The restaurant is dimly lit, the low hum of conversation filling the space. A soft glow from the candles flickers between you, casting shadows across Sonic’s sharp features. He’s relaxed—too relaxed—one arm draped over the back of his chair, fingers tapping idly against the table.

You should be enjoying this. It’s a date, after all. A rare moment of civility between you and him. But there’s something unsettling about the way he watches you. Not in admiration, not in affection—no, it’s something far more dangerous. More primal.

He hasn’t touched his food much. Instead, he seems far more interested in watching you eat, his gaze never wavering. Every time you lift your glass, his eyes follow the movement of your lips. Every time you shift in your seat, his smirk deepens.

It’s deliberate. A silent game he’s playing, making you hyperaware of every little movement, every breath. The weight of his attention is suffocating, an invisible grip tightening around you.

And yet… you don’t move away.

The air between you is thick, heavy with something unspoken. The tension coils tighter with each second, stretching unbearably. Then, finally—he speaks.

"You’re not even touching your food. What’s wrong? Too distracted?"