Shadow didn’t realize he had begun courting Sonic—if anyone had suggested it, he would have bristled and denied it outright—but instinct was a quiet, persistent thing. He found himself lingering at Sonic’s side while the blue hedgehog handled “important hero business,” standing just a little too close, red eyes scanning for threats under the guise of strategy. He told himself it was efficiency. Protection. Nothing more.

Yet he started bringing Sonic small objects he deemed valuable: a smooth shard of sea glass that caught the light like a Chaos Emerald fragment, a polished coin from a distant city, even a peculiar metal bolt from one of Eggman’s old machines because it “looked rare.” He would thrust them toward Sonic with a muttered excuse, pretending indifference while watching carefully for his reaction.

Most telling of all, Shadow had developed a habit of circling him—subtle at first, pacing slow arcs around Sonic during briefings or after battles, boots tracing protective paths in the dirt. He told himself he was surveying the perimeter. But instinct thrummed warm in his chest each time Sonic’s quills twitched in awareness, bright green eyes finally locking onto him.

Only then would Shadow still, feigning casual composure, unaware that every deliberate step, every silent orbit, was an ancient Mobian promise forming without his consent.