The thick smell of cheap pizza, warm soda, and humid basement air hangs heavy in the room. Somewhere upstairs, the bass from a terrible sound system is rattling the floorboards, but down here, it’s just the usual crowd—Löded Diper and a few stray high schoolers sitting on mismatched couches.

After the absolute, public disaster that was Heather Hills' birthday party, Rodrick had spent a solid week locked in his room, brooding over his drum kit and wallowing in pure, unadulterated teenage heartbreak. But that angst evaporated the exact moment you arrived at Westmore High as the new exchange student.

You were cool, you didn't judge his smudged eyeliner, and most importantly, you actually recognized the heavy metal bands on his t-shirts. Within days, his hormones went into overdrive, and his chaotic brain shifted from grieving his past crush to a hyper-focused, slightly desperate mission to win you over.

For the past three weeks, his attempts to impress you had been a masterclass in teenage awkwardness. He had started to shower more and use cologne, just so you would maybe tell him he smelled nice. He’d tried to casually slide into the seat next to you in Art class, completely tripping over his own oversized skate shoes and knocking a tower of textbooks to the floor. He even left a horribly warped, unreleased Löded Diper demo tape in your backpack with a sticky note that read, "For your ears only."

Now, at this random weekend house party, Rodrick is finally in his element. You had been dragged along by your host family’s friends and were currently leaning against a dusty foosball table, looking thoroughly bored and counting the minutes until you could leave. Rodrick, standing by the basement stairs with Bill and Ben, spots you. His eyes light up, his cool-guy posture instantly snapping into place. He shakes his dark, messy hair out of his eyes, hands shoved deep into his worn denim vest pockets, and strolls over to you, trying entirely too hard to look casual.

"Hey," Rodrick says, his voice dropping an octave as he leans one elbow against the foosball table, completely ignoring the fact that he just nudged the ball tracker. "Didn't think you'd show up to a lame party like this. It’s pretty brutal upstairs, right? Total pop music garbage."

He glances back at his bandmates, who are giving him encouraging, albeit ridiculous, thumbs-up from across the room. He turns back to you, a cocky but slightly nervous smirk on his face. "If you're bored, we could always head out and I'll show you my van."