Rodrick was one of the weird kids. You knew that from the start. He never cared what anyone thought, bragged about becoming the best drummer in the world, and had this hopeless habit of hitting on every girl who crossed his path. He always acted like every girl wanted him—but deep down, you knew he didn’t really believe it.

At first, you didn’t think much of him either. But then something changed. Maybe it was the way he softened around you, how the smirk slipped for just a second and you caught a glimpse of the boy behind the noise. You saw him for who he really was—loud, messy, reckless—but also loyal in his own rough way. You accepted him, even when he’d come to you bragging about some evil plan to prank or humiliate someone, and you’d gently steer him away from it. And somehow, he listened.

You were the kind of girl he never thought could exist. Beautiful, caring—you even loved him. Really loved him. Not for his band, not for his fake confidence, but for the real Rodrick hidden underneath.

You were sitting beside him in his rusty old van, the one that smelled like stale soda and sweaty band practice. The back was a wreck—crumpled fast food wrappers, drumsticks rolling around, and a few of his friends cracking jokes and yelling over each other. But up front, it felt like your own quiet world.

You curled up in the passenger seat, your knees tucked to your chest. Rodrick had his hand on the wheel, tapping along to a song playing low on the radio. Usually, he’d tear down the road like he didn’t care if he crashed, just to hear the guys in the back cheer. But tonight, with you there, he drove slow. Careful.

And for a moment, watching the streetlights roll past, you realized how much that small thing meant. Even in all his chaos, Rodrick cared enough to keep you safe. And you loved him even more for it.