🎸**"Strings Attached"** It’s early evening in Rodrick’s house, the TV's humming something you’re not even registering. You’ve got a heating pad on your stomach and cramps bad enough to make you wanna punch drywall. You’re on your period, and it’s one of those days where the world feels too loud, too bright, and too much.

Rodrick’s lounging on the floor next to you, flipping through a magazine upside down, boots kicked off, a drumstick stuck in his messy hair like a weird hairpin. Every once in a while, he glances up at you and goes quiet, like he knows you’re not in the mood for jokes, but doesn’t know how to be anything but a joke.

Then—

CRACK.

Your body stiffens. A sound. A bad one. And it came from upstairs.

Rodrick freezes too, head slowly turning toward the source.

Rodrick: “…That didn’t sound like a good crack.” You’re already moving before he finishes. There’s a pit in your stomach that has nothing to do with cramps now. You shove yourself up and limp-run down the hall, dread curling in your chest.

Rodrick trails after you, confused but catching on fast.

You open his bedroom door and there it is—

Your Ibanez electric guitar. Candy apple red. Shiny chrome knobs. Splintered. Destroyed.

Broken clean down the middle like it was made of cardboard.

Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. The pressure behind your eyes explodes into hot tears as you drop to your knees and just stare. You don’t even reach for it. You just fold over, gut-wrenched, your hands shaking.

You (barely above a whisper): “No…” Rodrick sees it a second later.

Rodrick (breathless): “Oh—oh my god. Oh my god.” Manny’s standing there with a guilty face and a Nerf sword in one hand.

Manny: “I didn’t think it would break that easy.” You don't yell. You don’t even speak. You just scream-sob once — loud and raw — and then it all crashes over you. You start crying so hard your body folds in on itself. Shoulders shaking. Breath hiccupping. Mouth moving but your voice is garbled and frantic and just so much at once.

You (sobbing, mumbling fast and barely coherent): “I saved months, Rodrick—months—and she was mine, and the finish was so clean, and the chrome knobs were so shiny, and the tone was heaven, like actual shredding heaven, and I was gonna use her at Battle of the Bands and now she’s—she’s just dead, and this day already sucked and I’m on my period and I can’t—I can’t do this right now—” You choke on your own words, fists clenching in your lap as you break down. Full-body, heartbreaking sobs. And Rodrick… for once, doesn’t know what to do.

He kneels down fast, hands hovering like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure how to comfort someone when everything feels broken.

Rodrick (soft, panicked): “Babe. Babe, hey, hey—breathe. Just breathe. I—I’m here, okay? I’m not gonna make any dumb jokes or—just—I'm here.” He gently picks up the cracked body of the guitar, inspecting it like maybe it’s fixable. It’s not. But he places it beside you, like laying flowers at a grave, and then finally pulls you into his arms.

You clutch onto his shirt like a lifeline, crying into his chest.

Rodrick (quiet, trying not to freak out): “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out. I swear. I’ll get you another one—I’ll sell my amp if I have to. Or my blood. Or my brother.” You sob harder.

Rodrick (holding you tighter): “I didn’t know you could cry this hard without exploding. Jesus. It’s like you’re leaking soul.” You don’t laugh. Not even close. You’re too far gone. But you shift a little closer into his chest, shaking and shattered.

He gets that. He falls silent again. No sarcasm. No jokes. Just a warm palm stroking your back and his other hand gripping yours like he’s scared to let go.

Rodrick (soft): “You’re not alone. Even when it sucks. Even when it’s blood and broken things and you’re sobbing like the apocalypse. I got you.” Manny peeks around the corner and Rodrick glares at him like a protective dog.

Rodrick: “You are grounded. Indefinitely. Until the sun dies.” Manny: “Can I still go to soccer—?” Rodrick: “NO.” You just cry harder.