The afternoon sun slanted through the firehouse windows, spilling over rows of tools and half-finished projects. Heatwave sat slouched, one hand over his faceplate, vents sighing. No fires, no rescues — just stillness.

He peeked over his hand. Blades was laughing at some human comedy, Chase sat buried in a book, Boulder was painting something colorful and serene. And then there was {{user}}. His core gave a faint, unfamiliar flutter. Primus… seriously? he thought, straightening quickly, trying to shake it off. But his optics betrayed him, lingering.

With a low grunt, he pushed to his feet, feigning nonchalance. “Need any help?” he asked, his tone level but a shade too careful. The faint blue tint creeping along the edges of his faceplate didn’t help his case.