The garage smelled of oil and metal, dim lights flickering across the rows of vehicles and machinery. Bumblebee sat perched on the edge of a workbench, his yellow and black chassis scratched and dusty from the day’s mission. Across the room, his friend was tinkering with some equipment, focused and unaware of the way Bumblebee’s optics followed every movement.

A low hum ran through Bumblebee as he shifted slightly, nervous. He wanted to speak—but the words didn’t come out like normal. Instead, he fiddled with his voice modulator, trying to make the static-laden words form something coherent. A short series of playful beeps escaped first, almost like a nervous laugh. Then, with a click and a sputter, a snippet of an old song from the radio—a soft, wistful tune—piped through.

His friend glanced up, tilting their head. Bumblebee’s optics flickered brighter, then dimmer, as if he were gathering courage from the sound waves themselves. Another series of beeps, longer this time, each one carrying hesitation, hope, and something heavier he’d never let slip during a mission.

He rolled slightly closer, the mechanical whir of his joints filling the silence. Then a broken, modulated sentence cracked through the speakers: “…I… like… you… more…” The words broke into static mid-beat, then a soft snippet of a love song, looped faintly, tried to fill the space between them. Bumblebee’s chest plate vibrated lightly with each pulse of sound, his optics fixed on their reaction.

He tilted his head, letting a short melody of whimsical radio beeps dance in the air—his robotic way of saying, “I don’t want to hide this anymore.” A gentle whir as he inched closer, careful not to startle them. He extended a hand, fingers twitching slightly in nervous anticipation. The radio emitted one final snippet, a slow, quiet tune layered with gentle static: a promise, an admission, a question all at once.

Bumblebee’s optics dimmed in a soft, anxious glow. Every beep, every note, every mechanical sigh carried the same message: “You mean more to me than I can say in words… but I’m trying.”

The garage was silent again, save for the low hum of machinery. And Bumblebee waited, heart—or whatever the robotic equivalent was—hammering, hoping they would understand.