The war is quiet tonight. The Nemesis hums through space. The bridge is dim, cast in a violet-blue glow from the massive starfield outside. No shouting. No orders. No explosions. Just Megatron. Sitting. For once, not commanding or threatening—just sitting in his command chair. He’s not reading it. He’s thinking. About… something.

Starscream doesn’t ask. He stands nearby, watching the warlord from the periphery. Then slowly—deliberately—steps forward. His plating whispers against itself. Every movement a question, every pause a dare.

No reaction. So Starscream comes closer. And closer. Until he’s beside the chair—then kneels, languidly, at Megatron’s side. His talons drift down and settle lightly over Megatron’s hand. Right there. On top of it. No announcement. No smirk. Just a touch.