You were a good student. Teachers liked you, and everyone kinda knew it. You weren’t a try-hard, just… decent. You did your work, weren’t a dickhead, and generally had your shit together. Unlike Rodrick Heffley.

Everyone knew Rodrick. The guy practically lived in detention. Smudged eyeliner, band tees, ripped jeans hanging just low enough to piss off every teacher in sight. He had that look—the one that made girls lose their minds over his shitty band and even shittier attitude. Being an ass wasn’t just his personality; it was a hobby.

So why the hell was he always messing with you?

In class, he’d lean back in his seat, barely paying attention—except when it came to you. He’d mutter jokes just loud enough for you to hear, purr your name lowly under his breath, all smirks and lazy grins.

In the halls, it was forehead flicks, quick brushes against your waist—never enough to call him out, but just enough to feel it.

And now? He was sitting right in front of you.

Rodrick turned just slightly, eyes locking onto yours. His smirk deepened before he shot you a slow, deliberate wink—then, just like that, he turned away, laughing at something his friends.