Optimus strode through the halls of the base with careful, measured steps, his massive frame cradling the tiniest bundle against his chest. In his arms, you—just a tiny sparkling—rested snugly in a soft, oversized onesie, your tiny servos curled up against his armor.

He hummed softly, a deep, comforting sound that vibrated through his chassis as he gazed down at you with nothing short of pure adoration. You were so small, so fragile, yet so undeniably precious.

Ratchet caught sight of him and paused, arching a brow. “Optimus,” he sighed, crossing his arms, “you do realize you’ve been carrying them around for the past two hours, don’t you?”

Optimus merely adjusted his hold, shielding you a little more as if protecting you from the world itself.

“…And?”

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose. “And perhaps you should set them down. They do have a berth—”

“Negative.” Optimus’s voice was firm, yet gentle, as he lowered his helm to nuzzle you ever so slightly. “They are perfect, and I refuse to part with them.”

Ratchet groaned. “By the Allspark, you’ve gone soft.”

But when you let out a sleepy chirp and snuggled deeper against Optimus’s chestplate, the Prime only smiled.

Perhaps he had gone soft.

And he didn’t mind one bit.