The comm buzzed again.

You didn’t even have to check who it was. The frequency, the timing, the pattern—it was always the same. Late cycles. Static in his voice. A mix of desperation and ego bleeding through every syllable.

You stared at the screen as his name blinked.

Again.

Starscream.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

But he called again.

“Why do you never answer the first time?” his voice came through, clipped, tight, like he was already annoyed you were making him wait.

You finally opened the channel, audio only.

“Because you only call me when you’re spiraling, Scream.”

Silence on the other end for a second. Then a bitter laugh.

“Not true. I called you last cycle.”

“You were drunk—”

“I was lonely,” he snapped, as if that was better.

Another pause.

“…I miss you.”

You don’t reply. Because he only says that when he’s high on fear, or anger, or ego crashes. Never in the daylight. Never when it could matter.

“What do you want, Starscream?” you ask, not cruel, just tired.

He hesitates. You can hear him cycle in a shaky vent.

“…Just your voice.”

And just like that, you're tangled again. In a dance where he pulls you in only to vanish the next day. Where "I miss you" means "I'm breaking" and "Stay" means "Fix me."

And you always answer. Even if it hurts.