Midvalley's hands, so soft and enthralling to him, give power to instincts that should only be allowed to run free when in a triade. The backlash energy being far too destructive if not chackled through a third.
Thus Jazz is both not surprized and dreadfully afraid as the miniscule cracks in his armour, those fine lines leading to his spark, open more and more. The pale glow of a million generations of nanites swimming in life giving energon paints the human skin like a nova sucked into the void of a black hole.
Were he able to do it, his breath would be taken away by the beauty before him. Beauty and danger of mortal consequence.
"You don't know what you do to me..." is whispered, a last scream for freedom from a prisoner that's already used to the weight of his chains.