Duck and cover—it was enough to propel Sonic to behind the shelf of new releases. Not perfectly safe, but he could at least evaluate the situation from this vantage point.

To the east, the romance section took up an entire wing of the building. That wasn't on his itinerary, but Amy did frequent that section, which was more than enough reason to avoid it.

To the west, a bored-looking clerk lounged at the interlibrary loan desk. That place was also dangerous. While the books in this library were far too mundane for Tails, he did sometimes request materials from other locales, making this desk a hazard.

At least Sonic didn't have to worry about Knuckles or Sticks. He was fairly sure neither could read.

North—the corridor between periodicals and reference. It was deserted. No man's land.

And Sonic's destination.

West—clear. East—also clear. Ten paces. He passed non-fiction.

He ducked again, hurrying past yesterday's crumpled copy of Island Times. Leaning behind the periodicals shelf, Sonic wiped his brow.

The letter in his hand had to weigh no more than a few ounces, and yet it felt heavier than anything Sonic had ever carried. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up. Dust motes swirled around it, cascading between shelves in the light of an open window.

Sonic trailed his fingers along the spines of the reference books, touching each of the embossed titles, reading them aloud beneath his breath.

"Criminal Law, The Book of Law...there!"

Island Law. Case and Materials, third edition.

He rubbed the spine, forefinger shaking. His heartbeat thudded in his chest.

Sonic had never read this book. Why would he? He couldn't imagine anything more boring. Well, maybe The Law and Systems Theory, fourth edition was worse, but he wasn't about to find out. Anyway, reading this book wasn't the point.

The letter in his hand, written to his pen pal—his pen girlfriend—that was the point.

And Sonic didn't even know her name.

Not for the first time, he tried to imagine what she would look like. She had never described herself in the letters, but Sonic knew she just had to be gorgeous. It was simply impossible for her to be anything less. Anyone who wrote letters so intelligent, so funny, so filled with wisdom had to be perfect.

She didn't even know it had been Sonic writing to her. But despite that, she truly understood him, related to him, in a way that no one else ever had. She simply got him. And he got her too. Everything about her, from the way her father belittled her to the way she felt she would never live up to her own expectations, Sonic understood.

Standing here, with his finger pressed to the spine, his knees trembling, his stomach light and giddy, Sonic knew. He knew beyond any shadow of doubt.

He was in love.

Sonic bit his lip. It wasn't wise to linger. His friends would think he was crazy if they found out. All he had to do was slip her note out of the book then slip his own inside of it. She would retrieve it later. They had communicated this way for months. It was a flawless system, as secret as it was—

The book shook. It slid backward.

Sonic grabbed along of the spine. He tried to pull it back, but a force on the other side was yanking it away from him. He pulled harder.

The book popped from the shelf. Sonic's hand flew backward. The book slid from his grip.

There was a dark hole between the other books now. A narrow tunnel to the other side of the shelf. Someone was looking at him from the tunnel. A bright, red oval—no, an eye—glowed from the other side.

Sonic froze. This eye—it was all he could look at. It was so bright, so intense, glowing with a familiar intelligence. It was an oval, made from discrete, red lines glowing atop one another.

The eye flickered. A robotic voice sounded. "Island Law, third edition?"

His mouth ran dry. Sonic gulped. "Y-yeah. Page 26?"

A pause.

"Affirmative."

Sonic pressed his palm to the shelf. He had to. He was going to fall over. The room was suddenly spinning.

The voice on the other side was familiar. It was robust and robotic.

And not entirely unattractive.

"I see. So," the voice said, "you are Chief?"

Sonic was dizzy. He was light. He was going to float away.

"Y-yeah. You're Mock Speed?"

Another pause.

"Affirmative."

The room dropped from the edges of his vision. His fingers were numb around the letter.

He knew. The person on the other side of the shelf—his love interest—he knew. He now knew.

A hand, made of smooth steel and yellow copper, reached through the hole. It beckoned him.

Sonic gazed at it. His own hand trembled in the air. It hovered just above Metal's palm.

Metal took his hand. His grip was firm, and yet not too tight, and warm too, as if he were hugging Sonic with just his fingers.

Sonic licked his lips. "D-did you know…?"

"I did not."

Metal tilted his hand, weaving his fingers between Sonic's. He gently squeezed Sonic's hand.

Sonic gasped. This hand, it was so firm and smooth, yet flexible. And it was so warm too. He never knew something made from machinery could be like this. It was a shame he was wearing his gloves because if he could feel this hand against his skin—

His face turned hot. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"I-I really loved your letters."

Well. That was it. Sonic the Hedgehog had had a good run, but it was over now. Done. He was lost. Metal had found him.

A laugh. Metal leaned down, exposing his entire, handsome face. "I must admit, you are more pleasing to my optical system than I could have imagined."

The warmth spread to Sonic's chest. He finds himself squeezing Metal's hand in return. The joints of his fingers feel so reassuring against the back of Sonic's hand.

Sonic stammers, "I-I mean...uh...so—so you wanna head over to the canyon chasm? No one would bother us there…"

Another laugh. If only he could bottle this laugh, he would listen to it always. "I was about to suggest the same. Would you like to race?"

Sonic leaned down. He smiled. "You betcha!"

"Do not think I will go easy on you."

"Ha! As if I would let you."

Without even waiting to go outside, they sped from the library, leaving a trail of papers fluttering in their wake.