Michelangelo is twenty-six, and receives his master's degree in the fall. He found his niche in psychology, and you more than support his decision to continue until he has his doctoral, too. Donatello is so proud of him that he beams with it.

His hair is longer, where yours is shorter, than it was when you first met him, but forever a mop of unruly dandelion curls. He smiles at you from under a dusting of freckles he'll never outgrow, and squeezes your hand.

His engagement ring is smooth and cool against your palm. You shift your hand in his until you can rub the small studs of orange sapphire with the pad of your thumb, and watch his smile break even wider, dimpling his cheeks, impossibly charming, even after all these years.

"Don't be nervous," he says, singsong and teasing. "Leo may be a big-shot karate grandmaster or whatever he is now, but you could probably still take him if things go south. Besides, he likes you. What are you so worried about?"

Michelangelo is twenty-six, and still very much the baby of his family. His big brothers will always dote on him, even now that he's taller than Raphael and pays his own bills and owns a loft in Manhattan with you; and that is what you're so worried about.

"What if they don't approve? What if Leonardo doesn't approve?" You watch his face carefully, the words weighing heavy on your heart. "You said yes, but surely you'd change your mind if– "

He's still a good deal shorter than you, which is why he fists a hand in the front of your shirt and drags you down hard for a kiss. It's chaste and closemouthed, a quick press of his lips to yours, but his grip on your arms is tight.

"No take-backs," he says when he leans away, and if you hurt him with your doubt he doesn't show it. Just gives you a quick, flash-bang smile, and adds, "This ring is mine. We're engaged now, you're stuck with me forever, and my whole family is waiting inside for us to tell them the great news. Seriously, you're putting us way behind schedule, me and Karai should have been flipping through these wedding catalogs by now."

You steel yourself and nod, ringing the doorbell. Almost immediately, you hear voices in the foyer and quick steps moving toward the door. And before your anxiety has any fighting chance to choke you, Mikey's head is pillowed sweetly on your shoulder, his arm tucked tightly around yours.

"Head high," he says gently, the same way he did that first time you cut your hair and exposed your scars to the world. There's whole years of warmth, whole years of affection in his voice, along with a love you would recognize anywhere, when he adds, "Good luck, buddy."