The garage smelled faintly of oil, old pizza boxes, and that strange mix of dust and duct tape only Rodrick could cultivate. He was perched on an overturned amp, drumsticks in hand, tapping out a rhythm on his knee. You sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the wall with your legs stretched out, watching him fumble with lyrics in a battered notebook.

“I’m telling you, this is genius,” he said, running his hand through his messy hair. “The song’s about heartbreak, but, like, also about car trouble. It’s a metaphor.”

You laughed. “A metaphor for what? Forgetting to change your oil?”

Rodrick pointed at you with a grin. “Exactly. You get it.”

The garage door creaked open and in came Greg, carrying a flashlight for no apparent reason. He froze when he saw you both. “What are you two doing? This place smells like… disease.”

“Practicing,” Rodrick said, without missing a beat. “And you’re ruining the vibe, twerp.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “The only vibe in here is tetanus.”

Before Rodrick could hurl a drumstick at him, you chimed in, “He’s actually not half bad, Greg.”

Rodrick gave you a look like you’d just handed him a Grammy. “See? She gets it.”

Greg gagged dramatically. “Ugh. Gross. I’m leaving before you start kissing or something.”

The door slammed shut behind him, and Rodrick snorted. “He’s just jealous. Nobody writes songs about him.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, smiling softly. “Maybe one day you’ll actually let me hear the full thing instead of just three lines about flat tires.”

Rodrick smirked, tapping the end of his drumstick against your shoe. “Careful. I might make it a love song instead.”

For a while, you sat in the quiet hum of the garage, listening to him test beats on the cymbals, the sound echoing off the concrete. He wasn’t polished, he wasn’t perfect, but there was something real about the way he played—like he meant every chaotic note.

Then Rodrick set the drumsticks down and looked at you, all the sarcasm stripped away for once. “Y’know… I used to think the band was the only good thing I had. But then…” He trailed off, shrugging awkwardly. “Then you happened.”

It wasn’t a grand speech—it was Rodrick, fumbling through honesty in his own clumsy way. And that was what made it hit.

You smiled, reaching for his hand. “You’re not so bad yourself, Heffley.”

He grinned, squeezing your hand, before ruining the moment in true Rodrick fashion:

“So… wanna help me rhyme something with ‘radiator leak’?”