The room smelled of grease and old paper — your notes and tools were scattered across the desk, the soft glow of the nightlight falling on a shelf of mementos. You rummaged through the nightstand drawer, searching for a small part — some screw that kept eluding you. Suddenly, you noticed it seemed to have fallen under the bed. You leaned over, grabbed the edge of the mattress, and tried to reach it with your hand.

At first, it was easy: your arm, then your shoulder. You slid your torso under the bed, blindly feeling the floor, your legs beyond, your body twisting slightly — but there was a narrow ledge beneath the bed, and what you were looking for was even further away. You pushed yourself deeper. And suddenly — a rustling sound, a metallic thud against the joists, and you realized you were stuck: your foot caught, your body caught on some lower beam, and moving back became impossible.

At first, it was funny. You crawled away slightly and stood up, trying a different angle. But minutes passed, and you still couldn't break free: your arm was too short, the turn too narrow. Your spark, lost its rhythm slightly; your body vibrated softly with the tension. You tried to gently tug, to pull yourself back — but you only resisted harder.

Several minutes passed. Footsteps could be heard in the hallway outside — someone was returning to base. Finally, the door to the room opened slightly, and his tall figure appeared in profile. He entered with his usual even and unhurried pace; the light from his optics softly illuminated the floor. Optimus slowed, noticing the unhealthy sight in the light — one of your legs sticking out from under the bed, your shoulders and part of your torso frozen inside, as if trapped.

He paused in the threshold, and the room fell silent for a moment, broken only by the soft hum of your servos. His gaze first scanned the instruments and the clutter, and then settled on you — on your tension, on how the narrow space slightly distorts the outline of your body.

Optimus took a step closer, and the air seemed to thicken. His optics narrowed. For a split second, a wave of random images surged through his processors — memories of moments when you were close: brief touches, your first cautious intimacy, a warmth that seemed beyond the reach of metal. These images, instead of cold data, came as soft flashes — and Optimus's mind, a machine accustomed to clear decisions, was momentarily filled with something approaching human whimsy. It would be a lie to call them "dirty thoughts" in the conventional sense — more like warm, forbiddenly tender images: him gently releasing you, then gently lowering you into his palm, you laughing at the absurdity of the situation and lingering in that touch just a little too long.

He stepped back, so as not to create unnecessary pressure, and before approaching, he did what he always did in such moments: he spoke out loud, bringing the situation into focus. His voice, low and even, carried throughout the room.

"Are you okay? Can you move yourself?"