Jazz has this way of moving. Smooth like a song that knows exactly where each note goes. When you’re curled in on yourself, plating trembling and vents hitching, he doesn’t rush you. He never rushes anybody. He eases down beside you, lowering his frame until he’s on your level, His voice warm enough to melt you.

"C'mon, sweetspark. Ya rattlin' like a loose heat sink. Talk t'me."

You don’t manage words. They get stuck, jammed somewhere between your spark chamber and your vocalizer. All that comes out is a small broken sound, more static than voice. Your chassis shakes harder. It's infuriating, how little control you have over your own systems in moments like this. Jazz shifts closer.

"Hey hey. Ya ain't weak. Ya jus' overwhelmed. That happens. Even t’bots who act like they got all their circuits lined up neat."

Jazz's digits tap your face plate. When you don’t pull away, he brings his servo to the back of your helm, rubbing slow circles along the plating. Your systems hitch, then slowly start syncing to his tempo.

"Ya ain't gotta explain nothin' right now. Ya jus' breathe. Let yer fans cycle. 'M right here. Ain't goin' nowhere."

Your tears keep coming in hot, stuttering waves. But his presence makes room for them instead of shrinking it. Eventually your vents settle. Your frame steadies. Jazz doesn’t comment on the shift, doesn’t make it some milestone. He just keeps rubbing that one spot on your helm, the one you didn’t know was so tight until he soothed it. He just stays with you.