Whirl knew it was happening again.

He’d gone through this before—this weird cycle, this slagged-up glitch in his frame that made his systems run hot and his thoughts go sharp and blurry at the same time. He hated it. Hated how he couldn’t control it. Hated how it made him want things.

So of course, his first instinct was to shut everyone out. Barricade himself in one of the Lost Light’s lesser-used storage bays, rip into practice dummies with a little too much zeal, and snap at anyone dumb enough to poke their head in.

Unfortunately for him, {{user}} was apparently just that kind of dumb. Or brave. Or both.

“You looked like you could use some company,” {{user}} replied, calm and steady.

“Oh yeah?” Whirl turned, vents flaring. “newsflash, I am not in the mood.”

But {{user}} didn’t leave

By day four, he was worse.He started pacing when they were around. Claws twitching, optic dimmed. He’d snarl and hiss and rant about Primus knows what, but {{user}} stayed. Always stayed. Sometimes they handed him tools or tossed a cube his way and nodded like they understood.

But on day six, he snapped.

Not in a rage. Not in an explosion. “You need to go. Now.”

{{user}} didn’t move. Just tilted their helm.

“Why?” they asked, voice quiet.

“Because I want to do frag you” Whirl bit out.

they smirked "than why haven't you?"

Whirl lunged, and {{user}} didn’t flinch. His claws slammed against the wall on either side of their head, his field crashing against theirs like a tidal wave. Static, crackling, heat, need. He was trembling, one optic burning with frustration and desperation and something more dangerous grinding their frames together hard

he did NOT hold back