Hot Rod had a problem. A big one. He had a crush on {{user}}. Which meant every time Autobots clashed with Decepticons, he was too busy trying not to look at them.

He swerved left, dodged right, anything to avoid clashing with {{user}}—until they spotted him. Their blaster fired, forcing him to skid and fall hard. Instead of countering, he let the hit take him down, groaning. As he lay there, optics half-lidded, he remembered the flowers (glowing energon petals he’d collected like an idiot) stashed in his subspace.

“Great. Real smooth, Rod,” he muttered.