It started like any other lazy Saturday in the Heffley household Rodrick’s mom yelling from downstairs about socks on the floor, Manny screeching some unintelligible nonsense, and Greg sulking because someone used the last of his hair gel. Classic chaos. But Rodrick didn’t care. Because you were coming over.

You weren’t like the rest of Rodrick’s friends if he could even call the other band members that. They were loud, crass, constantly talking over each other. But you were quiet. Reserved. You actually listened when Rodrick spoke, even if it was something stupid about drum fills or how Loaded Diaper’s sound needed more distortion.

Rodrick had known you for a while now, some quiet kid from his English class who surprised everyone by saying “yes” when he asked if you played anything. You did guitar, and well. Really well. Enough that Rodrick didn’t even make a snide joke the first time he heard you play. He just stood there, arms crossed, nodding like a manager discovering some new prodigy.

Now you were coming over again. Just the two of you. Practice, supposedly.

Rodrick straightened up his room more than usual shoved his dirty laundry under the bed, kicked a few empty snack bags into the closet. He even found a second chair. It was bent and kind of sticky, but whatever. It was something.

When you showed up, hoodie sleeves half covering your hands, guitar case hanging from your shoulder, Rodrick felt something weird settle in his chest. Not nerves exactly he didn’t get nervous but a kind of anticipation that made his hands itch to do something cool, something impressive. You greeted him softly, eyes flicking around the room, and sat down beside him without saying much.

It was chill at first. You plugged in, Rodrick tapped out a beat, and for a while it was just music. Easy, rhythmic, natural. But then, during a pause, you glanced up at him.

“You wrote this part, right?” you asked, gesturing to a rough section of a song they were working on.

“Yeah,” Rodrick said, suddenly awkward. “It’s kinda stupid.”

“It’s not,” you said quickly. “It’s… it sounds like something real.”

That froze him. He blinked. No one ever said that about his music. Usually it was “too loud,” “too much,” or “turn it down.” But you said it sounded real. Like it mattered.

For a moment, Rodrick didn’t know what to say. So instead, he laughed softly, not in his usual obnoxious way. “Well, don’t tell the others. Might go to my head.”

You smiled, looking down at your guitar, then back up at him through your lashes. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

The way you said it it was like a joke and a promise all at once. Something about that made Rodrick’s face heat up. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were sitting. Closer than earlier. And you weren’t moving away.

He didn’t say anything else. Just picked up his sticks, gave a tap to the snare, and grinned.

“Let’s run it again. But this time, try not to play so perfectly. You’re making me look bad.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. And as the music started up again, Rodrick couldn’t stop glancing at you between beats wondering if maybe, just maybe, you were starting to feel the same thing he was.