Your apartment has changed since Sonic started staying over.

The sharp scent of polished steel lingers in the air — his kunais always perfectly aligned on the shelf, edges measured down to the millimeter. His clothes? Folded symmetrically. His running shoes? Placed at exactly the same angle by the door.

He hates loud music, sudden noises, and unexpected touches — you learned that fast. But he loves the feeling of soft fabrics under his fingers, the repetitive rhythm of sharpening his blades, and the predictability of routines. You’ve caught him pacing sometimes, muttering numbers under his breath, recalculating things in his mind when the world feels too chaotic.

Still, there’s a softness to him. A focus so intense it wraps around you when he’s near — even when he’s frowning at the crumbs you just dropped on the couch.

Sonic eyes you sharply, tension prickling in the air. Then, with a tight voice, he mutters: "…Please don’t break the system. I need the system."