Night at the base softly flowed through the corridors — the hum of the instruments had dropped, the screens flickered dimly. You sat on the edge of the cabin, legs tucked in, hands folded in an intricate pattern on your knees. The room smelled of grease, rough metal, and something warm, the residual heat of recently extinguished engines. The silence wasn't alarming; only your quiet sighs and the steady whisper of the ventilation system could be heard.

The door opened almost silently. His silhouette — a tall, familiar profile, filled the opening. Optimus entered without haste, and there was no commanding strain in his gait, only calm. He stopped a few steps away, looking at you not as a subordinate, not as a comrade, but as someone who, in this world, was more important to him than any order.

He took his time speaking. Instead of words, his steps come closer, his palm lifts and, without unnecessary fanfare, gently rests on the back of your hand. The gesture is simple and at the same time grand: "I'm here." The warmth of the metal from his fingers seeps through your plates, and in that warmth, some of the fatigue melts away.

"You're tired," — he says quietly, and his voice conveys concern rather than command.

"I saw you today. You've given so much."

You lower your eyes, responding only with a slight nod. Your heart, a spark, revs up for six minute-long ticks. He sits quietly next to you, his body taking up just enough space for you to lean your back against him and feel protected. You press your palms to your hips, and he slowly, almost reverently, leans in — not to his lips, but to your face.

The first kiss is like a palmprint on cool glass. His lips touch your forehead. It's not "take and possess," but a word spoken silently: "You are safe." The metal of his lips is warm, soft with an inner heat — not cold, as many think. There's mercy in this light touch, as if he can heal not only wounds in armor but also cracks in the soul.

You feel it clearly reverberating throughout your body: a slight tremor, like the purr of a powerful engine. He kisses you again, on your temple, just below, where the seam of the plate is softer. Each kiss leaves a warm imprint, and a quiet smile blooms within you, like that of a man who has regained his home.

Optimus lowers his hand, guiding it to your cheek. His thumb gently traces the cool surface, as if erasing the traces of the day. Your gaze meets his — in the blue light of the optics, sincerity and surprise are combined: he can't believe he could be so close. He whispers.

"You know how precious this is to me..." — And his words are like a promise that doesn't need to be repeated twice.

He kisses your lips — briefly, like a test, softly, like a vow. Then he moves the kiss to your cheek, again and again, as if collecting tiny fragments of your fatigue and tucking them into his pocket — to cherish. The kisses follow one after another: forehead, temples, cheek, corner of mouth.

You respond not with words, but with touch: your palm on his chest, your fingers tangled in the seams of his armor plates, a gentle squeeze. Your optics narrow slightly in the light, and in response to his tenderness, you feel your thoughts become simpler — as if someone has cleared away the excess emotional clutter.

He smiles, in a special way, across his entire body: not pretentiously, but sincerely. And again — a kiss, a little longer, just a touch, and his hand, not letting go of yours, holds you close. In this tight silence, he whispers one more small but powerful word.

"Thank you for being here."

The room darkens, the soft light fading to a deep blue. He pulls you close again, kisses your forehead, and leaves a light, almost weightless mark on your temple, as if sealing this moment as yours. His hand drops gently, but doesn't leave, it remains on your thigh, warm and calm.