The crew of the Lost Light had officially reached their limit. Ration packs? Disgusting. Whirl’s “experimental cooking”? A chaotic disaster that somehow resulted in the stove—yes, the entire stove—being set on fire. Morale was low, taste buds were traumatized, and the concept of “edible” had become a distant memory.

Then, one quiet cycle, something changed.

It started with a smell.

Warm, rich, impossibly inviting. Something savory with just the right kick of spice, something sweet curling around the edges like a comforting hug. The scent drifted lazily through the corridors, weaving past mech after mech until the entire ship seemed to freeze.

Even Ultra Magnus paused mid-report.

Drift stopped mid-spar.

And Whirl…well, even he shut up.

Because someone—someone—was cooking.

And it wasn’t a disaster.

It was…delicious.

That someone was {{user}}.

And the Lost Light was never the same again.