In the soft light just before morning, Donatello ran a fingertip over an image on his Tphone and his mind over a favorite old memory.

That May, years ago, had been the hottest on record for New York City. Even underground, his brothers had sweated and complained and demanded he fix the air conditioning before they died of heat stroke. Family drama. He laughed at it, now.

As soon as he'd repaired the system, he'd received a text from April: Donnie can u pls come over? I'm at hm.

He'd sat beside the air conditioning unit and wondered what she was doing home already. She was supposed to be on a date with some guy from her English class, Mark or Matt or something, to a big dance called The Prom. He'd tried to ignore a sudden thought that it should be him taking her to the dance. It was impossible.

Another text came in: Donnie pls? R u there?

She needed him. It had taken him about two seconds to leave the lair and brave the humidity to take the turtles' rooftop highway straight to her apartment, sweating all the way, wishing his mutation had left him cold-blooded.

April had stood there on her fire escape, hugging herself in spite of the heat, moonlight making her freckled shoulders glow above her strapless dress. She'd lifted her face as Donnie landed, and he'd been shocked to see it streaked with tears.

She needed him. Hands normally afraid to touch hers had shot out to grab both.

"I'm here, April. What happened?"

Her eyes had lifted to him then, eyes brimming with high school wounds, eyes the shining blue of kyanite, polished and perfect, the same color as her dress. She'd apologized—I shouldn't have dragged you out here—but he'd hushed her with a gentle hand to her cheek. A brave hand.

"Tell me, April." And she had.

One nasty girl had asked April if she'd stolen her dress from the Salvation Army. April's date had shown up late and wasted, wanting her to do some shots of Jack in one of the school bathrooms, and had left with another girl when she'd refused. Then the girl with the dress comment had been crowned Prom Queen. As the first act of her reign, she'd flipped April off.

Donnie had held her as she cried, and he'd gotten an idea. He'd let go of her, looked up, and searched the skies. Cassiopeia, the queen. It was a circumpolar constellation, so he'd known it would be there, and it hadn't let him down.

While April had watched and waited and wondered, he'd moved up and down and all around the balcony, trying to put the stars in the right position. Then he'd lifted his Tphone and touched the camera app.

"Let me see your beautiful smile," he'd said. And she had.

He'd handed her his phone to show her the picture: April, beautiful, regal, with a tiara of stars, the stars of Queen Cassiopeia, on her head.

"We know who the real Prom Queen is, don't we?" he'd said.

Her kyanite eyes had flown open, her arms had flown open, her mouth had flown open—and then attached itself to his, and stayed for a long time: their first kiss, right after he'd taken the picture he gazed at now; their first kiss, one of so very many.

Together, they'd made scores of warm memories over the years, but the one of that prematurely humid night that had begun with sadness but ended in joy remained one of his favorites.

As a soft pink touched the edges of the sky, Donatello felt strong slender arms circle him from behind. Small hands roamed his plastron, leaving trails of heat. Warm bare skin pressed against his shell. Full lips started a gentle fire at his neck, his shoulder.

"Come back to bed, Donnie," April whispered, lips burning his skin.

Donatello placed the phone on the nightstand. His queen needed him again. He smiled. He could take the heat.