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“Hey gorgeous,” Jazz sat down at the reserved table, across from the Praxian seated there. “Come here often?”
Prowl, colors faded with age the way Jazz’s own were, smiled. He really was still as gorgeous as the day they had met, especially as the expression made the lines worn into his plating more obvious. They’d had a life after the war that gave Prowl so much happiness that he had smile lines these days. “Nightly, as a matter of fact. My bondmate is the singer.”
“Bondmate?” Jazz returned Prowl’s smile. “Hope he knows how lucky he is to have a partner as beautiful as you.”
Before Prowl could reply, they were interrupted by the server–their oldest grandcreation, and wasn’t that a trip after spending so much of the war certain that it would kill them both–setting a mug of warmed coolant down in front of Jazz. “Gross. Stop flirting, it’s embarrassing.”
“We’ll stop flirting when we’re dead,” Jazz replied with a laugh.
“And we will hope that you live long enough to embarrass your own grandcreations in your twilight years,” Prowl added, still smiling.