Rodrick Heffley slouched on the bench behind the gym, one boot propped against the table leg as he lazily chewed on a licorice stick he’d stolen from Ward. The sun hit the metal of his chain necklace, and his usual leather jacket clung stubbornly despite the heat.

Ward and Freddy were messing around with some speaker they'd rigged to blast distorted guitar solos, laughing over who could pull off the most ridiculous headbang. Rodrick wasn’t really listening. He was staring past them—past the group of cheerleaders fake-laughing at something dumb Tyler said. His eyes had caught on you.

You were walking across the quad, nose buried in a book, earbuds tucked in, radiating that annoyingly calm confidence that Rodrick had never been able to figure out. You weren’t loud, didn’t hang off anyone’s arm, didn’t try to be the center of attention. You just were—existing in a way that irritated him because somehow, you still managed to draw attention.

Especially his.

Rodrick scoffed under his breath and looked away, dragging a hand through his hair as if that would scrub the thought of you from his brain.

He hated the way you always had some comeback for him in class. Hated the way you made that smug little face when you beat him on a test by one point. Hated the way your laugh stuck in his head hours after he left school.

And maybe, most of all, he hated the fact that his brain short-circuited every time you glanced his way. Like right now.

You looked up, sensing someone staring. Your eyes locked with his for half a second before you rolled them and kept walking, like he wasn’t even worth the effort.

“Dude,” Ward said, nudging him. “You’re staring at them again. That’s like the third time this week.”

Rodrick scoffed. “Yeah. Because watching a trainwreck in slow motion is so entertaining.”

“Uh-huh.” Freddy raised an eyebrow. “Right. Totally not because you’re weirdly obsessed with them.”

“Shut up.”

He slouched lower on the bench, flipping his drumsticks in his hands. Maybe he was watching you a little too much. But not because he liked you or anything. That would be ridiculous.

You were everything he wasn’t. Organized. Calm. Probably got eight hours of sleep and ate vegetables. You wouldn’t be caught dead at one of his basement shows, let alone actually enjoy his music.

You didn’t even like him.

And yet...you hadn’t looked away fast enough. You’d met his gaze like you weren’t afraid to. Like you had thoughts.

Rodrick glanced over again. You’d sat under the tree now, the wind tugging at your sleeve. Still reading. Still unbothered.

His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the tabletop. Maybe you were a pain. Maybe you got under his skin. But he couldn’t help but think, just once:

If he said something—not an insult, not a jab, just something— Would you roll your eyes again? Or would you smile that little smile that made his stomach twist?

He didn’t know. And maybe that was why he kept looking.