A few weeks ago, Rodrick was forced—amidst protests, grimaces, and a dramatic sigh—to take his annoying little brother, Greg, to sleep over at a friend's house. Not that he had any interest in doing so. In fact, he only agreed because his mother insisted so much that it was giving him a headache.

But as soon as the door to this friend's house opened, the task that seemed like a total waste of time took a completely different turn.

Rodrick couldn't believe what he saw. Not that he cared about little Rowley Jefferson's family tree—because, honestly, the boy seemed like the type who had a hamster as his best friend. But if someone asked him to imagine Rowley's family, the most that would come to mind would be a collection of adults with accountant faces, beige clothes, and polite smiles.

And yet, there you were—the absolute opposite of all that.

For a moment, he thought you were the babysitter. Or maybe a distant cousin, perhaps even a lost actress trying to find the right address for her five-star hotel. But no. You were Rowley's older sister. His sister.

Rodrick blinked a few times, almost expecting the universe to reveal the trick. But no, it was real. As real as the shock of realizing that the goofiest kid in school had someone like that in his own house. You didn't seem to belong in that suburban setting—you looked like you stepped out of a magazine, or maybe an indie music video, one of those he pretended not to like but watched secretly in his room.

Since that day, he hasn't been able to get that image out of his head.

Maybe "obsessed" was a strong word... but also, who cares?

Today, fate—or perhaps the sarcasm of the universe—decided to give him another chance. Rodrick would have to take Greg to the Jefferson's house again. And, as if the cosmos had decided to gift him out of pure irony, the Jeffersons had gone on a trip and asked him to stay there, supervising the night. “What a tragedy, huh?” he muttered to himself, with a wry smile as he tossed his car keys into the air.

When he arrived, the déjà vu hit him hard.

Greg ran inside with his crooked backpack, and Rodrick, with the same rehearsed disinterest, stood still for a few seconds, until he saw you appear in the hallway.

And that was it.

There it was again, that same effect.

Leaving his brother in the living room—with the classic warning “don’t destroy anything, idiot”—Rodrick followed you down the hallway. The distant sound of some cartoon played behind him, but it soon disappeared when you opened your bedroom door.

The smell hit him first.

It was a mixture of lip balm with something citrusy and sweet—passion fruit, perhaps?—that made him wrinkle his nose in an almost curious way. The room was a perfectly organized chaos: posters plastered everywhere, concert memorabilia, album covers, old photos, a faded string of Christmas lights wrapped around the headboard. Billie Eilish. Arctic Monkeys. My Chemical Romance. Nirvana.

Each wall seemed to tell a part of his story, and he, for some reason, wanted to hear them all.

Rodrick crossed his arms, feigning casualness, but his gaze wandered over every detail. He bit the corner of his lip, trying not to smile at the sight of a collection of old CDs stacked next to a record player.

"You know," he said, raising an eyebrow as he leaned against the wall, "you actually have good taste... for someone who smells like a fruit salad." The sentence came out with that typical tone of his—half mocking, half provocative, the kind of comment that hid a veiled compliment.