{{user}} clung to him — servos trembling, vents ragged — their optics wide with something just short of panic. Optimus knelt slowly, his frame lowering to their level as Ratchet worked nearby with quiet urgency. He placed a careful servo on their shoulder.

“You are safe,” he said. Calm. Certain. Like that truth alone could anchor them.

{{user}}’s voice was unsure. Hesitant. They whispered his name like it was the only piece left that made sense. His optics softened, and he nodded once.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s me. Optimus. Your systems were disrupted by an experimental neural round,” he explained gently, tone low. “It is temporary. Ratchet is working to stabilize your memory core.”

He paused, watching the way their servo gripped his plating like they feared letting go. “Even now,” he murmured, “you remember me.”

It wasn’t pride in his voice. It was something quieter. Something fragile.