“My, but you make a pretty pet,” Mirage murmured as he dragged his fingertrips over the crown of Tracks’ helm.
Tracks’ engine purred. His optics glowed a bright, adoring blue. He tilted his helm into Mirage’s caress, flourishing under the compliment.
It was one he richly deserved. His plating shone with a healthy, unmarred gleam. The platinum collar around his neck was so polished that Mirage could see his reflection in it. But the true marvel was the delicate chain connected to the loop at the front. It twinkled in the overhead light.
Tracks was amazingly well-behaved. He didn’t need a leash for behavior correction. Mirage simply enjoyed having both for the aesthetic.
Mirage smiled down at his pet and gave the leash a gentle pull.
“Come on then, pretty one,” Mirage murmured and turned toward the berth. “I find I’m in need of some service. My valve, especially, remembers the feel of your glossa.”
Tracks’ faceplate lit with joy, his field buzzing with eager delight. He said nothing — pets did not speak after all — but he licked his lips and rose on hands and knees to follow Mirage.
That, in itself, was approval enough.