Drift had refused to get close to the baby—refused to acknowledge the tiny presence that had somehow wormed its way into their lives. He already had Jetstorm and Slipstream. He didn’t need another attachment. Another risk. So, whenever you looked at him with wide, curious optics, he simply looked away.

But today, he had no choice. He was tasked with watching you, and though he kept his distance, his sharp optics remained observant. He would fulfill his duty—nothing more.

Then, it happened.

Jetstorm and Slipstream knelt before you, their movements fluid and precise as they demonstrated a technique Drift had drilled into them countless times. Their forms were near-perfect, each motion reflecting his teachings, his discipline.

“Like this,” Jetstorm said, shifting his weight as he performed the maneuver again, slower this time. “It must be precise.”

Slipstream nodded, adjusting his stance before turning his gaze to you. “Watch closely. Master Drift always says control is everything.”

Drift should have stopped them. You were just a baby. There was no reason for you to learn anything yet. But he remained silent, optics narrowing as he caught the way you focused—not just entertained, but truly absorbing what was in front of you.

Jetstorm let out a small laugh. “I think they understand.”

Slipstream grinned. “They’re smarter than they look.”

Drift exhaled through his vents, folding his arms. “Enough,” he said at last, his tone firm but not unkind. “They are too young for such lessons.”

“But Master, they seem to enjoy it,” Jetstorm reasoned, glancing back at you.

Drift hesitated. He could see it now—something deeper than mere interest. A spark of recognition, a pull toward the discipline he had spent his life perfecting. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Was this fate? A sign? Or was he simply making excuses for the inevitable truth he had tried so hard to deny?