesn’t know how long he’s been awake.
It could be minutes or an hour. Time seems to slow down in these moments, here in the quiet sanctuary of your room. The world outside, with its endless, bone-wearying battles, feels a million miles away. Because here, there is only the soft morning light, the gentle sound of your breathing, and the deep, settling peace that fills his chest whenever he’s with you.
He carefully studies your profile: the elegant slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, parted just slightly as you breathe. Your eyelashes casting delicate shadows across your cheekbones. Your skin, warm and rich like caramel. A single vibrant strand of hair has fallen across your cheek, and he feels a strong urge to brush it behind your ear, but he holds still, hand hovering for a second before retreating.
He wouldn’t dare disturb this.
You look too peaceful, and after last night—after the panic he caused you—you deserve every moment of rest you can get.
His mind drifts back. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission. A cakewalk. Instead, they walked straight into an ambush. He remembers the searing pain as a blade sliced across his bicep, the jarring crack when his knee connected with concrete. Then there was the adrenaline-fueled panic as he tried to portal his brothers to safety while fending off multiple attackers at once.
They had made it out, but not unscathed.
Donnie had a concussion, Raph’s shell was chipped along the edge, and Mikey’s arm would inevitably end up in a sling. Leo, with his own bleeding arm and throbbing knee, had felt the crushing weight of it all settle on his shoulders. He was the leader. The one who was supposed to prevent this, to stop things like this from happening.
When they’d finally limped back to the lair, despite exhaustion hitting him like a brutal punch, he helped the others to the med-bay and grabbed the kits and ice packs, moving on autopilot. But as Donnie patched up Raph and Mikey tended to his own sprain, Leo slipped away.
He needed you.
He remembers portaling to your fire escape, the blue light of the mystic energy fizzling out as his knee buckled beneath him. His breathing was ragged, vision swimming slightly, as he leaned against your window. He’d tapped on the pane and waited, praying you were home.
Your face when you slid the window open is burned into his memory. First, there was the soft, sleepy smile of a welcome, and then it vanished, replaced by a look of unfiltered shock and horror that twisted your features.
“Leo! Por Dios, what happened to you?!” Your voice had been a sharp, worried gasp.
Before he could even make a joke—before he could say something stupidly charming like, “You should see the other guy”—you were there. You managed to hold him up as you guided him inside. You didn’t ask questions about the mission, not then. Every ounce of your attention was on him.
You had him sitting on the edge of your tub, your brow furrowed in concentration as you moved around the bathroom, gathering supplies. Out came the first-aid kit, along with a bowl of warm water and a clean washcloth. He watched you through a haze of pain and fatigue as you set the supplies down on the sink.
“Hold still, mi amor,” you murmured, your voice quavering just a little. Your hands shook slightly as you dabbed at the gash on his arm. He’d flinched, letting out a hiss of pain through his teeth, and your face softened as you winced with sympathy.
“Sorry … sorry,” you whispered, your fingers trembling as you tried to be gentle, hovering over the injury. “I have to clean it.”
He remembers the feeling of your fingers, so warm and careful against his skin. He remembers the soft scolding, a tangle of languages that made his heart both race and ache. “Idiota. So reckless. You need to be more careful. You think you’re invincible … but you’re not. You’re flesh and blood just like everyone else.”
Even now, staring at you sleeping, he hears the worry beneath those words, the tenderness hiding in the reprimand.
As you worked, your anger slipped away, leaving only a gnawing worry. He rested his head against the tiles of the wall, eyes closed, just listening. He felt the antiseptic sting, followed by the pressure of a bandage being tightly secured. Once his arm was done, you kneeled before him to examine his knee.
“Can you move it?” you’d asked, your hand resting lightly on his thigh. It was already swelling, a painful-looking purple and yellow bruise blooming.
“Yeah. Just a bad bruise, I think. Took a rough landing.”
“You are so lucky,” you sighed, the breath rushing out of you. You ran your hands through your hair in exasperation, tugging slightly at the roots. Finding an ice pack, you wrapped it in a towel and secured it around his knee with an elastic bandage.
Once you finished, you looked again for any injuries you might have missed. You stood to wash your hands, drying them on a towel. And he took those same hands, pulling you closer until you were resting against his plastron.
“I’m okay, love,” he whispered into your hair. “Thanks to you.”
You didn’t say anything, just tightened your arms around his waist, careful of his bruises, burrowing your face into the crook of his neck. He let out a relieved exhale as the last of his tension melted away.
“You’re staying here tonight,” you had stated, your voice muffled against his shoulder.
He hadn’t argued; the thought of leaving the warm, safe bubble of your apartment was unbearable.
You helped him hobble to the bedroom, acting as a crutch, and eased him into bed. The moment his head hit the pillow, the last of his adrenaline vanished, and exhaustion crashed over him like a tidal wave. He was asleep before you had even finished pulling the duvet up over his shoulders.
Now, in the light of a new day, he looks at you again. You, who had seen him at his lowest, battered and broken, stripped of his bravado, and never flinched. You who had not shied away from the blood, the grime, the reality of what he was. You had just seen him.
Your Leo.
And you had set about putting him back together.
Leo thinks back even further, back to when the two of you first met.
You were eighteen, a college student, sitting on a park bench in the evening with a sketchbook. He had been on a solo patrol, a cocky nineteen-year-old ninja who thought he was the smoothest turtle in the tri-state area. He’d dropped down onto the bench beside you, posing dramatically, ready to deliver a one-liner. But he’d been so captivated by the intensity in your eyes as you sketched that he had just … sat there, silently watching.
Eventually, you looked up, startled, your eyes wide. He braced himself for a scream, for you to run. The usual reaction. But you didn’t scream. You just blinked, your gaze moving from his blue mask tails fluttering in the wind, down his plastron, to his three-fingered hands, and back up to his eyes. Then a slow, curious smile spread across your lips.
“Well,” you’d said, your voice laced with amusement rather than fear, tilting your head to the side. “You’re definitely not in the tourist brochures. Are you a performance artist? Or just really committed to cosplay?”
And that was it. That was the beginning.
Your friendship had been a slow burn, built on late-night conversations on rooftops, sharing pizza, and your endless, patient acceptance of his bizarre life. You learned about his brothers, his father, the hidden city beneath the streets. And he learned about your passions, the way you hummed songs when you were happy, the specific brand of chips you adored.
He had fallen for you long before he ever admitted it, even to himself.
He’d fallen for your wit, your kindness, your fierce loyalty. He’d fallen for the way you saw him, not as a mutant or a hero, but as a person. You saw the guy behind the bravado, the vulnerability behind the constant jokes. You were the only person who could make him feel truly, completely seen.
When you finally got together, a little over a year after you first met, it felt less like a beginning and more like a homecoming. It was the most natural thing in the world. And in the years since, you have become the steady ground beneath his feet in the whirlwind of his life.
He shifts his weight slightly, trying to get comfortable, but a dull ache radiates from his bandaged arm. It’s a reminder of his fallibility and his weaknesses. In his line of work, weakness can get you—or the people you care about—killed. So much of the time, he projects effortless confidence, unshakable cool. It’s a mask he wears for his brothers, so they don’t panic. For himself, so he doesn’t crumble.
But with you, the mask falls away.
He doesn’t have to be the unflappable leader or the witty hero. He can just be Leo. Sore, tired, and a bit broken. And you love him anyway. He leans in, pressing a feather-light kiss to your temple, inhaling the scent of your hair. He is so, so lucky.
The thought hits him so strongly, so completely, it feels almost tangible in his chest, a feeling so full that it expands behind his ribs until it’s close to bursting.
The first thing you’re aware of is the warmth.
It’s a steady presence pressed against your back, solid and comforting. And then there’s the smell: clean linen, a faint trace of last night’s antiseptic, and beneath it all, the familiar scent that’s unmistakably him.
Leo.
The transition from sleep to wakefulness is slow, like swimming up through warm, thick honey. You feel the gentle pressure against your temple, a kiss that seems to seep directly into your consciousness, pulling you towards the surface. Your eyelids flutter, heavy and reluctant to open. But you stretch, your joints popping, and yawn. Your hand comes up to rub the sleep from your eyes, and when you pull it away, your vision clears.
Leo is propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His face is bare, his mask draped over your bedside lamp. In the morning light, you can see the faint silvery scars on his skin. His expression is one you’ve come to cherish: unguarded, gentle, full of an adoration that makes your heart ache in the sweetest way.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice a smidge raspy.
“Hey,” you say, your own voice heavy with sleep. Your fingers lift to trace the line of his jaw. “How are you feeling? What about your arm … your knee?”
Your immediate concern for him makes the smile on his face soften even more. He captures your hand, shifting slightly to bring your palm to his lips before pressing a kiss into its center. “Sore,” he admits. “The world’s most pathetic excuse for a ninja this morning. Every muscle feels like it’s been put through a blender. But I’ll live.” He shifts, a slight wince crossing his features as he moves his injured leg.
“Don’t move too much,” you chide gently. You push yourself up into a sitting position and lean over him to give the bandage on his bicep a careful inspection. It’s clean, with no signs of bleeding through. Then, almost instinctively, you rest your hand on his knee, on the swollen joint. “Definitely staying put today. No portals. No jumping. No showing off.” Your tone leaves no room for argument.
He watches you, a fond, amused expression on his face. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.”
You meet his gaze, and the intensity there makes you pause. It’s more than just morning affection; there’s a depth there, a gratitude that feels profound. “What are you thinking about?” you ask, almost shyly. “You’re staring.”
He hesitates for a moment, as if trying to find the right words to contain a thought too large for language. Then he settles back against the pillows and gently pulls you down with him, so you’re lying on your side, facing him. He tucks you in close, wrapping his uninjured arm around you and resting your head on his shoulder. You can feel the steady thrum of his heart beneath your ear, a reassuring rhythm.
“Just … last night,” he begins, his voice a quiet murmur against your hair. “You. Taking care of me. Even when I looked like a mess.”
“Of course I did,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You were hurt. I was so worried.” You lift your head to look at him again. “You really scared me. When I saw you at the window …”
“I know,” he says, his thumb stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. “And I’m sorry. But it’s more than that.” He sighs contentedly. “I was just lying here, watching you sleep, and thinking about how ridiculously lucky I am.”
Your heart gives a little flutter. “Leo …”
“No, really,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost fragile. “My life is messy. Dangerous. Half the time I’m just pretending I’ve got it together—cracking jokes, so no one sees how much it actually gets to me. So Raph doesn’t freak out, or so Dad doesn’t worry. It’s exhausting.” His eyes lock onto yours, and it’s like he’s holding out the raw edges of himself for you to touch. “But then I come here … to you. And everything stops. The chaos, the pretending. You see the jagged parts and don’t run. You see the leader who failed his team, and you still patch him up.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them back. You press a kiss to his plastron, right over his heart. “There are no cracked parts, mi vida. Just parts that need a little extra love sometimes. And you didn’t fail them, Leo. You got them home. That’s what a leader does.”
He tightens his hold on you, burying his face in your hair. “See? Lucky.”
You lie together in quiet comfort, simply existing in each other’s presence. The sun climbs higher, spilling warm golden light across the room. Outside, the city gets louder by the minute, but here—on this bed—it feels like your own private world, safe and still.
“So,” you say eventually, your voice muffled by his shoulder. “What’s the recovery plan for the world’s ‘most pathetic ninja’?”
You feel the rumble of his laugh. “I was thinking it involves staying in this exact spot for the foreseeable future. Maybe moving only for bathroom breaks.”
“An excellent plan,” you concur. “I can order food. We can binge some movies and build a pillow fort.”
“A pillow fort?” he echoes, his voice filled with delight. “You’re speaking my language. Can we make it a fortress?”
“Only the best for my Champion,” you tease.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes that tells you he’s feeling more like himself. “But on one condition.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“You have to be the one to get the remote. It’s way over there.” He gestures vaguely with his head towards the dresser, a good ten feet away. “Far too perilous a journey for an injured warrior such as myself.”
You roll your eyes, a laugh bubbling up from your chest. “You are unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably handsome, you mean?” he quips, his signature smirk finally making a full appearance.
“Unbelievably lazy,” you correct, poking him gently in the ribs. “But fine. For my wounded soldier, I’ll brave the treacherous terrain of the bedroom floor.”
You make a show of sighing dramatically as you untangle yourself from his embrace and slip out of bed. Then you climb back in, remote in hand, and pull the blanket up over both of you. Immediately, he pulls you close again, greedy for your warmth. You put your head on his chest, while he rests his chin on the top of your head.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, the word full of a sincerity that goes far beyond just your fetching of the remote.
“Anytime, Leo,” you whisper back, snuggling deeper into his embrace. “Anytime.”
The rest of the day drifts by. You order an absurd amount of food and settle in for a marathon of cheesy movies, laughing so hard your sides ache as the two of you provide running commentary on the bad special effects.
“That monster looks like a reject from Draxum’s lab,” Leo snorts around a mouthful of crust, pointing at the screen with his good arm.
“Hey, don’t insult the rubber suit guy; he’s trying his best,” you defend, feeding him another slice.
Between bites and chuckles, you doze on and off, tangled together in a nest of blankets. He shares stories about his brothers’ latest antics, like how Mikey tried to cook a soufflé with mystic fire and would have singed his eyebrows off—if he had any to begin with. And you fill him in on the commission you just landed and the difficult client who wants everything in ‘shades of beige.’
Through it all, he clings to you, his hand constantly seeking yours, as if your very presence is a balm he can’t live without. And you let him. You pour all your love and your care into just being there, into creating a space where he can heal. Not just his body, but also his spirit. Because here, in your room, amidst the pizza boxes and bad movies, he is not a hero or a leader or a mutant.
He is just Leo, and you are his.
And that’s more than enough.