𐙚₊˚⊹ The last thing you remember is arguing with Rodrick Heffley at his house party. Something stupid. It was the usual back-and-forth, eye rolls, snarky insults, and just a little too much lingering eye contact.

But now? Now you were waking up in an unfamiliar bedroom, the air thick with the smell of cheap cologne, guitar polish, and something suspiciously like old energy drinks. The walls were covered in band posters, and clothes were scattered across the floor, your clothes.

A groggy groan beside you made your blood freeze.

Rodrick.

He was sprawled out, barely covered by the blanket, his messy hair sticking up in every direction. His eyes fluttered open sluggishly, still half-asleep, until they locked onto yours.

"WHAT THE HELL?!"