It’s between classes, the hallway packed and loud—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, laughter bouncing off the walls. Rodrick’s leaning against a locker like he owns the place, hair messy in that way that definitely took twenty minutes to style, when one of the football guys—let’s call him Chad because of course it’s Chad—decides to open his mouth.

“Yo Heffley, didn’t know they let janitors hang out in the student hall,” Chad sneers, loud enough for everyone to hear. His pack of clones snickers. Rodrick just smirks, the kind of half-smile that dares the guy to keep going. He’s used to it—he’s been the school’s favorite punching bag since middle school—but before he can reply, you cut through the noise.

You don’t yell often. When you do, the entire hallway goes silent.

“Hey, Chad?"

The way you say his name could curdle milk.

Everyone turns.

“Only I get to bully this loser.”

The silence lasts half a second before a wave of laughter rolls through the hallway. Chad looks like he just got slapped by a Gucci handbag, sputters something about “relax, it was a joke,” and beats a retreat.

Rodrick’s staring at you like you just declared war and love in the same sentence. His grin spreads slow and crooked. “You really know how to make a guy feel special, huh?”

You shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t get cocky, Heffley. That was pity.”

But your hand brushes his as you pass, a whisper of contact no one else notices. He follows you down the hall, eyes still bright with that mix of awe and amusement that says he’s painfully, stupidly into you.

Later, when you meet behind the bleachers, he teases, “So I’m your loser now?”