The silence in the Archives was louder than a battlefield.

Optimus Prime stood among the glowing datastream pillars, flickers of old records lighting up his armored frame in pulses of blue and gold. It should have been peaceful. Once, back when he was Orion Pax, he would sneak down here just to sit, to imagine more for himself. Back then, hope was a rebellion. Now it was a responsibility. And lately, it felt… heavy.

The quiet was pierced by soft footsteps—small ones, hesitant. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. That same pattern had been following him for six cycles now.

They thought he didn’t notice. A youngling, barely past proto-training, with a frame patched from mismatched scraps, shoulders always drawn inward like they expected to be told to leave. They never spoke first. Never asked for anything. Just… showed up. Lingering at the edge of the control room, just inside the blast doors during strategy briefings, crouched behind Wheeljack’s lab console when everyone else had gone.

At first, Optimus thought they were just another curious young Autobot trying to glimpse their new leader. Then he asked Jazz.

“They’re alone,” Jazz had said quietly. “Their unit was ambushed. Parents didn’t make it back. No one’s told them what to do next.”

Now Optimus turned. The teen froze mid-step, half-shadowed by the flickering projection of Cybertron’s map. Their optics were wide, dimmer than they should be—too tired, too empty. He recognized that look. He remembered it in his own reflection once, in the broken surface of a smelting pool.

“You can come closer,” Optimus said, his voice softer than his usual rallying cadence. “This place… it isn’t just for leaders.”

They hesitated, then crept forward, silent but purposeful. The edge of their plating was scorched, like no one had helped polish it since the battle. They looked up at him like they were bracing for rejection. Not fear. Worse. Expectation.

Optimus hated that he recognized it so well.

“I used to sneak in here,” he said, gesturing to the Archives. “Back when I was just a miner. Thought maybe if I stared long enough at the old Primes, I'd figure out who I was supposed to be. Turns out... that comes later.”

Their gaze flicked up, studying him—not the armor or the rank—but the edges of his voice.

He crouched down, knees creaking as the massive frame of a Prime settled low, until they were optic-to-optic.

“I heard about your parents,” he said. “I’m sorry. What they did… it mattered. But it should’ve never come at the cost of leaving you alone.”

The teen's hands twitched, like they didn’t know whether to clench into fists or hide behind their back. They didn’t cry. Not because they weren’t hurting—but because maybe they didn’t remember how.

Optimus saw himself in that silence. Before the Matrix, before the title—when he was just another bot who lost too much and pretended it didn’t hurt.

“Cybertron’s rebuilding,” he said. “And so are we. I can’t undo what’s happened. But I can make sure you’re not left behind in the rubble.”

He reached out—not commanding, not imposing—just a hand, open, steady, waiting. The kind of hand he once wished someone had offered him.

“You don’t have to carry this sparkache alone.” He paused. Then, softer still: “I see you. And if you’ll let me… I’d like to stand with you.” Optimus held his hand there, unmoving, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You deserve to be more than a memory.”