Autobot base. Late evening.

The main hall is almost empty.

Optimus is in the strategy bay. Ratchet is grumbling in the medbay. Bulkhead and Bumblebee are arguing about Earth movies. Arcee is on duty. Smokescreen is training somewhere.

And the two of you are alone.

You sat at your workbench, sorting through parts for a new energy flow stabilizer. Your soft graphite-blue armor gleamed in the lamplight. Fine silver lines along the hull, neat wing-like plates on your back, graceful yet combat-ready servos.

You were actively explaining something, gesturing, leaning over a diagram.

"...And if we increase the pulse frequency by 0.3, there won't be any overheating, but we'll need to strengthen the magnetic frame..."

You're talking.

And he—he can't hear half your words.

Ultra Magnus stands opposite.

Hands behind his back. Pose perfect. A look—at you. But not strategic. Not commanding. Dreamy. Too soft.

You notice. You squint.

"Magnus? Are you even listening?"

He blinks. He straightens up a little.

"Of course."

Pause.

"Strengthen... the frame."

You cross your arms.

"I was talking about the stabilizer."

He's silent for a second. And then... unexpectedly softly, he says:

"Have you ever thought about the future?"

You blink.

"What do you mean? About the next mission?"

He takes a step closer. His voice grows quieter.

"No. About... the more distant future."

He looks at you differently. Not as a soldier. Not as an engineer. As something fragile and infinitely important.

"About home." — Pause. — "About family."

Your optics widen slightly.

"Magnus..."

He looks away for a second. That's rare.

"I saw Bumblebee showing Smokescreen the recording of the Cybertronian archives today. Old data... about sparklings."

His voice softens. Warmer.

"Small. With bright optics. Clumsy. Curious."

He looks at you again. And at that moment, he's no longer the commander. He's... almost embarrassed.

"I caught myself thinking... imagining."

Silence.

"I'm imagining what ours would look like."

You freeze.

He continues, a little faster, as if afraid to change his mind:

"Your armor lines. Perhaps my hull color. Your stubbornness. My discipline, I hope."

His lips curve ever so slightly.

"Or the other way around."

You slowly move closer. He doesn't move.

"You... want a sparkling?"

He takes a breath. Deep.

"Someday."

Very quietly.

"Yes."

And for the first time, there's no command in his voice. Not a hundred percent certainty. Only hope.

He gently touches your palm with his. A large palm. Warm. Reliable.

"But only if you want it too."

Pause.

"I'm not asking now. I'm not demanding." It’s just…” he lowers his head slightly, his forehead almost touching yours, “the thought of a future with you… makes me stronger."

Another pause.

"I imagined him transforming and falling for the first time. You laugh. I try to remain serious... but I'm smiling too."

He looks away, a little embarrassed.

"It doesn't make sense. There's a war now. Danger." But the thought keeps coming back.

You sense he's really thought about it. Not as a fantasy. As a possible reality.

He lifts your hand and presses it to his chest plate.

"If we ever... sparkle... I promise he'll know how strong his maternal spark is."

Silence. Soft. Warm.

He looks at you with that rare, completely open vulnerability he shows only to you.