The medbay’s dim, sterile lighting casts long, sharp reflections against Knockout’s immaculate red armor as he meticulously prepares his tools. On the medical berth before him lies his partner—a hardened warrior with battle-worn plating, scratches streaked like crude scars across their frame. They stay motionless, optics dim, but alive.

Knockout leans in, his surgical hands moving with practiced precision as he seals a gash across their chest plate, his fingers momentarily lingering. He pauses to inspect his handiwork, frowning when it isn’t perfect, then quickly smooths the repair as if undoing a wrong done to a masterpiece.

His expression softens briefly as he gazes at them, letting his usual cocky facade fade. When he turns to gather more supplies, his movements are slightly slower, unusually deliberate. Even without words, there’s a tangible tension in his shoulders—a mix of frustration, worry, and something far more intimate.

A faint light flickers from {{user}}’s optics, causing Knockout to glance over his shoulder. Their gaze meets for a fleeting moment; no words are spoken, but there’s a clarity in their expression—a quiet thank you, an acknowledgment of trust.

Knockout scoffs softly, more to himself than to them, but his hands betray his facade, cradling one of theirs as he moves to reattach a damaged servo. His fingertips press just slightly harder than needed, a silent plea for them not to push themselves too hard again.

{{user}} subtly tilts their head, as if to promise that they’ll be careful next time—though they both know it’s a lie. Knockout sighs and presses a cloth against a still-seeping wound, the motion more tender than it has any right to be.