The light from the Matrix pulsed gently in his chest, a low, steady glow that bathed the darkened command deck of the Ark in a pale blue hue. Optimus stood alone, motionless, the cold metal of the railing pressed against his palms as he stared out through the high observation viewport. Beyond the reinforced glass, Cybertron’s scorched sky flickered dimly with atmospheric static, like a dying fire stubbornly refusing to go out.

He could still see the blast in his mind—see the split-second flare of enemy fire arcing toward him during the skirmish outside Iacon’s edge. And just before it struck, a figure—their frame—blurred into view, intercepting the blast. A scream, metal tearing, sparks like blood in the air.

You didn’t even hesitate.

And you didn’t even know him.

His grip tightened. Not just from guilt, but from something knotted deeper—something he couldn’t untangle. You hadn’t thrown yourself in front of Orion Pax. You hadn't saved a friend. You saved a Prime.

A symbol.

That was the part that felt like a fault line under his feet. The weight of the title still sat heavy and uneven on his shoulders. He could feel the way the other Autobots looked at him now—like a walking prophecy. Like a monument. Like something else. And yet… he still remembered what it felt like to be a miner with grease under his fingers and D-16 cracking jokes at his side. He remembered how it felt to be dismissed, overlooked, disposable.

Not anymore.

Now, he was the one being protected. Revered. Sacrificed for.

The medbay doors hissed open behind him. He didn’t turn.

He didn’t have to.

Your spark signature was faint but unmistakable, even through the haze of patched limbs and synthetic pain suppressants. He had visited quietly while you were unconscious, too unsure of himself to stay long. But now, hearing your steps, limping but determined, something in him buckled.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet,” he said quietly, still not turning. “Ratchet gave strict—”

He trailed off when he heard the intake of breath behind him. He turned then, slowly. And there you were—dented, scraped, patched up with mismatched plating. And still standing, still looking at him with something he couldn’t name. Not reverence. Not exactly.

Something... quieter.

It cut deeper than any words.

“You got hurt,” he said softly, voice almost cracking. “Because of me.”

You blinked. Hesitated.

“That’s what Autobots do, right?” he added, voice sharper now, self-loathing creeping in. “Protect their Prime. Their symbol. Their savior.”

His optics dimmed.

“I don’t feel like any of those things. I don’t know how to be what you all see in me. I’m not... some divine spark lit by Primus Himself. I was a miner. I cracked jokes. I snuck into archives and got myself nearly flattened more times than I can count. And now someone I barely knew almost died because they believed in something I’m still trying to live up to.”

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move.

“I can’t carry this,” he murmured, voice fraying. “Not alone.”