The training room was almost empty. The light from the panels fell softly on the metal floor. After the mission, it was unusually quiet.

Optimus was standing at the console, checking the data, when you appeared behind him.

You didn't say a word. You simply came closer.

He sensed your presence even before you spoke—by the change in your spark field, by that special warmth that always marked you.

He turned around.

"Shouldn't you be resting already?" — he asked softly.

You only smiled slightly.

You took a step closer. Then another.

So close that he instinctively straightened—not from threat, but from nervous tension.

You confidently placed your palms on his chest plates, as if checking to see if he was alright.

You said quietly, almost mockingly:

"I wanted to make sure my Prime was truly alright."

He froze slightly. His optics darkened a little more—the embarrassment he always tried to hide, but which you knew all too well.

"I'm... fine," — he replied, but his voice grew quieter. — "You're too close."

You bowed your head, not retreating.

"Does it bother you?"

He didn't answer right away.

You confidently leaned on the table behind him, putting yourself above him, forcing him to look up at you.

Not pushing. But controlling the space.

He swallowed.

"You're playing with fire," — he said quietly.

You leaned a little closer, so that there was just a little air between you.

"And you always said you could control the flame."

He looked away for a second. Then he looked back at you—seriously, deeply, with that same gaze that always made you clench.

"You know I can't just..." — he began.

You interrupted him gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm not asking. I'm just here."

He exhaled slowly. And allowed himself to place his hands on your waist—carefully, as if he still didn't believe he had the right.

"You're driving me crazy," — he admitted very quietly.