The room is quiet, a warm light falling from the side, accentuating every soft curve of your movements. You approach him, unhurriedly, as if you don't even notice how smoothly your gait changes. Optimus freezes in place, as if his systems are actually skipping a beat.

He looks down—at the way you step, the way your shoulders gently sway, the way your breath lifts your body. And it's as if he's disconnected from everything around him.

"Darling..." — His voice is low, almost hoarse.

"The way you move... It's as if you've hypnotized me."

You barely touch his chest plate with your fingertips—slowly, sliding over the metal. He steps forward, covering your hand with his own, lowering his head so close that his breath brushes your skin.

In one smooth movement, he pulls you toward him—not roughly, but commandingly, confidently—and the world collapses into this closeness.

You press your palms against his chest—not to push him away, but to feel him. He lifts you a few centimeters, turning you around as if directing a dance.

A smooth movement—and your back is pressed against his body, his hands on your hips, following your every breath.

You arch slightly, instinctively, as if you weren't aware of how soft and beautifully you move. He leans toward your ear:

"So... Don't stop..."

His palm guides your movements—up and down, as if he's setting the pace but allowing you to move naturally.

You turn to face him—the movement is so smooth that he holds his breath for a second. Your foreheads touch, your nose brushes against his cheek. Your breathing is uneven, his is too deep.

He carefully lowers you onto the bed—slowly, as if he's arranging a jewel.

You slide across the sheets, your body curves softly, naturally—and his gaze darkens.

Optimus moves over you—not pressing, but simply creating a presence, heavy, utterly mesmerizing. His hands hold you by your sides, allowing you to shift position, stretch, and rise toward him.

He runs his fingers along your waist, feeling your every breath.

"You're moving... as if you're deliberately driving me crazy."

You run your hand down his cheek, and he covers your palm with his own, pressing against it a little harder than necessary.

And he moves lower, closer, almost touching his forehead to your shoulder—breathing deeply, as if drinking in your every movement.