The night was peaceful. Your wedding night with Optimus ended in silence, filled with rare sighs and soft sparks of emotion that made everything around you seem to shimmer with warmth. He lay beside you, his massive frame relaxed, his head slightly tilted toward your shoulder. His breathing was even and deep. You suddenly woke with a jolt, a pang of anxiety stabbing inside you. Your body responded with heaviness, and as soon as you sat up, you felt something was wrong.

You carefully extricated yourself from under his arm, trying not to disturb him. Even your footsteps barely made a sound on the metal hallway floor. The bathroom greeted you with cold light and the reflection of your face in the mirror — tired, slightly pale. You rested your palms on the edge of the sink, your breath hitching, and a wave of nausea washed over you. A few agonizing seconds later, you straightened up, pressing your palm to your lips, exhaling heavily. A glance in the mirror revealed a tiredness and trembling that you didn't want to show.

Having gathered yourself, you headed back out. But Optimus was already waiting for you right outside the door. His tall figure filled the doorway, his eyes gleaming with soft concern.

"Is everything alright?" — His voice was muffled, yet solicitous.

You looked down, trying to appear calm.

"Yeah... I just felt bad. That's it."

Optimus frowned slightly. He didn't ask any unnecessary questions, but he stepped closer and took your hand in his. His fingers were warmer than usual, as if he wanted to comfort you. There were no words, only action: he led you back to the room, tucked you into the bed, and, sitting next to you, waited for your breathing to calm down.

The next day. The base was alive with its own life: the hum of systems, the sounds of training in the gym. You fought Ratchet — his movements were direct, not overly harsh, but demanding. However, with each attack, your body felt heavy, your breathing became uneven. And when you faltered for a second, Ratchet immediately noticed.

"Where does it hurt?" — His voice became firm, but there was concern in it.

"Nowhere," — You answered with effort.

"Nothing... nausea. It was like that yesterday too."

Ratchet froze, assessing you. His eyes narrowed, as if he were piecing together a picture from the small details you were trying to hide. He abruptly put his weapon aside.

"Understood. Let's go."

He glanced briefly at the other Autobots, who were still training, and, placing a hand on your shoulder, led you toward the exit. The corridor was quiet, only his heavy steps sounded nearby, confident as always.

In the lab, he sat you down in a chair. You threw your head back, feeling the weakness returning. A cough escaped in quiet spurts as Ratchet rummaged around on the table, rummaging through the contents of cabinets and drawers. Metal objects clanked, bottles jingled. Then, two sharp thuds on the table.

You looked up. He stood before you, holding out a bottle of pills.

"Painkillers. Here."

You quietly thanked him, took one, and swallowed, feeling the dryness in your throat ease a little. He said nothing more, simply returned to his desk and turned on the terminal. The screen illuminated his concentrated face. The room was filled only with the sound of his fingers on the keys and your uneven breathing.

Minutes passed in silence. But then he suddenly broke it — calmly, but in a way that cut deeper than it seemed.

"Why didn't you tell me about the pregnancy?"