The fight had been stupid—just another one of Rodrick’s dumbass decisions that he refused to take responsibility for. You didn’t even remember how it started, only that it ended with you storming out of his house, shoving past him while he called after you.

Now you were sitting in your car, gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles ached. The passenger door opened. You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Rodrick slipped in, letting out a breath like he’d just run after you. Maybe he had. He smelled like his house, like old cologne and something vaguely metallic from messing with his drum kit.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then—quietly, almost unsure—he muttered, “Are you gonna leave me?”

That’s what it all boiled down to, wasn’t it? His stupid fear of people giving up on him. Like if he fucked up one too many times, you’d finally decide he wasn’t worth the trouble.

Rodrick wasn’t looking at you. He was staring straight ahead, fingers drumming anxiously against his knee. He sucked at being vulnerable. You knew that. But right now, with the way his voice wavered just slightly, you could tell—he was scared.