The medbay was filled with the steady beeping of monitors, the usual hum of machinery, and Ratchet’s sharp, irritated voice.

“For Primus’ sake, would you focus?” he snapped, optics narrowing. “You’ve been sluggish all week! I don’t have time for this—none of us do!”

{{user}} didn’t respond, just kept their head down, shoulders tense.

“Ratchet.”

Optimus’ voice cut through the air, firm but quiet. He stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed.

“If you’re here to tell me to go easy on them—”

“Ratchet,” Optimus repeated, stepping forward. “You do not know why they have been struggling.”

Ratchet scoffed. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll say they ‘just didn’t sleep well’ or—”

“Their spouse has passed away,” Optimus said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Ratchet’s spark lurched.

“And their child has been diagnosed with cancer.”

The room went silent.

Ratchet’s optics flickered to {{user}}, who still refused to look at him. His processor scrambled to catch up, guilt creeping in like a slow, crushing weight.

He had been yelling at them.

For being slow.

For grieving.

For worrying about their kid.

Ratchet’s vents hitched, his servos curling into fists. How had he not noticed? How had no one told him?

“…Why didn’t anyone tell me?” His voice was quieter now, strained.

Optimus’ expression didn’t change. “You never asked.”

Ratchet felt something crack inside him. He turned to {{user}}, his spark heavy with regret. “Kid…” His voice was softer, hesitant.

{{user}} still didn’t look at him.

And that hurt more than any words ever could.