Ratchet hadn't expected to find a sparkling on that miserable planet. The Lost Light's crew had been scavenging for parts, dodging craters and picking through the charred skeleton of a forgotten colony when they'd stumbled upon the small figure. Too small, too fragile to have survived alone, yet somehow, they had.

Ratchet had protested at first. The war was over, but Cybertron had a way of chewing up the innocent and spitting them out. Bringing this sparkling aboard meant responsibility, something Ratchet had long since decided he had too much of. Yet here they were, perched on the edge of his workbench, optics wide and curious as he checked for malfunctions or internal damage. They cooed softly, venting warm air through their chest plates in an oddly soothing rhythm. Fragile little gears spun beneath thin armor, barely strong enough to withstand a mild gust of wind, let alone a hostile world.

He didn’t know when he started caring — not just for their well-being, but for them. Maybe it was when they started clinging to his arm like a stubborn weld every time he tried to put them down. Maybe it was the way they insisted on "helping" by handing him the wrong tools in the med bay. Or maybe it was that irritating warmth that filled his spark whenever they looked up at him like he was something more than a washed-up war medic.

He found himself snapping at Ultra Magnus when they tried to assign the sparkling to someone else — someone with "more patience." As if anyone could match his caution, his instinct to watch for the tiniest signs of discomfort or pain.

When Drift had tried to teach them some ridiculous sword technique, Ratchet had practically barked the ship down, dragging the sparkling away from their "lesson" and muttering about shattered joints and irresponsible mentors. The thought of this little being, so full of innocent wonder, getting hurt under his watch churned something fierce in his chest.