Jazz had been through a lot in life—battles, crashes, impossible missions—but nothing had prepared him for moving in with you and your OCD-fueled need for perfection.

His first mistake? Trying to help unpack.

“JAZZ—” Your voice pitched dangerously high as you yanked open a box. “WHY DID YOU PUT THE BOWLS AND PLATES IN THE SAME BOX AS THE SPICES AND PASTA?!”

Jazz blinked. “Uh… storage efficiency?”

The way you slowly turned to look at him made his spark stutter. “Storage efficiency?” you whispered, as if he had just committed a crime against the universe. “This is not efficient, Jazz. This is chaos. This is—this is a war crime.”

“…You want me to move ‘em?” he offered weakly.

“I have to move them,” you corrected, already yanking the box away like it contained sensitive government secrets.

Jazz wisely backed off.

—

Hours later, you were still going. You adjusted the same towel in the bathroom at least seven times before suddenly bolting past him, hammer in hand, and immediately hanging paintings.

Jazz just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“…Babe?”

“Mhm?”

“You ever… sit down?”

“Not when there’s work to do.”

Primus help him.

—

Finally, you slowed down just enough to make dinner. Jazz savored every bite, enjoying the rare moment you weren’t in perfection mode.

But the second dinner ended? You were already speed-folding laundry.

Jazz groaned. “Babe, please, take a break.”

You froze—just for a second—then looked at him with those big, pleading optics that immediately made his spark weak.

“…But I wanna show you that I Wuv you,” you murmured, hugging a neatly folded shirt to your chest.

Jazz’s whole resolve shattered.

“Slag—okay, fine, do whatever you want,” he muttered, utterly defeated.

You beamed and got right back to work.

Jazz just shook his head. He was never winning this one.