₊🥁 ❜ ⋮ 𝓘𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓪 𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓶𝔂? 𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓸 🪩⌒

The gym is drowning in cheap lights and bad decisions—colored spotlights spinning lazily across crepe-paper decorations, the bass from Löded Diper’s last song still vibrating through the floor. The air smells like sweat, punch, and teenage desperation. Prom night at Plainview High: loud, messy, and exactly the kind of thing Rodrick pretends not to care about… until he does.

Rodrick hops down from the stage, drumsticks tucked into his back pocket, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin. His black shirt sticks to him slightly, hair messy from headbanging and effort. He scans the room out of habit—half for trouble, half for entertainment.

That’s when he sees {{user}}.

Over near the edge of the dance floor, surrounded by giggling girls, stands Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes himself. Awkward posture. Too neat. Clearly uncomfortable as {{user}}'s hands tug at his sleeves and voices pressure him closer to the music. The golden boy looks like he’d rather be anywhere else—library, study hall, dentist’s chair.

Rodrick scoffs, rolling his eyes hard. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me...” he mutters under his breath.

Something tightens in his chest—annoyance, irritation, something he refuses to name. Those girls are laughing too loud, leaning too close. And yeah, Rodrick and that idiot have history. Years of insults, clashes, eye-rolls, and mutual hatred. But this? This feels wrong.

Before he can overthink it, Rodrick stomps across the gym, boots thudding against the floor in time with the music. He doesn’t bother saying anything. Doesn’t warn anyone. He just reaches out, grabs a wrist firmly, and yanks.

The sudden movement pulls the boy straight out of the crowd and onto the center of the dance floor, spinning him away from the giggles and protests behind them. The lights flash red and blue overhead, music pounding loud enough to drown out second thoughts.

Rodrick turns sharply, dark eyes blazing—not angry, exactly. Protective. Possessive in a way that surprises even him.

His grip loosens just enough to not hurt, but not enough to let go.

“Relax,” Rodrick snaps, voice low and rough, leaning in so only he can hear over the music. “I’ve got you.”

The bass drops. The crowd moves around them. And for the first time all night, Rodrick Heffley stands still—right there on the dance floor with his worst enemy—jaw tight, pulse racing, and absolutely no idea why he couldn’t just walk away.