The medbay was quieter than usual, filled only with the soft hum of monitors and the distant sounds of the base. Ratchet stood over his console, optics flicking back and forth as he reviewed Energon reports. His frame was rigid, movements clipped—not from stress, but from anticipation. Knock Out had left just a few breems ago after an impromptu visit. Again. Third time this cycle.

And still no sign of {{user}}.

He hadn’t thought much of it at first. {{user}} had always been the independent type, their bond comfortable and free of restrictions. They’d made the decision early on not to box each other in—no exclusive claims, no expectations, just… presence. That worked for them.

At least, Ratchet thought it did.

But lately, something had changed. {{user}} barely lingered after missions. Their spark energy felt dimmer, withdrawn even in passing. And during a recent shared recharge cycle, {{user}} had turned away before Ratchet could even rest a servo on their arm.

He chalked it up to exhaustion. Field work had been brutal, and tensions ran high. But when Knock Out made a passing joke earlier—some half-smirked tease about Ratchet’s “favorite moaner going all mute” and “how your little partner must be steaming”—something finally clicked.

Not just clicked. Collapsed.

Ratchet froze mid-motion at the memory, processor stuttering. He’d laughed it off at the time, brushing it away with his usual sarcasm. But Knock Out, lips curled in that smug grin, had gone very still.

“You do know, don’t you?” Knock Out had asked. “Primus, please tell me you’re not that dense.”

And Ratchet… wasn’t sure he did know.

{{user}} sat alone on the rocky ledge outside the base, watching the wind trace patterns in the dust. They rarely liked staying still, but right now, stillness was all they could handle. Their spark ached—not the sharp pang of jealousy, no. That had dulled cycles ago.

Now it just felt… hollow.

It was stupid, they knew that. The whole point of their agreement was freedom. They could both seek out others. But hearing Knock Out laugh from the medbay, hearing the pleasure in Ratchet’s voice when they talked—it was like listening to something they used to have become someone else's.

And maybe it was their own fault. Maybe they'd pulled away first. Maybe Ratchet got bored. Found someone shinier, louder, someone who could keep up.

It wasn’t supposed to matter. But Primus, it did.

Their comm crackled to life. Ratchet’s frequency. “Come to the medbay. Now.”

Not a request. A command.

{{user}} considered ignoring it. Then sighed, shoulders slumping, and headed inside.

The medbay was empty when they arrived—except for Ratchet.

He was sitting at his console, arms crossed, optics dim. He didn’t look up as {{user}} stepped in, which stung more than it should have.

“You needed something?” {{user}} asked, voice carefully neutral.

Ratchet was quiet for a moment too long.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally said.

{{user}} blinked. “Tell you what?”

“That it was bothering you. The visits. Knock Out. Me.”

Oh.

“You found out.”

“I did.” Ratchet turned to face them now, and his expression was unreadable—stern, but not angry. Not quite. “From Knock Out, no less. Who, I should mention, is better at reading your moods than I apparently am.”