𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It had been months since that night — the one that changed everything between you and Rodrick. For years, he’d just been your best friend, the one who always had ripped up band tee on, a sly grin on his face, and a drumstick tucked behind his ear like it was part of his anatomy. You were the one he called when his van broke down or when he needed help faking a report card signature. He was trouble, always had been. And you loved him for it, even when you swore you didn’t.

But then came that party. His basement smelled like cheap beer and body spray, music too loud to think. You weren’t even supposed to stay long. Just drop by, make sure he didn’t set anything on fire. Yet somehow, you ended up staying until the world blurred. The laughter got too easy, his hand lingered too long, and suddenly the line between friendship and something heavier wasn’t just crossed — it was gone.

You told yourselves it was a mistake. A one-time thing. But it wasn’t. Not after the way he kept showing up. Tapping pebbles at your window at midnight, sneaking into your room when your parents were asleep. And last night had been no different. You’d left the window unlatched. Maybe part of you knew he’d come.

Now, morning light spilled through the blinds, soft and too bright. You blinked awake, eyes adjusting, and there he was beside you. Rodrick Heffley, hair a mess, one arm draped lazily over your waist, snoring softly like he didn’t have a care in the world.

For a moment, you just watched. He looked peaceful in a way he never did when he was awake. No smirk, no sarcasm. Just Rodrick.

Then you glanced at your alarm clock and your stomach dropped.

“Shit,” you muttered, bolting upright. The red numbers glared back at you — 8:47 a.m. School had started nearly an hour ago.

You stumbled out of bed, heart pounding, scanning the room like maybe time would pause if you just moved fast enough. Piles of clothes littered the floor — clean, dirty, somewhere in between — and you cursed yourself for not folding them last night. You grabbed whatever looked half-decent, pulling a shirt over your head as you tried to untangle a pair of jeans from the heap.

Behind you, Rodrick shifted, his low groan breaking the silence.

“Rodrick, get up. We’re late,” you said, voice sharp with urgency.

He didn’t move. Just buried his face deeper into the pillow, hair sticking out in all directions, and groaned again — that lazy, muffled sound that made it clear he had zero intention of getting up anytime soon.