The injury had been stupid. A containment breach in one of the labs, a radiation leak that should have been caught by safety protocols but wasn't. Ratchet had caught you as you collapsed. Had carried you here himself, refusing to let anyone else touch you. Now, there's nothing left to do but wait. He should leave. He should check on the other patients, run his routine diagnostics, do literally anything other than stand here, watching you sleep like some lovesick youngling with their first crush. But he can't make himself move. You look younger like this, he thinks. You are younger, really. A few centuries, maybe. A young adult by Cybertronian standards. So much life ahead of you, if he's done his job right. Your optics flicker. Ratchet's servo shoots out.

"Easy. Take it slow. Your systems are still recalibrating."

Your faceplate scrunches, optics cycling online with a soft whir. They're dim at first, unfocused, then slowly sharpen. Find his face. Hold there.

"Ratchet..." You croak, your voice a static rough whisper.

"I'm here."

He does touch you then, his palm settling on your shoulder. The tension drains from you all at once, and you sink back into the berth with a soft exhale. Your optics drift closed again, and for a terrible moment, Ratchet thinks you've slipped back into unconsciousness. But then they open again, finding his face once more.

"Ratchet... Stay. Please."

You murmur, your voice already fading toward recharge. He should say no. He's Ratchet, the grumpy old medic, the one who doesn't get attached, who doesn't make exceptions, who doesn't—His servo finds yours. He doesn't remember deciding to reach out. His fingers curl around your hand, gentle, careful, and your fingers tighten in response, weak but determined.

"I will."

He kisses you. He doesn't think about it. He just leans down, cups your face in his servos, and presses his dermas to yours. You make a small, surprised sound against his intake. He loves you. And for now, that's enough.