Autobot Base was unusually quiet this cycle. Optimus had gone to discuss another report with Magnus over the long-range comms channel, Ratchet had locked himself in the medbay, and Bumblebee and Bulkhead were arguing somewhere in the hangar about suspension tuning.

And you... were finally alone.

The lights in your shared room were dim—only a soft bluish glow from the panels along the walls. Prowl sat on the floor, his back to the platform, in his usual meditative pose. His back was straight, his shoulder pads level, his servos almost motionless.

And you lay next to him, your head in his lap.

Your faceplate was turned toward him, your optics glowing softly. You were talking—animatedly, with your hands moving—about today's training with Bumblebee.

"And he, can you imagine, decided he could overtake me on the turn!"

You raised your palm, mimicking the trajectory of movement.

"I deliberately gave him a head start... just a little... and then I simply adjusted the angle of the stabilizers and—whoosh!—I passed him on the finish line."

Your fingers traced an arc in the air.

Prowl looked down at you. Your moving optics reflected in his visors. He didn't interrupt. Only occasionally would he tilt his head slightly, listening.

"And he later claimed it was a 'coincidence of the road surface.'"

You snorted.

"Accident. Of course."

Prowl said quietly, "you accelerated 0.7 seconds faster than his standard time. That's not an accident."

You narrowed your eyes at him.

"Did you notice?"

"I always notice."

Your labial plates twitched slightly in a smile.

You rolled onto your back, your head still resting on his lap. Your servos relaxed, one hand resting on his thigh.

"You know... sometimes I think you just like to analyze everything."

"It's more efficient."

"More boring."

His hand, which had been resting quietly on your shoulder segment, slowly moved lower. His fingertips slid along the side panel of your hull.

You didn't even notice.

"But still... I'm glad you were there. When you look, I feel more confident."

His eyes softened for a split second. He knows.

He knows that in relaxed moments, you let your guard down.

His fingers tightened slightly—barely—along the line between your side plates, where the sensitive servoseams met.

You froze.

Very slowly, you turned your head toward him.

"...Prowl."

"Yes?"

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"Don't you dare."

A barely perceptible movement of his fingers.

A light touch.

You flinched sharply.

"P-Prowl—!"

He tilted his head slightly.

"I'm not doing anything."

His fingers again traced the narrow area at the base of your rib plates.

You flinched.

"You—! You know perfectly well—"

And now it wasn't "accidental" anymore.

His fingers began to methodically but carefully trace the sensitive joints of your armor—not roughly, not harshly, but precisely knowing where you reacted.

You squirm, trying to get away, but your head is still in his lap.

"—Prowl! N-no—!"

You try to grab his wrist, but he deftly intercepts your hand with his other hand.

"You said boredom was bad," he remarks calmly.

And he runs his fingers along the inside of your side panels.

You arch your back sharply, a short, ringing laugh escaping you despite yourself.

"S-Stop it! It's not fair!"

"Why?"

"Because you know!"

He really does know.

He remembers the time he accidentally touched that area during repairs, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.

His fingers move faster now—along the thin seams at your waist, along the edges of the sliding segments.

You're laughing now—really, loudly, trying to roll to the side, but his knees hold your head down, and his hand still gently grips your wrist.

"Prowl! P-please—!"

"Are you asking formally?"

There's a subtle hint of mockery in his voice.

You try to sit up, but he leans closer, his fingers now tracing the line of your lower ribs.

You yelp in surprise, laughing again, your legs instinctively bending.