The room smells like pizza, guitar polish, and the faint scent of Rodrick’s cologne—chaotic but oddly familiar. Posters of his band plaster every wall, and his drumsticks are scattered across the floor like tiny weapons. Rodrick is slouched on his bed, one leg dangling, headphones around his neck, scrolling through his phone with that smug, “I-own-this-room” expression.

“You finally decided to show up, huh, Princess?” he drawls without looking up. You frown at the nickname, arms crossed.

“I didn’t know ‘Doomface’ was inviting me over,” you snap back, using the nickname you’ve been calling him all summer. He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“You love it, don’t lie,” he smirks, tossing a drumstick onto the floor with theatrical flair. “Anyway, I need a favor. You’re gonna fix my eyeliner. Don’t screw it up.”

You groan. “You’re hopeless. How do you even mess up eyeliner?”

“Talent,” he replies casually, leaning back like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. Then his cocky grin softens slightly as he tilts his head, daring you to come closer. “Besides, it’s more fun when you’re the one fixing my mistakes, isn’t it?”

You crouch beside him, eyeliner in hand, and he leans into your space, nudging you playfully. “Careful. I might fall for you if you’re too gentle.”