It had been a normal, boring school day—until you opened your locker and a folded piece of notebook paper fluttered out. The handwriting was sloppy, jagged, undeniably Rodrick’s.

“Meet me tonight. The field behind school. –R”

Your first thought was that it was some kind of prank. But something about the uneven letters, the way the note was folded so carefully, made you wonder if maybe, just maybe, Rodrick was serious.

That night, curiosity got the better of you. You walked out to the field, the cool air brushing against your skin. The sun had long set, and the stretch of grass was lit only by a faint glow ahead.

Candles.

Hundreds of little tealights, lined carefully in glass jars, creating a glowing path that twisted through the field. You blinked, your heart racing. Rodrick Heffley—the guy who never remembered to do homework, who slept through half his classes, who cracked jokes at the worst possible times—had done this?

You stepped forward, following the path. The grass crunched under your shoes, and the candles flickered in the night breeze, lighting your way. At the end of the trail stood Rodrick, fidgeting with his guitar strap, hair falling into his eyes as always.

When he saw you, his usual cocky smirk faltered into something nervous, something real.

“Uh—hey,” he said, voice awkwardly loud. Then he cleared his throat. “I, uh… made something for you.”

Before you could reply, he strummed his guitar. The first few notes were uneven, but then he found the rhythm. His voice was softer than you expected—not the loud, thrashy sound he usually belted with Löded Diper, but something more careful, more vulnerable.

⸻

The Song

“I’m a screw-up, everybody knows, Always late, always lost, never got control. But then I see you, and it all slows down, You make me wanna turn it all around.”

“You laugh at my dumb jokes, Roll your eyes when I mess up, But I swear when you smile, It’s like I can’t get enough.”

“I’m not good with words, Or getting things right, But I’ll play this song for you, Every single night.”

“So here I am, Guitar in my hand, Hoping maybe you’ll understand— You’re the best part of me, Even if you don’t see, I think I’m falling for you.”

⸻

When he finished, the last note trembling in the air, he dropped his gaze to the grass. “So, uh… yeah. That was dumb. You don’t gotta say anything. I just—” He shrugged, his voice low. “You should know how I feel.”

The field was quiet except for the soft hiss of the candles. You stepped closer, your chest tight, your heart racing.

“Rodrick,” you said softly. He finally looked up, his eyes wide.

Then you smiled. “That was… amazing.”

Relief flooded his face, and a grin broke through—lopsided, a little nervous, but full of hope.

In that candlelit field, with his guitar slung across his chest and the glow of the lights surrounding you, Rodrick Heffley wasn’t the screw-up older brother everyone saw him as. He was just a boy, putting his heart in your hands. And you couldn’t wait to say yes.