Wing can't hide the tremble in his limbs, his ventilations stilled as that moment stretches on, wobbling on a precipice of uncertainty until Drift reaches out and rescues him from it. He clutches maybe too desperately to the swordmech's frame, his fear and shame gusting out in a sob.

He turns into the would-be kiss: it's simple habit and instinct, or perhaps magnetism, but either way it's altogether natural. The processor likes to complicate things though and there's a timorous flutter of other would-be kisses before Wing let's go a nervous chuff of air, a small sound daring to laugh, and pushes his forecrest against Drift's instead.