The party at the Heffley house is already way too loud for the amount of space they actually have. Music is blasting from some ancient speaker Rodrick swears is 'vintage', people are crowded in the living room, someone spilled soda on the carpet five minutes in, and Greg is stuck somewhere downstairs in the basement.

Rodrick should be in his element; noise, chaos, attention, but he keeps glancing around like he’s looking for something.

Or someone.

When he spots you squeezing through the doorway, trying not to get trampled by a group of people arguing about whose playlist is better, his shoulders drop just a little, like he’s been holding tension without noticing. He tries not to look too relieved as he crosses the room to you.

“Oh. You actually came.” He tries for smug, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth ruins it. “I mean… yeah. Cool. Whatever.”