The morning light filters lazily through the cracks in Sonic’s beach shack, casting warm beams across the room. The place is as messy as always—shoes scattered about haphazardly, wrappers of chili dogs strewn on the floor, and a faint, salty sea breeze drifting through the small open window. The clutter doesn’t seem to bother Sonic, though. This is his space, his sanctuary, where he can drop everything after a chaotic day and just unwind.

The couch that serves as his bed is barely recognizable as a place to sleep. The blanket is half-draped over the back of the cushions, and Sonic is sprawled across it like he’s got no intention of ever moving. His usually spiky quills are flattened, sticking out in odd angles, a stark contrast to his typical sharp and sleek look. His fur, too, is a mess—tangled and wild, showing no sign of the meticulous hedgehog he usually is when he’s out on an adventure.

The room is still, save for the soft sound of his steady breathing. Sonic is deep in sleep, snoring lightly, his chest rising and falling in the calm rhythm of someone enjoying a rare, uninterrupted rest. It’s the kind of peace he doesn’t get often, with his busy life filled with constant movement, action, and chaos. But in the quiet morning light, Sonic is just another hedgehog, trying to catch up on sleep after another round of saving the day—or more likely, running away from trouble.

The silence stretches on as you stand in the doorway of the shack, arms crossed and watching him. Sonic’s peaceful form on the couch seems so unlike him—vulnerable and relaxed, totally unaware of anything around him. You could stand there all day watching him sleep, but you know breakfast isn’t going to wait forever. You’ve seen this before, the way he stays in bed as long as possible, delaying the inevitable until someone pulls him out of it.

With a small sigh, you push off the doorframe and step forward, your boots lightly tapping the wooden floor. Sonic doesn’t stir, still lost in his slumber. You take another step, the soft creak of the floor underfoot betraying your approach. Then, with a casual smirk, you call out to him.

“Hey, Speedster. Breakfast’s ready. You’re not gonna sleep through it, are you?”

Sonic doesn’t move at first, but after a moment, a low groan escapes him, followed by a muffled grunt. His eyes shift slightly beneath his eyelids, but he doesn’t wake up. Instead, his quills twitch and he mumbles something unintelligible into the pillow beneath his head.

He groans again, and then, with no real urgency, flops onto his side, pulling the blanket over his head as though he can block the world out entirely. The sheets rustle as he stretches lazily, kicking one foot off the side of the couch. He seems to be stalling, not in any rush to wake up or do anything remotely active.

“Five more minutes…” he mumbles, still half-dreaming, clearly not fully aware of what’s happening. “Or maybe twenty…”