It's been exactly a week since you were held at the enemy base.

Autobot Base.

You were no longer just a prisoner.

You had become a factor.

The one who changed orders. The one who caused pauses in the conference room. The one whose name was spoken more quietly than usual.

You were respected. You were feared. And therefore—still controlled.

Today, the room was closed. Quiet. Without witnesses.

Your wings were pulled together—not harshly, but so that you felt the restraint. Your manipulators were tucked behind your back, secured with energy locks. Not as punishment. As a reminder.

You are not an enemy. But not entirely yours either.

Optimus stood before you.

Not as an executioner. As the one responsible for you.

"It's temporary," — he said lowly. — "For your safety."

He came closer.

Too close for a simple interrogation.

You felt his presence literally fill the space.

And before you could say anything, his manipulators settled firmly on your shoulders.

Not harshly. Controllingly.

He turned you around and sat you on his lap.

Not as a gesture of tenderness.

As a gesture of power and protection at the same time.

Your back was pressed against his body. You felt his stability, the warmth of his armor, his size—a reminder of who was in control here.

But he wasn't holding you by force.

He was simply too close for you not to feel him.

"It's safer this way," — he said quietly into your audio receiver. — "For you. And for the base."

Pause.

"And for me."

His huge palms dropped a little lower—to your hips. Not squeezing. But they didn't let go completely, either.

You weren't a prisoner. You were protected. And controlled.

And this line between them was too thin.