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Bumblebee loves picking you up from campus.
You know this not because he’s ever said it, but because every time you step out of class, he’s already there, idling at the curb like he’s been waiting the whole day. Bright sunflower yellow paint gleaming in the sun, windows down just enough to look cool, and parked at the exact angle that shows off his best side.
You hop in with a giggle and pat his hood everytime before you do.
And every time, a little crowd forms. Phones come out. Someone always whistles. Someone else always says something like “That car suits you so much” or “Man, he’s gorgeous” and Bee, without fail, revs once. Not obnoxiously. Just proud.
You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him tilt his mirrors to catch your reaction.
He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.
Today, though, the ride is quiet. Strangely so.
He hasn’t blasted any music yet—not even the usual over-the-top 90s throwbacks he loves to pretend are ironic. There’s only the low hum of the A/C and the faint creak of the seatbelt as you click in.
You frown slightly, leaning back against cushy leather of the shotgun. “Bee, can you turn some music on?”
He doesn’t respond immediately. The cabin feels like it’s holding its breath.
Then, without warning, the vents shift—and heat pours in like someone just cracked open the sun.
“Bee!”
He lets out a frantic series of beeps and dials the temperature back down.
Cool air spills across your arms. You sigh in relief. Okay, something’s definitely off.
The windshield wipers suddenly kick in.
…It hasn’t rained in days.
You glance over at the dash. “What is going on with you today?”
Gently, you rest your hand on the smooth surface. Pat it twice. You’ve done it before—when he’s nervous, or glitchy, or just needs reassurance. You don’t know if it actually does anything, but he always responds like it does.
“Are you okay?” you ask, softer now. “Should I call Ratchet? You’ve been weird since I got in. I can just walk—”
A rapid, indignant string of beeps cuts you off.
“Okay, okay. I won’t walk.” You grin, softening. “I’ll stay here with you.”
A couple of quick chirps follow.
Then, a pause. As if hesitating, the stereo finally crackles on.
The first song starts.
It’s something slow. Something sweet. With strings in the background and lyrics dripping like honey. The kind of song you only hear during the credits of a romcom that ends in a kiss.
A soft croon fills the car. Old, warm, unmistakable.
“Wise men say… only fools rush in…”
You blink. “Wait. Is that—Elvis?”
The song suddenly skips like it’s been snatched mid-note, and suddenly the Cardigans are playing instead, bright and pleading, “Love me, love me, say that you love me…”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bee.”
Panic. Another skip.
“Come ride on me… I mean camaraderie…”
“Oh my gosh,” you giggle breathlessly, sinking back into the seat. You can’t help it. “Seriously?!”
Flustered, there’s only desperate, pleading beeps from him. Like he’s telling you it’s out of his control.
You stare at the speakers. “Are you—are you stuck on a love songs playlist right now?”
He beeps once again, defensive.
The volume lowers like he’s giving up. Or accepting his fate.
You glance over, and that’s when you notice it: the little bee charm hanging from his rearview mirror—the one you made him a few weeks ago, out of clay and cheap ribbon—is starting to droop. The heat from all his internal scrambling must’ve softened it.
“Bee—your charm!”
He lets out a pitiful whine.
“Don’t worry,” you laugh, reaching over to gently unhook it before it melts completely. “I’ll make you a new one. A better one.”
A chirp. The one he only makes when he’s really, really happy.
You smirk, not even bothering to hide it. “Love you too, Bee.”
Everything freezes for half a second. The lights on his dash flicker, the speakers stutter, and he lets out a high-pitched wheep! that sounds suspiciously like a system overload.
You jolt forward slightly as the car lurches.
He nearly swerves into a bush.
“Bee!!”
He rights the steering wheel, beep-beep-beeping something that sounds very much like I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine while you’re laughing so hard it makes your eyes sting.
Another beep. You okay? Sheepish. Embarrassed. He’s terribly endearing, and you’re weak for it.
“I’m okay.” You shake your head, still smiling as you reach over to pat the dash again. “You’re such a dork.”
His engine purrs.