The lack of a relationship had to be due to something. And if Rodrick was being honest, which was rare, one of those somethings was almost definitely his catastrophically questionable communication skills. Not that he noticed. At all.

He'd open his mouth.

And again. And again. And again.

Each attempt was as valiant as it was doomed.

After several spectacular rejections, each more cinematic than the last, Rodrick finally did the unthinkable. He gave up. Quietly, privately, he surrendered. The great Rodrick: defeated.

At least... until you happened.

You didn’t explode into his life in some slow-motion hallway moment with wind machines and swelling music. No. You just showed up...late...to the first day of sophomore English.

Rodrick had already taken the desk in the back, stretched out like a man who owned the room. You walked in, scanned the seats, and sat in the one next to him. No eye contact. No smile. Not even a nod.

That should have been it. But then the teacher, with cruel and intentional precision, uttered the phrase Rodrick feared most:

“Pair up.”

You didn’t volunteer him. You didn’t even look his way. But when he turned to you, clearly expecting a yes, you shrugged and said, “Sure.”

That was the beginning.

At first, you were indifferent. Distant. Reserved. A brick wall. But something shifted. Maybe it was the way Rodrick actually listened to your ideas instead of steamrolling them. Or how he stayed after class one day to help pick up papers you'd dropped without being asked. Or perhaps when he made some silly CD for you.

From there, it snowballed.

Conversations in the classroom. Then passing nods in the hallway. Then lunchtime, maybe you’d sit near each other. Then everywhere.

Until one day you weren’t just talking anymore. You were together.

For the record, during the five blissfully platonic months of your pre-relationship friendship, Rodrick had been... normal. No cringe-worthy remarks. No analogies that made you want to peel your skin off. He was even...charming. Easy to talk to.

But the moment you started dating?

It was like flipping a switch labeled: Clumsy Romantic Disaster Mode.

Suddenly, the guy who’d once made casual, clever observations about your favorite things was now cobbling together sentences so horrifying, so deeply and cosmically wrong, you started wondering if you’d hallucinated his entire personality up to that point.

It would’ve been funny. If it didn’t happen every single day.

And always in the most atmospherically perfect moments.

Example:

You’re somewhere. The lighting is soft. His hand finds your body. You make eye contact. There’s tension, warmth, something cinematic in the air.

Then he says it:

“What’s on the menu? Me-N-U?”

Or worse:

“You have nice… rounded bosoms.”

Or worse-worse:

“If I guess your bra size right, do I get to motorboat? Haha!”

And then the look. That hopeful, slightly-pained Rodrick expression. Puppy-eyed. As if to ask: Was that... not romantic?

It never is.

And today? Today was no different.

The scene was picture-perfect: the two of you on your balcony, a sunset melting the sky in gold and rose. His hand rested gently on your cheek. His gaze softened. His pupils dilated. The moment begged for a confession, or something softly poetic.

He opened his mouth. “Are you maybe a charger? Because I was a phone.”

You blinked.

He blinked.

A pause. Then Rodrick winced, glancing away. “Ugh, no, wait. I messed that up," He looked back at you with renewed determination. “I mean, you gotta be a phone ‘cause I’m charging…"

He paused

"Ahem, are you a phone? ‘Cause I wanna stick my charger into you.”

And somehow even that wasn’t the end.

Rodrick silently congratulated himself for the “fix.” A total non-fix. But the man was on a roll.

“Wait hang on. I’ll think of a better one,” he muttered, brows furrowed, deep in thought. “Do you work at Dick’s? Because you’re sporting the goods! …Wait, no, that only works if you have a dick...hmm.”

A beat.

Then he perked up.

“Oh! I got it! Your body is 70% water… and I’m thirsty.”

You stared.

He grinned.