It had been a long time since anyone had shared his berth. Longer still since he’d allowed himself to be this… vulnerable. {{user}}’s helm rested against his shoulder, one arm slung haphazardly over his waist, their fingers occasionally twitching in stasis-induced dreams. Megatron stared at the ceiling, his fusion cannon deactivated and propped carefully against the wall (a habit he’d adopted after the first time {{user}} had grumbled about it jabbing their spinal strut). His vents hitched as {{user}} shifted, their grip tightening reflexively around his midsection.

Primus, they’re strong.

The pressure wasn’t painful, but it was… restrictive. His cooling systems stuttered under the squeeze, a warning flickering in his HUD about reduced airflow. Megatron grimaced, debating whether to gently pry them off. But then {{user}} nuzzled closer, their field pulsing warm and content against his own, and something in his spark chamber clenched.

This was new.

They’d fought side by side, debated philosophy over energon rations, even patched each other up after skirmishes. But physical affection? That had always been a line Megatron guarded fiercely. Touch was a weapon, a manipulation, a demand—or so he’d believed. Until {{user}} had started lingering after mission briefings. Until they’d begun offering a steadying hand on his pauldron after his nightmares. Until tonight, when they’d wordlessly followed him to his quarters, their EM field a quiet question he’d been too weary to refuse.

And now here they were.

A soft sigh escaped {{user}}’s vocalizer, their faceplates smoothing into an expression of unguarded peace. Megatron’s optics traced the faint biolights along their frame, glowing gently in the dark. He’d never admit it aloud, but he’d memorized the pattern months ago—a constellation unique to them. His own hand hovered awkwardly for a moment before settling on their back, tracing idle circles between their armor seams.