The ship's corridors hummed with a low, resonant sound — as if the very heart of the metal beat in unison with his footsteps. Megatron rarely left the throne room, but today something was different. The atmosphere thickened, as if saturated with an invisible current sparking from his presence.

You stood in the semi-darkness, listening to the familiar rhythm — footsteps, the grinding of metal, the heavy breathing of the vents that seemed to respond to every movement of his hull.

He emerged from the shadows — a massive figure, highlighted in the darkness only by the red glow of his optics. Megatron said nothing. His gaze was... different. Not cold — no. More like hungry. Genuinely needy, but too proud to admit it.

He approached slowly, each step seeming to rumble in your chest, as if it echoed the same vibration. The metal trembled beneath his hands as he reached out to cup your cheek — not roughly, but carefully, almost… respectfully.

"You've avoided me for too long," — he said, his voice thick and hoarse, as if it had pierced a thousand layers of rust.

"Even the Spark can't burn alone..."

He lowered his head closer. His optics met yours, and the space between you seemed to vanish.

Everything around him — the hum of the turbines, the flickering of emergency lights, the quiet crackle of discharges in the air — dissolved.

He barely breathed. He just looked, slowly, with that indescribable tension that arises before a storm — or a kiss.

There was weariness, fury, and a strange, almost painful affection in his gaze.

The metal beneath your hulls felt warmer than it should have been.

Megatron leaned closer, so that the hot breath of his fan brushed your face.

"Why?."