Ratchet is sitting on the edge of his berth, back against the wall, vents cycling deeply as he manually runs a post mission systems check on his own left servo joint. You’re pacing, your own plating still slightly damp from chemical decontamination sprays, a restless energy keeping you from settling.

"Everything alright there?"

You stop pacing, look back at him and to his lap. It looks so soft, with enough room. He has quite the aft after all. Without a word, you cross the room and instead of sitting beside him, you climb onto the berth and settle yourself directly into his lap, straddling his sturdy hips, your chest pressed against his, your face buried in the junction of his neck cables.

"Kid what do you think you're doing?"

Ratchet goes completely still. The datapad in his other servo clatters to the floor. A beat of silence. Then, with a soft, relenting ex vent, his servo come up around you. One settles between your shoulder blades, and the other hesitates for a moment at your waist, then slides down, his palm coming to rest on the curve of your aft plating. You tense for a microsecond, then melt further into him with a shiver.