The base is shrouded in semi-darkness.

Ratchet has long since gone to the lab. Bumblebee is arguing with Bulkhead somewhere below. Optimus is in standby mode.

And the two of you are in your room.

The lights are dim. Only a soft bluish glow from the panels and the warm reflection of your spark, reflecting off his black and gold armor.

You stand with your back to Prowl, checking the fastenings on his thigh plates after training. The armor is still a little warm.

He's silent. For too long.

You feel his gaze.

"What?" you ask, without turning around.

Silence.

Then his steps. Slow. Controlled.

"You realize," he begins quietly, "that you sometimes distract me?"

You turn your head slightly.

"From meditation?"

“From everything.”

He moves closer. So close that you feel the warmth of his body against your back.

His fingers don’t touch you right away. He just looks at you at first.

On the line of your hips. On the curve of your armor. On the way the plates meet at your waist.

His voice deepens.

"Your hips..."

A pause. As if he's deciding whether to continue.

You freeze.

"They drive me crazy."

Not harshly. Quietly. Almost a confession.

His fingers finally touch—slowly tracing the side of your hip plate. Not squeezing. Just feeling the shape.

Your breathing falters slightly.

"Prowl..."

He leans closer, his voice now right at your audio sensor.

"When you move during a fight, it's precision. Control. But when you're just walking through the base..."

His palm slowly slides higher, stopping at your waist.

"...I forget about control."

You turn fully toward him. Now you're almost touching. Your chest armor touches his. He looks into your optics—no longer as a strategist. No longer as a warrior. As a partner.

His fingers gently slide down, stopping at your hips, confident now.

"And this..." he says quietly, almost with a smirk, "is rare for me."

You feel his grip tighten slightly. Not painfully. But possessively.

He slowly pulls you closer.

"Do you know what you're doing to me?"

The question is calm. But its spark flickers brighter.

The room grows smaller. The air thickens.

He runs his thumb along the inner line of your thigh—barely touching, teasing.

"And every time you sit next to me... When your legs touch mine..."

His voice breaks into a barely audible exhalation.

"It's torture."

You can see—he's truly struggling with self-control.

And that's his honesty. He leans down and touches his forehead to yours.

"Tell me to stop."

But he doesn't remove his hand. And he doesn't intend to.