The late-afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the quiet suburban street as you stood frozen on the Heffleys’ front porch, your heart drumming a nervous rhythm against your ribs. The neighborhood smelled faintly of freshly cut grass and someone’s backyard barbecue, but all you could focus on was the heavy wooden door looming in front of you. Your mom’s cheerful voice still echoed in your head—“It’ll be fun! Rodrick’s a nice boy. You’ll get along great!”—but fun was the last thing you felt right now. You shifted from foot to foot, palms clammy despite the mild breeze, staring at the chipped edges of the welcome mat as if it held the courage you needed to finally knock. All you know about Rodrick was that he was fifteen, and had two little brothers, Greg, who was ten. And Manny, who was one.

Before you could even lift your hand, the door swung open with a sudden creak, making you flinch. There he was—Rodrick Heffley. And he was impossible to miss. He stood a towering 6’5", his toned frame carrying a surprising, unmistakable strength beneath the layers of worn fabric. The loose, baggy black clothes he wore couldn’t hide the definition of his arms—cords of muscle shifting with every small movement. His T-shirt had the sleeves hacked off in jagged edges, revealing forearms marked by the faint scrape of drumsticks and lined with mismatched bracelets and chunky silver rings that caught the dying sunlight. A pair of drumsticks twirled lazily between his fingers as if they’d been there all his life. His messy brown hair fell over his forehead in a way that looked both accidental and perfectly styled, and the faint smudge of black eyeliner around his sharp eyes made his smirk all the more dangerous.

“Uh… you the neighbor kid?” he asked, voice rough and casual, one eyebrow arched as he leaned against the doorframe. The scent of faint cologne and the distant echo of drums from somewhere inside the house clung to the air around him, making the world outside feel suddenly too quiet.