Ratchet had been half-listening, absorbed in his repair logs, when you spoke.

“Hey, Ratchet? Wanna know a secret?”

“Mm? Sure, sure,” he muttered distractedly, optics still fixed on his datapad.

And then—

“Did you know you were the only thing that kept me alive all these years? Or else I would have ended it by— never mind—”

The datapad hit the floor with a clang.

Ratchet’s entire frame locked up, his vents hitching as your words slammed into him like a railgun blast. His processor stalled—he misheard that. He had to have misheard that.

His optics snapped to you, and in less than 3.1 seconds, he was in full, panicked dad mode.

His servos grabbed your shoulders, not rough but urgent, his optics wide, frantic. “What—what did you just say?!” His voice cracked, static lacing his words as his battle-worn hands trembled against you.

You opened your mouth—maybe to brush it off, maybe to tell him to forget it—but no. No slagging way was he letting this slide.

“Don’t you dare ‘never mind’ me!” His voice was sharper than he intended, but panic made his spark lurch in his chest. “You—you don’t just say something like that and walk away!”

His grip tightened slightly, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go. His optics were searching yours, desperate, begging for an explanation, for anything.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he demanded, but there was something raw in his tone—pleading, terrified. “Right. Now.”