Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ratchet turned in the mirror again, twisting at the waist and lifting a servo to prod the slight swell in his midsection. His plating creaked with the motion, not from age—Primus, no, not this time—but from the extra mass that had accumulated around his waistline.

He sighed. Deeply. Primus, he hated being self-conscious. He wasn’t even sure when that had started. His appearance had never bothered him before. Not back during the war, not during the long, stressful peace afterward, not even when the first gray cables started to show at his joints. But now?

Now it gnawed at him.

Maybe it was the way his chassis didn’t sit quite the same when he leaned over his workbench. Or the fact that his plating clinked together differently when he walked. Or maybe it was because he caught a glimpse of himself earlier that day and flinched—just for a second—thinking who the frag is that?

Before he could finish that thought, strong arms slid around his waist, gently but firmly. Warmth flooded his frame as Drift rested his helm on Ratchet’s shoulder, the soft hum of his systems syncing comfortingly with his own. One of Drift’s hands began tracing lazy, slow circles across his midsection, right over the part Ratchet had just been glaring at.

Ratchet nearly shivered. He hated how easily Drift got to him.

“What’cha thinking about?” Drift murmured, his voice soft and casual, but Ratchet knew better. Drift always asked questions like that when he already knew something was wrong.

Ratchet sighed. “How much I love you.”

That wasn’t the answer Drift expected, judging by the quiet laugh that followed. “I’ll take it,” Drift said, kissing the edge of Ratchet’s neck cables. “But that’s not all of it.”

Ratchet groaned. “You’re the reason for this, you know.”

Drift paused. “The reason for…?”

“All this,” Ratchet gestured vaguely toward his midsection, “bulk.”

Drift’s servo stopped drawing circles. There was a silence. A long, long silence.

“…Do I look fat to you?” Ratchet asked finally, optics refusing to meet Drift’s in the mirror.

Drift blinked. Then blinked again. “What?”

“I asked,” Ratchet said with an edge, “do I look fat to you?”

“Fat?” Drift repeated, as if trying the word on for size. He sounded like Ratchet had just asked if he thought Optimus was secretly a Decepticon.

Ratchet’s frame stiffened. Drift was taking too long to answer.

“No,” Drift said at last, voice low and steady. “Of course not, Ratchet. You look beautiful. Like always.”

Ratchet let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. But still, the lingering insecurity clawed at his spark.

Drift gently turned him around to face him. His blue optics were wide and sincere, his expression utterly unreadable but full of emotion—how he always was when he was trying to say something important.

“You never cared about looks before,” Drift said quietly.

“I know,” Ratchet muttered. “It’s stupid.”

“No,” Drift said, a little more firmly. “It’s not. If something’s bothering you, it matters. But you need to know this: you don’t look ‘fat.’ You look… healthy.”

Ratchet scoffed. “That’s just another way of saying I used to look like a walking corpse.”

“I mean…” Drift shrugged with a teasing grin. “You kind of did. Back before I got you to actually finish a full cube of energon.”

Ratchet snorted. “So it’s your fault.”

“Absolutely,” Drift said, unapologetic. “You were running on fumes half the time. Now you’ve got a little curve here and there. So what? I love it.”

“To be fair,” Ratchet muttered, “you also love when I threaten to throw a wrench at your face.”

Drift grinned. “Exactly. I’m very open-minded.”

Ratchet rolled his optics but smiled despite himself. Drift's servos moved to his waist again, gently pressing against the swell there.

“I like this,” Drift whispered, leaning closer until his voice was brushing against Ratchet’s audio. “You’re all squishy now.”

Ratchet sputtered. “I am not squishy. I’m still mostly plating and frame!”

“You’re squishier than before,” Drift said, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s perfect for cuddling.”

“Do not say that word like it’s an engineering feature.”

Drift leaned in fully now, pressing their chassis together. “Seriously though. I know how hard you’ve worked your whole life. You never took care of yourself. You always put everyone else first. So yeah, maybe you’ve filled out a little now that you’re finally relaxing. Good. About time you were kind to yourself.”

Ratchet’s spark thudded heavily at that. He hadn’t expected to feel… understood. Not like this. He didn’t realize how badly he’d needed it.

“…I still feel ridiculous,” he mumbled. “I catch myself dragging my feet or checking angles in the mirror to see if I’ve gotten worse.”

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Drift asked. He cupped Ratchet’s jaw and guided his gaze up.

Ratchet met his optics reluctantly.

“I see the mech who rebuilt entire squads under fire,” Drift said. “The one who saved my life even when I didn’t think I deserved it. The one who patched every soldier and every spark he could. I see the mech I fell in love with. And none of that changes because your midsection is a little softer now.”

Ratchet’s optics stung.

Drift leaned their helms together gently. “You don’t need to earn love, Ratch. Not by starving yourself. Not by staying thin. You already have it. Every bit of it.”

Primus, Ratchet hated how Drift always knew the right thing to say. Hated how that made his spark ache and melt at the same time.

“…You really don’t mind?” Ratchet asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I really like it,” Drift said simply. “And I love you.”

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was warm, like curling into a blanket on a cold night. Drift’s servos wandered again, slow and idle, no longer teasing—just touching to reassure.

Ratchet leaned into him, letting his weight rest against Drift’s frame.

“...I still might cut back on the sweets.”

Drift chuckled. “That’s fair.”

“But only some. If I cut them all, I might kill someone.”

Drift laughed harder. “Also fair.”

They stood like that for a long time. The mirror forgotten. The doubts lessened. The room bathed in soft light.

Later that night, Ratchet found himself in their shared recharge berth, laying with his back to Drift, who was spooned tightly against him. One of Drift’s arms was draped around his middle, hand splayed across the same section Ratchet had scrutinized earlier.

Drift nuzzled into the crook of his neck again, murmuring against his cables, “Still squishy.”

Ratchet elbowed him. “Keep talking like that and I’ll prescribe you silence with a side of sedative.”

“Promise?”

Ratchet groaned and buried his face in his pillow. “I regret everything.”

But he didn’t. Not really. Not when Drift was pressed close behind him. Not when he felt loved.

And not when—for the first time in a long, long while—he felt enough just as he was.

Chapter Text

Okay.
This was becoming a problem.

Ratchet sat on the edge of the berth, staring at the half-empty cube of energon in his hand and the sticky energon-pastry Drift had left for him on the tray. It was drizzled with something sweet—something criminal, really—and shaped like a little datapad. It even had frosting glyphs that read “Recharge well, gorgeous.”

Ratchet stared at it like it had personally insulted him.
Which, in a way, it had.

He had said he would cut back. He promised Drift, Primus help him, that he’d take things seriously. That just because they were retired, didn’t mean he could throw discipline out the window. And at the time, Ratchet meant it.

But that had been two weeks, four trays of energon-cakes, six cubes of high-grade, and at least one “experimental dessert stew” ago. And now here he was, midsection pressing just a bit tighter into his plating than it had yesterday. Again.

Primus, he had gone soft.

The mirror confirmed it last night. He wasn’t imagining it anymore. That little bump around his waist had turned into a full-on swell. His jawline had rounded out, his torso had a slight jiggle to it if he moved too quickly, and his frame just felt… heavier.

His spark twisted uncomfortably.

Ratchet groaned and flopped backward onto the berth, energon treat forgotten. He flung his arm over his optics like the universe itself had conspired to expand his midsection the moment he dared to enjoy a peaceful life.

This was not how he imagined retirement.

He wasn't supposed to be waddling around like a cargo hauler in the medbay corridor. He was Ratchet—legendary medic, war hero, miracle worker. But now? Now he was… squishy.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t really his fault.
It was Drift's.

If Drift really wanted him to cut back, he wouldn’t keep making those sweet, delicious, plasma-softened desserts. He wouldn’t keep tucking little notes into Ratchet’s energon cubes. He wouldn’t keep winking and kissing him on the cheek every time Ratchet so much as glanced at a high-calorie treat.

Frankly, Ratchet was convinced Drift was doing this on purpose.

Oh, Drift had said it himself: “I like you squishy.”
And Ratchet had rolled his optics at the time. But deep down, he couldn’t deny—Drift really did like it. He was always touching Ratchet now. Squeezing his waist. Pulling him into hugs. Resting his helm on Ratchet’s shoulder and murmuring sweet things into his audials. And when they curled into berth together?

Drift always reached for him, always held him close, always tangled their limbs together like he was afraid to lose even an inch of contact.

Ratchet sighed again, deeper this time, and rubbed a hand down his now softer belly.
Primus, it was like hugging a full energon drum. How had he let this happen?

And yet…

Even now, lying there in a spiral of self-disappointment and guilt, Ratchet remembered the way Drift looked at him last night. Like he was the most beautiful thing in the galaxy. The way he whispered, “You’re perfect like this,” while tracing gentle kisses along Ratchet’s faceplates. The way he had smiled, completely and utterly content, as he fell into recharge curled against Ratchet’s soft chassis.

It made Ratchet’s spark ache in a way he didn’t quite know how to name.

Okay.
Maybe… maybe there were some upsides to being all squishy.

Being Drift’s squishy.

---

Later that cycle, Ratchet found himself in their shared quarters again. He had the house to himself for a bit—Drift was out at the market, probably hunting down more dangerous sweets in the name of “harmless indulgence.”

The mirror glared at him from across the room.

Ratchet stood slowly, crossing to it with caution, as if it might explode if he looked directly into it for too long. He turned slightly, then turned again, servo on his now much more prominent hip.

Yup. There it was. The squish.

He didn’t hate it. Not exactly.
But he also didn’t know how to feel about it.

He was halfway through poking at his side when the door whooshed open.

“Back!” Drift’s voice rang cheerfully. “And guess who found the last two crates of honeycore syrup! The vendor said it’s banned in three cities now—something about melting energon filters? Sounds like a challenge!”

Ratchet groaned. “Drift—”

He turned to scold him properly but didn’t get the chance.

Drift was already beside him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked Ratchet up and down.

“Caught you,” Drift said.

Ratchet scowled. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were staring at yourself like you just got a diagnostics alert that said 'your self-worth is at critical levels'.”

Ratchet huffed. “You’re not funny.”

“Really? Because the squish says otherwise.” Drift grinned and reached forward, hands slipping around Ratchet’s waist to squeeze gently.

Ratchet smacked at his hand. “Stop that.”

Drift ignored him, resting his head right on Ratchet’s shoulder. “You’re adorable.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” Drift pecked his cheek. “So soft. So warm. So perfectly cuddly.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re perfect.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to argue again, but nothing came out.

He could feel Drift’s spark against his back, pulsing in sync with his. He could feel Drift’s arms hugging him tightly, protectively. He could hear that quiet, unshakable certainty in his voice.

Ratchet stared into the mirror again—but this time, he saw Drift, too. Standing behind him, holding him like treasure, like Ratchet was something precious.

Not just beautiful.
Loved.

“Why?” Ratchet asked quietly, not sure he even meant to say it aloud.

“Why what?” Drift murmured.

“Why do you keep saying those things? I’ve let myself go. I’m not the mech I used to be.”

Drift pulled back just enough to look Ratchet in the optics. His face was calm. Gentle. Fiercely honest.

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re not the mech you used to be. You’re not starving yourself for work. You’re not running off minimal energon and denial. You’re not exhausted every minute of the day.”

He cupped Ratchet’s face, thumbs brushing lightly against the edges of his jaw.

“You’re finally safe. Finally happy. Finally loved the way you deserve. That’s who you are now.”

Ratchet swallowed hard, something catching in his throat.

“And yeah,” Drift added with a smirk, “you’re a little squishier. But you’re also sleeping better. You’re laughing more. You smile when you eat something sweet, and you let me hold you without flinching.”

Ratchet blinked, vision blurring slightly.

“You’re finally resting.” Drift whispered. “And I love every version of you. But this one—this one who lets himself be soft? This is the one I’ve waited my whole life for.”

Ratchet turned, arms wrapping around Drift and pulling him close until they were chest-to-chest, helm-to-helm.

“I’m still disappointed in myself sometimes,” he admitted softly.

“That’s okay,” Drift said, holding him tighter. “I’ll remind you how amazing you are. As many times as it takes.”

They stood like that for a long time, the mirror forgotten, the doubts quieted for now.

Later, as they curled up together in their berth, Drift pressed kisses to Ratchet’s faceplates, his arms around his middle, his hands lazily tracing his soft sides.

“You know what I love the most about you being all squishy?” he whispered.

Ratchet hummed, half-asleep. “What?”

“I get more of you to love.”

Ratchet didn’t answer—not out loud. But the quiet, contented sigh he let out as he pressed closer said everything Drift needed to hear.

Yeah.
There were definitely some upsides to being all squishy.
Especially if it meant being Drift’s squishy.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was a mess.

Drift didn’t care.

There were energon smudges on the counters, empty bottles of syrup stacked like a miniature fortress beside the sink, and a trail of flour dust coating the floor like snow. A lesser mech might’ve panicked at the state of things, but Drift was humming softly to himself, spinning a whisk in one hand and bouncing lightly on his heels like a love struck sparkling.

Because he was.
Completely, utterly, helplessly in love.

A warm puff of steam rolled from the oven, flooding the room with the scent of baked energon pastries, crusted in sweet glaze and stuffed with just the right amount of fruit paste and a dash of that spiced additive Ratchet secretly liked. He’d never admit it, but Drift had caught him licking the residue from his fingers the last time he made these.

Drift grinned at the memory, whisking harder.

Everything about this was perfect.

He knew he didn’t have to do this—Ratchet never asked for sweets or expected Drift to cook every night—but that wasn’t the point. Drift wanted to. He loved the act of care, of giving, of creating something that made Ratchet smile and lean into him with that sleepy, satisfied look that made Drift’s spark flutter.

And these days? That smile had only gotten softer. Rounder. Sweeter.

Much like Ratchet himself.

Drift’s spark pulsed fondly at the thought. He paused in the middle of preparing the final glaze, a little cube of candied energon held in his fingers, and just… smiled.

Primus, Ratchet was beautiful. Always had been. Even back when he was overworked, sharp-edged, and running on fumes. But now?

Now Ratchet was rested. Cared for. Glowing.

And yes—soft.

Drift bit his lip, vents puffing lightly.

There was something so irresistibly perfect about it. The little round of Ratchet’s belly when he leaned over the counter. The way his faceplates had filled out slightly, smoothing his features, giving him this glow that made Drift want to kiss every inch of him. His arms were warmer now when Drift wrapped himself around them. And that waist—oh, that squishy little waist—was the best place in the world to rest his servos.

Drift had never said it outright (well… maybe once or twice), but he was more than a little obsessed.

He didn’t care that Ratchet grumbled about his weight or pinched at his belly in the mirror. Because Drift knew what he saw. He saw the mech who had carried the war on his back. The one who patched everyone else up but never let himself slow down. The one who now—finally—allowed himself to live.

And Drift? Drift got to be the one who held him through it all.

He turned back to the pot with a little shake of his head, grinning like a fool. He scraped the glaze from the sides of the bowl and poured it over the top of the pastries, letting it drip and swirl into gooey perfection.

Tonight’s dessert:
Triple-sweet energon custard pie with a candied swirl crust and a lattice topping made to look like a heartbeat pattern.

Ratchet’s heartbeat pattern.
Because of course it was.

“Too much?” Drift asked the empty kitchen. “Nah. He’s sweet enough already.”

He plated the meal next—grilled energon-veggies with a creamy energon drizzle on top. Light on the sodium, heavy on the taste. He’d even shaped the energon leaves into little hearts, not that Ratchet would notice until Drift pointed it out. Which he would.

As he cleaned up the counter, Drift found himself staring out the window over the sink. He could see the faint glow of the setting sun brushing across the fields of New Iacon. It was peaceful. Still.

Ratchet was out back, reading something old and boring—likely a medical journal from the pre-war era—but even that made Drift smile. Seeing Ratchet relax. Not rushing to fix a crisis. Not running on four hours of recharge and ten hours of stress. Just existing.

Being his.

And Primus, Drift loved him.

He thought about the little things—how Ratchet always groaned about the desserts, then devoured them anyway. How his vents huffed when he was embarrassed. How he pretended not to notice Drift calling him beautiful, but secretly basked in it.

He thought about last night, when they curled into each other and Ratchet, soft and warm and sleep-touched, had mumbled, “I don’t deserve you.”

And Drift had almost cried.

Because Ratchet didn’t understand. Didn’t see how easy it was to love him. How everything Drift was, everything he had, was better with Ratchet in his arms. If cooking dinner every night and watching him get a little squishier meant Ratchet was happy and safe and soft enough to finally relax, then Drift would do it a thousand times over.

He didn’t want the war-hardened, exhausted version of Ratchet back.

He wanted this one.

The door clicked open behind him.

Drift turned just in time to see Ratchet step inside, still carrying his datapad, shoulders relaxed, a little smudge of oil on his thumb from tinkering with something earlier. And Primus, his frame—so perfectly curved, glowing slightly from the warmth of the day—made Drift’s spark flutter all over again.

Ratchet sniffed the air, and Drift could see the moment his guard cracked. His optics narrowed.

“You made the pie again,” he accused.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Drift said innocently, pulling a napkin over the dessert tray. “This is just, uh… nutrient paste with flair.”

“Flair that smells like at least eight kinds of sugar.”

Drift approached him slowly, hands behind his back. “Don’t you want to guess the flavors?”

“Drift.”

“They’re shaped like your sparkbeat.”

Ratchet glared at him.

Drift leaned in. “You love them.”

“I hate how much I love them.”

“I call that a win.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to argue—and Drift stole the moment to press a kiss to his cheek. Then another. Then one right beneath his optic ridge.

“You,” Drift whispered, “are the best thing I’ve ever made fall in love with me.”

Ratchet flushed. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does in my processor.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Drift took his hand and guided him to the table. “Sit. Let me feed you, squishums.”

Ratchet groaned but obeyed, muttering something about “ridiculous nicknames” under his breath. But he didn’t let go of Drift’s hand.

Dinner passed in a soft haze of conversation and laughter. Ratchet tried to grumble about the dessert, but his expression melted the second he took a bite. Drift practically purred watching him.

And when they finally curled into berth again, bellies full and sparks full of warmth, Drift pressed his helm against Ratchet’s and whispered:

“Do you know how lucky I am?”

Ratchet didn’t respond at first. He just curled a little closer, letting Drift’s arms pull around his waist and settle against the softest part of his chassis.

“You saved everyone else for so long,” Drift whispered. “Now I get to take care of you.”

Ratchet’s fingers found his hand and squeezed. Just once.

And as Drift drifted into recharge beside his squishy, perfect, beautiful Conjunx, he made a silent promise:

More desserts tomorrow.
More love.
Always.

Chapter Text

(This is a flashback set before the events of the previous chapters)

Ratchet sighed, staring at the energon cube in his hands like it was about to explode.

It wasn’t. Of course not. It was a standard rations cube, lightly warmed, diluted just enough to be gentle on the tanks. Carefully prepared by Drift. Perfectly balanced. The same kind of energon Ratchet had once downed mid-surgery without blinking.

And now?

Now it made his tanks churn just to look at it.

He set it down on the table with trembling fingers and ex-vented through his nose. Maybe if he didn’t look at it for a breem, the nausea would pass.

But it never did.

Behind him, warm arms wrapped gently around his waist and chest, and Ratchet felt the familiar hum of Drift’s sparkpress against his back. Drift rested his helm on Ratchet’s shoulder, and one servo slid down to brush over his chassis with soft, comforting strokes.

“You’re doing so well, sweetspark,” Drift purred into his audio. “Just one more sip. For me?”

Ratchet’s optics shuttered briefly. The warmth of Drift’s voice, the pressure of his arms—it helped. It always helped.

But it didn’t make the energon any easier to swallow.

They were sitting on the edge of their berth in their home overlooking the silver towers of New Iacon. The sunset caught on the curved steel and made everything glow.

It should have felt peaceful.
It was peaceful. Finally.

After so many eons of war, peace had been declared. No more battlefields. No more triage centers soaked in energon. No more scramble codes or death tolls or emergency comms waking him in the middle of recharge.

On one servo, Ratchet was relieved. Free, even.

On the other…

He no longer had an excuse.

He couldn’t claim there were patients who needed it more. Couldn’t pretend there wasn’t enough energon to go around. Couldn’t say he didn’t have time to stop. Not anymore.

Now, when Drift lovingly set a cube of energon in front of him, Ratchet couldn’t hide the truth.

He didn’t want to eat.
Because somewhere along the way, he’d taught himself not to.

“Halfway through,” Drift murmured against the back of his helm, squeezing gently. “That’s the farthest yet, love. I’m proud of you.”

Ratchet didn’t answer. He couldn’t. If he opened his mouth, he might actually be sick. His tank twisted with guilt and nausea, his spark flickering uncomfortably.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered eventually.

Drift didn’t move away. He just pressed a kiss to the top of Ratchet’s helm. “You are doing it.”

“I can’t finish it.”

“Then don’t. Not right now. You’ve done more than enough.”

Ratchet turned his head, just enough to look Drift in the optics. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Drift blinked, confused. “Do what?”

“Stay.” Ratchet looked down at the cube again, that same crushing wave of self-loathing creeping back in. “Look at me. I can’t even make it through one cube without falling apart. I’m broken. I’ve been broken for a long time.”

“You’re not—” Drift started.

Ratchet cut him off. “I am.” His voice shook, low and bitter. “I starved myself for so long I forgot how to eat. I spent so long keeping everyone else alive I forgot how to care about my own survival. And now? Now I’ve got peace, I’ve got you, I’ve got a home and all the energon I could ever want—and I can’t make myself want it.”

Silence followed.

Ratchet covered his faceplates with one hand, trying to hide the burning shame behind his optics. “You should’ve picked someone better, Drift. Someone not this… damaged.”

Drift didn’t respond right away. And Ratchet, for a flickering moment, thought maybe he had gone too far. Maybe this was it. The moment Drift would finally realize what a mistake this was.

But instead, Drift leaned in and kissed him. Slowly. Gently. Just a soft press of lips to cheek, to jawline, to the side of his mouth, until Ratchet couldn’t help but lower his hand.

Then Drift moved around him, kneeling in front of him and cupping his faceplates in both servos.

“Don’t ever say that again,” Drift said, voice low and fierce. “Not because it hurts me. But because it hurts you.”

Ratchet’s optics were wide, surprised.

“You want to talk about broken?” Drift continued. “Then let’s talk. You were shattered in that war. We all were. And you kept going. You kept every one of us alive, even when you were falling apart inside. You never stopped giving. Even when there was nothing left to give.”

His thumbs brushed against Ratchet’s cheeks.

“You didn’t starve yourself because you wanted to. You starved yourself because you thought you had to. Because the war taught you that your spark only had value if it was spent on someone else.”

Ratchet’s mouth opened, but no sound came.

Drift leaned closer, forehead resting gently against his. “But that’s not the world anymore. That’s not our life. I won’t let that be your life.”

Ratchet’s voice cracked. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Drift’s arms wrapped around him again, pulling him into a slow, grounding hug. “Then we’ll learn together. One sip at a time. One cube at a time. One day at a time.”

They sat like that for a long moment. Drift didn’t pressure him. Didn’t push the cube back into his hands. He just held him. Steady. Present.

Ratchet finally spoke. “Why do you stay?”

Drift pulled back enough to look him in the optics again, smiling softly. “Because I love you.”

“You could have anyone.”

“I want you.”

Ratchet let out a long, shaky ex-vent. “You don’t mind that I’m… like this?”

“I adore that you’re like this,” Drift said with a grin. “You’re prickly and stubborn and brilliant. And underneath all that, you’ve got the biggest, kindest spark I’ve ever known.”

He brushed a servo across Ratchet’s midsection, light and affectionate. “And I happen to love every inch of you.”

Ratchet blinked. “Even the part that flinches at energon?”

“Especially that part. Because that part needs love the most.”

The words struck something deep in Ratchet’s spark. He didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he slowly picked up the cube again. Hands steady this time. It still made him nauseous to look at, but Drift’s words echoed in his mind—one sip at a time.

He took a breath.

Then a tiny sip.

It wasn’t much. Just enough to coat his tongue. But he didn’t purge. Didn’t flinch.

Drift didn’t cheer or make a scene. He just smiled, warm and proud.

“You did it,” he whispered.

Ratchet didn’t smile back. But he didn’t cry either. Not this time.

“I’ll try again tomorrow,” he said quietly.

Drift kissed his forehead. “That’s all I ask.”

They sat together on the berth as the sun dipped behind New Iacon, painting the room in soft orange light. The war was over. The wounds were still healing. But Ratchet had Drift, and Drift had him.

And together, they'd learn how to live again.

One sip at a time.