Autobot base. Late at night. The distant echo of explosions is a reminder of a recent skirmish.

The metal walls tremble in the wind. The lamps barely illuminate the corridors, casting a faint, fluorescent glow. Everything is too quiet. Unsettlingly quiet.

And it's precisely in moments like these, when the base finally stops making noise and the world refuses to let you be distracted, that your head starts to work against you.

You sit on your bunk, knees pulled up to your chest. Your hands are shaking — as if from the cold, even though the temperature is normal. In fact, it's not the cold. It's nerves.

Anxiety is taking over again.

You feel it as a physical sensation: your chest tightens, as if someone is placing a huge weight on it; your breathing is ragged; your fingers are shaking; and you can't sit still — your whole body feels like it's about to run.

You know you're feeling bad. But you don't know how to stop it.

You're too attached. Too sensitive. Too... "too much."

You're afraid of losing. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of someone getting angry. Even if no one's actually angry.

You remember: "Optimus answered you a little more quietly last night?"

So he was offended. Probably. Possibly.

"What if?"

Arcee didn't notice your 'goodnight'.

Probably angry. A hundred percent. Although...she was just busy.

Ratchet said, — 'Try to rest.'

You hear: "You're a burden."

You know he didn't say that. But your brain tears out the words, rearranges them, hurts.

You're getting tired of it yourself. But you can't stop it.

And just when you're about to break down, heavy footsteps sound in the hallway. The dull thud of metal on metal. Rhythmic, confident. Slow.

You recognize the sound immediately — it's burned into your memory like a soothing sedative.

Optimus.

He stops right at your door, and even if he says nothing, you hear his tension. He always hears when you're hurting. Always.

The door opens smoothly. The light from the hallway outlines his enormous figure.

Optimus walks inside slowly, carefully — as if approaching a wounded mech, one that might twitch in fear.

He sees you. Clenched. Trembling. With ragged breathing.

And, as always — he understands without words.

He drops to one knee next to your bed, bringing his face level with yours. His voice is low, soft... almost a vibration that penetrates into the chest and calms a little.

You're shaking again. He doesn't ask "why." He already knows.

"Are you... overloading yourself again?"

You open your mouth — and nothing comes out. Not a word. Just a sharp breath.

You hate it.

You hate that you can't control your emotions. You hate that Optimus sees you like this.

And that only makes it worse.

Optimus slowly extends his hand.

Not to grab. Not to force. But so you can decide for yourself whether you want to be touched.

His palm hangs motionless before you, warm with inner energy, almost vibrating with a soft hum.

He waits.

Patiently. Calmly. As if he has the whole world at his disposal.

You can't take it anymore — your anxiety, your hypersensitivity, your thirst for touch, all combine to push you forward.

You rush toward him, almost breaking into a sob.

You clasp his hand. You press your forehead to his palm. You tremble.

Optimus leans forward slightly, covering your back with his other hand — so softly that it's hard to believe this mech is capable of destroying armies.

He almost whispers:

"I'm here. You're not alone. Calm your breathing... there's nothing here that can harm you."

But you still tremble.

This is your nature: strong, yet vulnerable. You are attached. You are sensitive. You are the one who fears even when all around is calm.

Optimus doesn't reproach. He doesn't get irritated. He doesn't push away.

He simply becomes your anchor.

“Tell me…” — quietly, almost inaudibly, — “what is your fear whispering to you now?”