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The sunlight in the dead of winter could hardly drive away the cold. Its dappled, warm yellow glow felt more like decoration—perhaps a kind of psychological comfort that allowed passing pedestrians to momentarily ignore the knife-sharp wind slashing across their faces. But clearly, the effect was minimal. Everyone hurried along, instinctively tightening their coats, faces set in the same blank, indifferent expression.
When Stone pushed open the door of the dessert shop, Robotnik was in the middle of loudly cursing the weather in Montana. Stone stepped aside just enough to let him in, privately noting—as always—how incredibly extensive the doctor’s vocabulary was.
It was a small shop, but warm enough to make one forget the winter for a while. Rows of desserts were arranged neatly behind the glass counter, like notes aligned on a musical score, forming a harmonious winter prelude. The colorful pastries—some modest, some flamboyant—created a genuine feast for the eyes.
Stone noticed the moment the rich sweetness from the pastries hit Robotnik’s nose, prompting him to frown. The agent couldn’t help but curl his lips in a smile—not because Robotnik disliked the smell, but because Stone knew he didn’t. And indeed, a second later, the doctor was already leaning deftly over the display case, nitpicking and commenting with the sharpest critique, though the longing in his eyes was painfully obvious to Stone.
Robotnik’s unlikely love for sweets—a hobby utterly at odds with his age, appearance, and personality—was a quiet little secret between the two of them. Stone, usually taciturn with everyone else, knew exactly how his picky superior and lover liked his coffee with three sugar cubes. He also knew that when he brought hazelnut cocoa cake to the lab, Robotnik would mock it as a “caloric explosive”—only for Stone to later find the empty cake wrapper in the trash can, scraped clean down to the last crumb.
“Stone! If you find my back more attractive than these carbohydrates, you could simply stare at me in the lab all day instead of dragging me here to force excessive sugar on me!”
The familiar tone snapped Stone back to reality. He now had to deal with the expression on Robotnik’s face—a look that said, I know you’re staring at me like some deranged stalker, and I swear if you keep it up I’ll blow up this dessert shop and take you with it. Stone took one last glance at the doctor’s mustache, which had curled upward in indignation, and quickly looked away, along with any dangerous topics.
“Oh—sorry, Doctor! Our table is by the window. It might be nice to enjoy the scenery with our dessert.”
Robotnik scanned the layout of the shop at lightning speed. Clearly, the seat Stone indicated was a reasonable choice. Crossing his arms, he let out a noncommittal hum before striding toward it.
“At least your judgment hasn’t melted like the damned snow outside. Rejoice in your luck, Stone.”
Instinctively, Stone lifted his head. In just a few exchanged sentences, it had already begun to snow heavily outside. I need to check the heating system in the lab, he thought. The doctor rarely goes out, and his constitution is weaker. If he gets chilled, he’ll catch a cold.
The server approached with a smile and offered them the menu—only for the color to drain rapidly from his face as Robotnik began tearing apart the names, designs, and prices of the desserts pictured, every comment mercilessly negative. Stone knew exactly when to intervene, and by the end the poor server, with a hastily scribbled order of “two chocolate mousses and two vanilla lattes,” hurried away as if fleeing for his life.
The snowfall outside grew thicker, heavier. The two men sat in silence at first—Robotnik staring out the window, lost in thought, Stone pretending to fiddle absentmindedly with his fingers while occasionally stealing glances at the older man propping his chin on one hand, entirely oblivious to the gaze directed at him. Stone had noticed more than once how long Robotnik’s eyelashes actually were, casting tiny shadows along his eyelids.
The old clock in the shop ticked steadily on. Stone suddenly wondered what Robotnik would look like standing in the snow. The doctor loved wearing black—what would it be like if that dark coat were speckled with white? Perhaps the contrast would shine bright and striking, as flamboyant as Robotnik himself, impossible to ignore. Or maybe the black and white would harmonize like piano keys, perfectly paired.
“Gentlemen, here are your desserts. Please enjoy.”
Stone’s thoughts dissolved at the timid voice above them. Their gazes met on the plates before them. Out of the corner of his eye, Stone caught Robotnik’s almost imperceptible flick of an eyebrow—a signal meaning I’m interested. Stone didn’t call him out. Instead, he politely tipped the server and slid Robotnik’s cake and latte toward him with a gentle smile.
“Let’s hope this isn’t so terrible that I vomit it up along with my lunch,” Robotnik said, pulling a dramatic face before taking the first bite under Stone’s expectant gaze.
A flash of light crossed the doctor’s eyes—a fleeting satisfaction Stone caught in full, the kind of look a child would wear after getting a long-coveted toy. He didn’t bother asking Robotnik if he liked it; the way the fork immediately aimed for the cake again was answer enough. Robotnik’s life was either bland or bitter, and in such a monotonous cycle, even a brief taste of sweetness could melt away all the sharp, self-protective cruelty he wielded.
Stone took a bite of his own dessert. The chocolate was rich and smooth. The two of them ate quietly, neither speaking, as though any words might disturb the rare calm. In the cutting chill of winter, their little corner felt like a tiny shelter—two burning hearts holding tightly to each other until their warmth blended into one.
Robotnik felt oddly dazed. Suddenly, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a dessert before meeting Stone. What remained of those memories offered nothing pleasant: a younger version of himself cornered by older children, a pathetic sliver of cake hidden behind his back. He couldn’t recall where the cake came from—such things were a rarity in the orphanage—but the memory that endured wasn’t the treat itself; it was the predatory expressions on the children’s faces. He never touched sweets again after that, a childish line he drew to mourn and abandon the weak, frightened boy he once was.
He was thinking this when he unintentionally looked up—and met Stone’s gaze. Just as he opened his mouth, the younger man unexpectedly stood and reached a hand toward him. Robotnik had no idea what Stone intended next, but in those smiling eyes lay emotions too complex for words. Something spread through him—something frightening, exposing his most fragile human weaknesses: trust. A precipice. A risk. A surrender.
His mind screamed for him to avoid it—but his body leaned in, as if accepting, inviting. Anxious yet longing, he closed his eyes with the resolve of someone stepping willingly toward doom.
But the imagined touch never came.
When he opened his eyes, confused, Stone did something entirely unexpected.
A brief warmth brushed the corner of his mouth—so fleeting he almost thought he imagined it. Robotnik froze for a second before realizing that his audacious assistant had used his fingertip, in the most unbearably suggestive gesture possible, to wipe away a smear of cream from his lips.
He jerked his head away—partly to check whether anyone had noticed, partly (and far more importantly) to hide the burning red tips of his ears.
“Agent…? What do you think you’re doing?!”
Robotnik lowered his voice, using Stone’s title instead of his name to emphasize you idiot owe me a perfectly reasonable explanation. But lacking conviction, the reprimand sounded less like anger and more like a weak, sputtering complaint. Stone didn’t panic. Instead, with the gentle obedience of someone calming an angry black cat, he deployed his best puppy-eyed look.
“As your assistant, I’m responsible for maintaining your impeccable image. You had cream on your lips, so I removed it. Was that wrong, Doctor?”
How dare this man turn it around on him?!
Robotnik nearly saw red. Had they been in his lab instead of a dessert shop, at least ten lasers would’ve locked onto Stone’s forehead the moment he touched him.
“I’m quite sure I told you on your first day that unless absolutely necessary you are not to use any part of your body to touch my skin! The bacteria inherent in your inferior organism would infiltrate my precious brain and reduce my intelligence to your level! It’s contamination! It’s an insult! It’s—”
“Doctor.”
Robotnik blinked. Stone almost never interrupted him—especially not when he was in the middle of an aggressive rant. The sudden interjection left him off balance, ready to lash out—until Stone followed with a sentence that shut him up completely.
“Tell me, out loud, that you truly hated it.”
Robotnik stared at him, searching for even the slightest crack in his expression. But Stone simply sat there, calm, composed, a faint smile on his lips, patiently waiting.
It wasn’t a simple request—it was a test of whether Robotnik was willing to face his own feelings. Stone knew him too well. Knew that he would never truly say “no” to him. Knew that all his refusals meant the opposite. Knew his needs, his shame, his desires. Robotnik couldn’t deny that he craved the warmth of Stone’s fingers—just as desperately as the boy in the orphanage once craved that tiny piece of cake.
And so the scientist conceded, burying his face in his dessert and stuffing his mouth full out of spite. After a long moment, he muttered through a mouthful:
“…Eat your dessert, idiot.”
He didn’t see the victorious smile that finally appeared on Stone’s lips.
They continued their quiet meal until every crumb was gone. When they left the shop, the snow had stopped. The fresh layer of white crunched under their feet. Robotnik walked ahead without a word, half his face buried in his scarf to hide his embarrassment. Stone followed behind, hands in his pockets, feeling the exact opposite—calm, relaxed.
“Stone.”
“Yes, Doctor?”
Robotnik stopped and turned around. Stone did the same, instinctively waiting for orders.
“The coffee here… isn’t as good as the coffee you make.”
After saying this, Robotnik hesitated, but finally, with a slight tremor, extended his hand toward Stone—mirroring the way Stone had once waited for his answer. Stone smiled and, without a moment’s hesitation, took his hand and tucked both into his coat pocket.
“Then I’ll keep making it for you—until you get tired of it.”
Robotnik smiled too. He wanted to say he would never get tired of it, but that would be far too un-Robotnik-like, so he kept it to himself—a promise with no expiration date.
They walked on, side by side at last, and this time, neither of them was left behind.