It had started with a storm—an electromagnetic one, high over the outer layers of the station.

Jetfire had volunteered, of course. He always did. “No one else can recalibrate the array mid-flight without scrambling their processor,” he’d said. And he had been right.

…Mostly.

What he didn’t calculate was the sudden pulse that would short-circuit his transformation systems entirely while mid-air. Systems frozen, motor response looping, emergency reboot stuck at 63%.

In other words: Jetfire was stuck in his alt-mode. A sleek, massive Cybertronian jet with flickering lights and a low grumbling hum that passed for snoring at this point.

Now, most mechs would’ve docked into a repair bay, called for Knock Out, or at the very least waited for sunrise.

But Jetfire wasn’t “most mechs.” He was yours.

And if he was going to be a useless flying brick for a few cycles, then by Primus, he was going to park that brick next to his conjunx.

---

Morning light filtered lazily through the suite window.

You blinked awake, stretched your limbs, and—

thunk

Your hand hit something cold, smooth… metallic.

Still half-asleep, you rolled over—

—and came face to fuselage with a very familiar airframe taking up half your berth, his wings tucked awkwardly between the wall and the dresser, one thruster still twitching like he was dreaming.

You stared. He beeped once. Sheepishly.

A tired voice crackled from the comm inside the cockpit:

“…Good morning, love. Don’t scream—I can explain.”