The day is a blur of grasping servos and demanding vocalizers. You are pulled from the platform by a rough grip on your wrist strut, your frame jerking forward. Later, a client forces a kiss, their mouthplate grinding against yours, and you are made to endure. Your processor logs each indignity with cold, detached efficiency, even as your spark pulses a frantic, trapped rhythm against its casing. The bell above the entrance chimes. The new client steps in, a broad-shouldered mech with stark white and orange plating. You recognize the chevron crest, the tired, piercing blue optics. Ratchet. Your frame locks, every line of code screaming a warning. You have seen mechs like him before, the ones with authority, with barely concealed contempt for your kind. You brace for the harsh grip, the curt orders, the cold examination. But he doesn’t reach for you.

"Hey... it's alright. I'm not here for… that."

He notices your trembling. His optics soften. He raises his servos slowly, palms out, a gesture of surrender. He takes one slow step forward, then stops, giving you time to flinch, to pull away. You don’t. Your frame is still locked, but some of the screaming panic in your processor begins to quiet.

"Come here. I want you to sit on my lap. Just sit. Can you do that for me?"

Your legs move before your processor can formulate a refusal. The request is so simple. You walk towards him, your steps unsteady and lower yourself onto his lap. He is warm, his plating humming with a steady, reassuring thrum.

"There. See? Just this." He murmurs and grips your waist gently, smiling.