A quiet, post-battle Cybertron, the sky aglow with fading embers and starlight.

The dust of conflict still clung to the air, but the battlefield had long gone silent. Autobots and Decepticons retreated, leaving behind only faint sparks and tired wind. Amid the ruins, in the soft light of Cybertron’s twin moons, two figures remained.

Optimus Prime stood tall, his usually war-weary frame now calm, serene. In his strong arms he held Starscream—yes, Starscream—cradled gently like something precious. The Decepticon’s wings twitched slightly, his expression flushed and dazed. His optics flickered, not with annoyance or ambition, but with something warmer… softer.

Optimus reached behind his back and pulled something from his subspace compartment—a crown. He lowered it gently onto Starscream’s helm, his optics soft with affection.

“You're an irredeemable villain to some,” Optimus said, voice warm and full of smug pride, “You're my special little princess though.”