The night at the base was as thin as a gossamer: quiet, transparent, and filled with a thousand faint instrument lights, flickering like tiny, distant stars. Cold air blew in through the closed hatches, carrying the scent of ozone and engine grease, mixed with something human — the gasoline of long journeys that hadn't yet had time to evaporate. You sat on the edge of the hangar porch, your legs dangling over the void, your palms folded in your lap. Your body was slightly cool, your optics glowed dimly, like a candle in a window, and you listened to the base breathe.

You thought you'd get used to these evenings. That you'd learn to fill the emptiness with sounds — the rustle of cables, Bumblebee's footsteps far down the hallway, the quiet hum of the life support system. But sometimes a thin gap remains inside: a place where there used to be more light. And then you come here, to be face to face with this silence, not to hide from it.

He appears not with steps, but with rhythm: first a barely audible vibration in the floor, then a measured, familiar hum, and you know he's near even before you hear his voice. Optimus stops behind you, his shadow cast on the steel floor, and the world seems lighter because he's there. He sits a short distance away, not trying to take up all the space. His shoulders are broad, his head slightly tilted, like someone choosing his words bit by bit.

"You rarely come here on holidays," — he says quietly.

There's no reproach in his voice, only observation, and a concern that's evident in the very fact that he notices the little things. You allow yourself to smile just enough for him to catch it.

You speak first, because words flow more easily when someone is nearby who can listen without rushing.

"I miss simple things," — your mechanical hum breathes.

"To see not just lines and signals, but the smell of rain on the asphalt, a face when it laughs, leaves falling and swirling."

The words come out easily and heavily at the same time — as if you were pulling them through rust.

He listens silently, without interrupting. When you fall silent, Optimus moves a little closer, and you feel the warmth of his body, the vibration of his breath — the same breath you once heard as the rhythm of a battle stride. His hand finds yours — huge, secure, and holds it as if it were a sacred object. You run your fingers over his palm, along the small ridges on the plates, along the lines where the metal has slightly flowed during battles. It's an acquaintance that means "I know you."

"I can't give back light," — he says softly.

"But I can hold on when someone near me falls. I can stand on a bridge and wait for the storm to pass." — His voice trembles not with fear, but with some deep, quiet readiness. You feel warmth from his use of such simple images: bridge, storm, holding. You understand that for him, this is the language of love.

You respond, almost in a whisper, though a whisper in machines is simply a low current.

"I don't want to be a burden. Sometimes I think I'm a malfunction you tolerate."

It's an old fear: not being needed in the way you were accepted before.

Optimus doesn't look away. He leans in, and his optics brighten, taking on a tone resembling a smile.

"You're not a malfunction," — he says.

"You're part of the picture."

"And we don’t tolerate you, we choose you."

His hand squeezes yours a little tighter, and in that squeeze there’s a promise, quiet but ironclad.

"I’ve seen too much loss," — he adds.

"I know what it’s like to let go. But I’m not going to let you go.”

The silence descends again, but it's no longer empty — it's haunted by a presence: yours and theirs. You recall small details: the smell of oil on your tires after your first outing, the sunset reflected in the hangar mirror, how you heard someone's quiet chuckle on the battlefield, which then turned to silence.

"You are my angel," — he finally says quietly, and it's not a word in the sense of light or wings, but a word that means "the one for whom I would pause the world."