It doesn't matter where she is or what she's doing, it was as though Donatello's eyes were naturally drawn to April O'Neil. He could walk into a room and his eyes, on their own, would begin to drift until they found the young red head he had come to love.
Once his eyes found her, it was nearly impossible to take them away. She could be doing the most boring or mundane thing known to man and he would still be able to watch her with amused interest.
She was a vixen who could capture his heart in more ways than one, a witch who could cast him under her spell with the simplest of words. April was the siren and he was the sailor that fell for her toxic singing, she was a goddess and he was an ordinary man that fell for her charm.
Donatello knew that this spell that she had him under would never go away. And, quite frankly, he didn't want it to. He loved the feeling it brought him, this sense of comfort and content that washed over his heart. And with every waking second, minute, hour, day, week, year, he knew he would forever be drawn to her like a moth to a flame.