Terminus had done something incredibly stupid during the last shift. Something involving unstable ground, a collapsing tunnel, and the phrase “I’ve got this!” said with the kind of confidence that usually preceded disaster. He barely made it out, dragged by Megatron and coated in dust, grinning like he hadn’t just almost gotten scrapped.

Three shifts passed.

Terminus tried apologies: a cube of high-grade energon left at {{user}}’s workstation (they had given it to megatron). Jokes lobbed over the din of machinery ({{user}} pretended their audials were glitching).

The fourth shift.

{{user}} sat alone in a dimly lit supply alcove, their frame curled into a tight coil. Exhaustion seeped into their struts,

Terminus loomed in the doorway, his silhouette blotting out the flickering overhead lights. For a nanosecond, {{user}} considered bolting.

With a creak of hydraulics, the larger mech dropped beside them, his plating still warm from the smelters. “Alright, enough,” he muttered, and before {{user}} could protest, two massive arms scooped them sideways into his lap.

“Let go—!” {{user}} writhed, limbs flailing. Their elbow jammed into Terminus’s chestplate, earning a grunt, but he only tightened his grip, tucking their helm under his chin.

“Nope.”

“You’re insufferable—”

“Yep.”

They squirmed, vents heaving, but Terminus’s frame was a furnace, his EM field a steady pulse of sorry-sorry-safe. Against their will, {{user}}’s systems began syncing to the rhythm of his spark’s resonance—a low, grounding hum that seeped into their armor.

Slowly, the fight drained. {{user}}’s fists unclenched, “...You’re an idiot,” they mumbled, voice muffled against his neck cables.

“Your idiot.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “Don’t do that again. I can’t—we can’t lose you.”

Terminus’s grip shifted, gentler now. “Wouldn’t dream of it"