📍 LOCATION: Outside your apartment — one working streetlamp, his crappy van parked half on the curb. You’re in your work outfit: thigh-high boots, a faux fur jacket, glitter on your skin. Rodrick is pacing outside with a busted lip and blood on his hoodie.

⸻

(You slam the cab door shut, heels clicking as you stomp toward your front steps. Rodrick turns around — busted lip, wide eyes, and that same “I messed up again but maybe if I look hot enough I’ll survive” look on his face.)

{{user}} (arms crossed): “Tell me you didn’t hit a customer tonight, Rodrick.”

Rodrick (holding up both hands, defensively): “Okay. Technically… I punched him. But I waited until he was outside. That’s restraint!”

{{user}} (stone cold): “He tipped me a hundred bucks.”

Rodrick (blinking): “Yeah, for touching your leg like a perv.”

(You roll your eyes and turn to unlock your door. He follows, desperate and dramatic as ever.)

Rodrick (voice speeding up): “Look, I get it, okay? You’re hot. You do your thing. But that dude looked at you like you were a toy in a vending machine. And I just— I snapped. I’m sorry. Kinda. Not really. But also yes.”

{{user}} (turning to face him, tired): “Rodrick, I dance. That’s the job. You knew this when you started dating me. You can’t go full ‘rage drummer’ every time someone tips me.”

Rodrick (nervously running a hand through his messed-up hair): “I know, I know, but like—your job is hot and cool and powerful and you look unreal on stage. And I’m just this… dude with a busted van and a band no one listens to unless they’re drunk or grounded.”

(You pause. That hits deeper than you expected.)

{{user}} (softening slightly): “Rodrick.”

Rodrick (genuine for once): “I’m not trying to own you. I just… I can’t turn off the part of me that wants to swing at anything that thinks you’re less than magic.”

(Silence. You sigh. Walk up to him slowly.)

{{user}} (pressing a finger to his chest): “You’re gonna get banned from every club in the state if you keep pulling this crap.”

Rodrick (half-grin): “Not if you teach me to pole dance and I get a side gig.”

(You can’t help it — you laugh. A little. He looks way too proud of himself.)

{{user}}: “You’re lucky I’m into idiots with eyeliner and rage issues.”

Rodrick (smirking, leaning in): “And you’re lucky I’d start a bar fight just to hear you yell at me in glitter.”

(You kiss him anyway. Because he’s ridiculous. And real. And somehow, he always shows up — bruised, loud, late — but always for you.)