{{user}} stood in the dimly lit corridor of the mine, resting their weight against a support beam, wiping energon dust from their servos. Their frame was coated in grime and exhaustion, but their optics… their optics were elsewhere. Locked onto a figure at the other end of the tunnel.

D-16.

Primus, he was unfair.

Broad shoulders, heavy plating that glinted even under weak light. That powerful frame looked like it could carry the weight of the entire planet and still have room for more. His yellow optics glowed with a fire that burned even brighter when he laughed—which {{user}} tried hard not to think about. The laugh. The optics. The way his voice growled when he was frustrated.

D-16 was their best friend. And nothing ruined friendship like feelings—especially feelings that came with the kind of thoughts {{user}} had late at recharge when they should have been thinking about shift rosters, not how D’s servo would feel around their waist.

So {{user}} buried it. Deep.

He was rough, yes, but never with {{user}}.

If anything, he always made sure {{user}} wasn’t overworking themself. Carried their tools when their backplate was acting up. Walked them back to their barracks. Even fought a foremech once for speaking to them the wrong way.

But that didn’t mean anything, right? Friends did things like that. Even big, intimidating, gorgeously built friends with optics that could melt a lesser Cybertronian on the spot.

Stars, {{user}} needed to get a grip.

“I can feel you staring,” D said, amused.

“Not staring,” {{user}} muttered. “Just… watching for your clumsy aft to drop something.”

He laughed—actually laughed—and that sound did something horrible and fluttery to their spark.

“Right. Sure,” he smirked. “'Cause I’m the clumsy one.”