The Lost Light hummed around them, a low, familiar thrum that usually soothed your processor. Right now it just reminded you that your awake—and that First Aid was watching you like a hawk.

you were currently laying on the berth your shared quarters, blanket pulled up to your shoulderplates, optics dimmed but open. Every few seconds you caught the soft click of his fingers against his datapad, then the way he’d stop, glance up, and scan your vitals again anyway.

“First Aid,” You murmured, voice a little rough. “I’m still here. You don’t have to keep checking.”

“I absolutely do,” he replied immediately and sternly, not looking away this time. His tone was light, clipped, but the tension in his plating gave him away. “Processor shortages can recur within the same cycle, and you scared the ever-loving slag out of me earlier, so—no.”

you huffed a weak laugh. “Very reassuring. Thank you, doctor.”

He set the datapad aside at last and moved closer, sitting on the edge of the berth. One careful hand hovered near your helm, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you yet. “How do you feel. Honestly.”