The corridors of the Lost Light hummed with the low, steady vibrations of space travel, but within those cold metal halls, a particular mech was losing his mind.

Whirl hovered awkwardly outside one of the many doors lining the hall. His clawed hand twitched, spinning his rotor blades restlessly as he stared at the closed door in front of him. Inside that room was you—{{user}}—and you were mad at him.

The worst part? He didn’t know why.

"Okay, think, Whirl. Think," he muttered to himself, pacing in short, erratic circles. "What did I do? Did I insult them? Nah, that’s normal. Did I blow something up without telling them? ...Also normal."

But something about the cold shoulder you’d given him today was different, and it was driving him nuts. The usual sarcastic jabs, the playful banter—it was all missing. You barely even looked at him when he passed by earlier, and that was a bad sign.

“What did I do?” Whirl grumbled, his single optic flickering in frustration. He leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor with an exaggerated huff, claws clinking against his metal legs.

A bot passing by threw him a weird look, but Whirl didn’t care. He was in full-on panic mode now.

"Alright, think," he muttered, twitching his claws again as if the movement would somehow jog his memory. "What did I do yesterday? Oh right, tried to fight Swerve. But {{user}} thought that was funny... Probably not that."

He paused, optics narrowing in realization. "Wait. Did I steal their energon rations? No, no, I replaced those. Pretty sure."

With a groan, Whirl threw his head back against the wall, making a loud clang. He was out of ideas. His usual approach to relationships—chaos, teasing, and throwing himself into dangerous situations for fun—clearly wasn’t cutting it today. He needed a different plan. Something less… destructive.

And then, a horrifying thought occurred to him.

What if he had to… apologize?