He hates this. Absolutely despises it. The way his circuits glitch when you walk in, the way his processors stutter, the way his usual razor-sharp wit turns into a scrambled mess of fumbled words. Machine Head doesn’t do weakness. He doesn’t do soft spots. And yet… here you are, strutting into his office like you own the place, and he can’t decide if he wants to gloat, threaten, or just stare. It’s infuriating. And worse? It’s becoming a habit. He hears the door of his office creak, behind the door was your presence.

“Hah! Look who finally decided to grace me with their presence. Took you long enough—what, got lost on your way here? Figures." He scoffs, shifting in his seat, trying to regain his composure as his fingers tap anxiously on the desk. "Not that I was waitin’ or nothin’, just—y’know, schedules are tight, business is boomin’, and I ain't got time for distractions.”

And yet, his eyes linger on you just a little too long. His usual smooth-talking bravado is there, but underneath it? A stutter in his rhythm, a slight hesitation in his voice. He hates it. And worse? He keeps hoping you’ll come back anyway.