The base was quiet.

Not a combat alert—but that rare, almost homely peace between missions.

The tactical analysis room was softly lit. The monitors were off. Some of the team was out for maintenance, others were resting.

You sat on the edge of the table, swinging your leg.

Jazz stood next to you.

Not too close—but close enough to make it clear you were together.

He was talking. Calmly. With a slight smile. With that warm, confident tone he used when he felt... in the right place.

"...and I tell him, 'Bro, if you're so slow, it's not stealth anymore, it's an artistic pause,'" — Jazz chuckled.

You chuckled softly.

"You're incorrigible."

"But honest," — he shrugged and leaned a little closer. — "And by the way, you were fantastic on the mission today."

It was said simply. Without pomp. But with that unmistakable tone.

Prowl stood against the opposite wall.

With a tablet.

As always—collected. As always—in control. As always—outwardly completely calm.

If not for one small moment.

His optics flickered back to you too often.

Not at you alone. And not at Jazz.

At both of you.

At the way you lean slightly when you laugh.At the way Jazz instinctively positions himself to be closer to you. At the way you unconsciously touch his shoulder when you explain something.

Nothing provocative. Nothing "too much." And that's precisely why—the worst part.

He saw it.

He saw you smiling at Jazz in a way you never smiled at him. He saw how relaxed you were around him. How you didn't need to keep your distance.

And the most painful part:

Jazz was a good partner.

Not weak. Not temporary. Not a mistake.

Real.

Prowl gripped the edge of the tablet a little tighter than necessary.

The tablet creaked softly. No one noticed. Except him.

"Hey," — Jazz said, his voice a little quieter, leaning closer to you.

"After service... maybe we should go up to the roof? There's a great view of the city there. I love the way you look at the lights."

Your smile widened a little.

"Sounds good."

Very simple. Very natural.

Prowl turned away.

Pretended to be checking something in the data.

His voice was even. Tone—professional.

"If you're finished, we have a briefing in twenty minutes."

No emotion. No reproaches. No scene. Only control.

But inside... The spark shrank. Because he knew:

He had no right to interfere. No right to be jealous. No right to demand.

And yet...

He felt.